generously made available by the internet archive/canadian libraries) _the weinstock lectures on the morals of trade_ the conflict between private monopoly and good citizenship. by john graham brooks. commercialism and journalism. by hamilton holt. the business career in its public relations. by albert shaw. commercialism and journalism by hamilton holt managing editor of the independent boston and new york houghton mifflin company _the riverside press cambridge_ copyright, , by the regents of the university of california all rights reserved _published december _ barbara weinstock lectures on the morals of trade this series will contain essays by representative scholars and men of affairs dealing with the various phases of the moral law in its bearing on business life under the new economic order, first delivered at the university of california on the weinstock foundation. commercialism and journalism in the united states of america, public opinion prevails. it is an axiom of the old political economy, as well as of the new sociology, that no man, or set of men, may with impunity defy public opinion; no law can be enforced contrary to its behests; and even life itself is scarcely worth living without its approbation. public opinion is the ultimate force that controls the destiny of our democracy. by common consent we editors are called the "moulders of public opinion." writing in our easy chairs or making suave speeches over the walnuts and wine, we take scrupulous care to expatiate on this phase of our function. but the real question is: who "moulds" us? for assuredly the hand that moulds the editor moulds the world. i propose to discuss this evening the ultimate power in control of our journals. and this as you will see implies such vital questions as: are we editors free to say what we believe? do we believe what we say? do we fool all the people some of the time, some of the people all the time, or only ourselves? is advertising or circulation--profits or popularity--our secret solicitude? or do we follow faithfully the stern daughter of the voice of god? in short, is journalism a profession or a business? there are almost as many answers to these questions as there are people to ask them. there are those of us who jubilantly burst into poetry, singing:-- "here shall the press the people's rights maintain, unawed by influence and unbribed by gain." on the other hand there are some of us quite ready to corroborate from our own experience the confessions of one new york journalist who wrote:-- there is no such thing in america as an independent press. i am paid for keeping honest opinions out of the paper i am connected with. if i should allow honest opinions to be printed in one issue of my paper, before twenty-four hours my occupation, like othello's, would be gone. the business of a new york journalist is to distort the truth, to lie outright, to pervert, to vilify, to fawn at the foot of mammon, and to sell his country and his race for his daily bread. we are the tools or vassals of the rich men behind the scenes. our time, our talents, our lives, our possibilities, are all the property of other men. we are intellectual prostitutes. i come to california, therefore, to tell you with all sincerity and candor the real conditions under which we editors do our work, and the forces that help and hinder us in the discharge of our duties to society and to the journals that we control or that control us. and, first, let me give you succinctly some idea of the magnitude of the industry that we are to discuss. the census, in its latest bulletin on "printing and publishing in the united states," truly and tritely remarks that "printing occupies a unique position among industries, and in certain aspects excels all others in interest, since the printed page has done more to advance civilization than any other human agency." but not only does the printing industry excel all other industries in human interest, it excels them in the relative progress it is making. the latest available figures, published in by the government, show that the capital invested in the publishing business had doubled in the preceding half decade, despite the fact that publishing is almost unique among industries in the diffusion of its establishments, and in the tenacity with which it still clings to competition in an age of combination. since the whole industry has increased over thirty-fold, while all other industries have increased only fifteen-fold. the number of publications in the country, as given, is , . these are capitalized at $ , , ; they employ , salaried officers, and , wage-earners. their aggregate circulation per issue is , , ; and their aggregate number of copies issued during the year is , , , . they consume , , tons of paper, manufactured from , acres of timber. these , periodicals receive $ , , , or per cent of their receipts, from advertising, and $ , , , or per cent of the receipts from sales and subscriptions. they are divided into dailies, of which about one third are issued in the morning and two thirds in the evening; , weeklies; monthlies, and a few bi-weeklies, semi-weeklies, quarterlies, etc. the number of these periodicals has doubled in the last twenty-five years, but at the present moment the monthlies are increasing the fastest, next, the weeklies, and last, the dailies. the dailies issue enough copies to supply every inhabitant of the united states with one every fourth issue, the weeklies with one every other issue, and the monthlies with one copy of each issue for nine months of the year. one third of all these papers are devoted to trade and special interests. the remaining two thirds are devoted to news, politics, and family reading. undoubtedly there are many contributing causes which have made the periodical industry grow faster than all other industries of the country. i shall mention only six. first. the cheapening of the postal, telephone, and telegraph rates, and the introduction of such conveniences as the rural free delivery, so that news and general information can be collected and distributed cheaply and with dispatch. second. the introduction of the linotype machines, rapid and multiple presses, and other mechanical devices, which vastly increase the output of every shop that adopts them. third. the photo-process of illustrating, which threatens to make wood- and steel-engraving a lost art, and which, on account of its cheapness and attractiveness, has made possible literally thousands of pictured publications that never could have existed before. fourth. the growing diffusion of education throughout the country. our high schools, to say nothing of our colleges and universities, alone graduate , pupils a year,--all of them fit objects of solicitude to the newsdealer and subscription-agent. fifth. the use of wood pulp in the manufacture of paper, by which the largest item in the cost of production has been greatly diminished. sixth. the phenomenal growth of advertising. i shall not attempt to amplify the first five of these causes responsible for the unparalleled growth of periodical literature. but the sixth i shall discuss at some length, for advertising is by all odds the greatest factor in the case. in olden times the dailies carried only a very little advertising--a few legal notices, an appeal for the return of a strayed cow, or a house for sale. it is only within the past fifty years that advertising as a means of bringing together the producer and consumer began. and, curiously enough, the men who first began to appreciate the immense selling-power that lay in the printed advertisement were "makers" or "fakirs," of patent medicines. the beginning of modern advertising is in fact synchronous with the beginnings of the patent-medicine business. even magazine advertising, which is now the most profitable and efficacious of all kinds, did not originate until february, , when "the atlantic monthly" printed its first "ad." "harper's" was founded simply as a medium for selling the books issued from the franklin square house, and all advertisements from outsiders were declined. george p. rowell, the dean of advertising agents, in his amusing autobiography, tells how harper & brothers in the early seventies refused an offer of $ , from the howe sewing machine company for a year's use of the last page of the magazine; and mr. rowell adds that he had this information from a member of the firm, of whose veracity he had no doubt, though at the same sitting he heard mr. harper tell another man about the peculiarities of that section of long island where the harpers originated, assuring him the ague prevailed there to such an extent that all his ancestors had quinine put into their graves to keep the corpses from shaking the sand off. before the civil war it is said that the largest advertisement that ever appeared in a newspaper was given by the e. & t. fairbanks company, and published in the new york "tribune," which charged $ for it. now the twenty large department stores alone of new york city spend, so it is estimated, $ , , a year for advertising, while one chicago house is said to appropriate $ , a year for publicity in order to sell $ , , worth of goods. those products which are believed to be advertised to the extent of $ , or more a year include the uneeda biscuits, royal baking powder, grape nuts, force, fairy soap and gold dust, swift's hams and bacon, the ralston mills food-products, sapolio, ivory soap, and armour's extract of beef. the railroads are also very large general advertisers. in they spent over a million and a quarter dollars in publicity, though this did not include free passes for editors, who, i may parenthetically remark, thanks to the recent hepburn act, are now forced to pay their way across the continent just like ordinary american citizens. it is computed that there are about , general advertisers in the country and about a million local advertisers. between the two, $ , , was spent in to get their products before the public. the census gives only the totals and does not classify the advertising that appears in the dailies, weeklies, and monthlies. the rev. cyrus townsend brady, however, has made a very illuminating study[ ] of the advertising and circulation conditions of of the leading monthly magazines published in the united states. the first thing that struck his attention was the fact that candid and courteous replies to his requests for information were vouchsafed by all the publishers--quite a contrast to what would have happened from a similar inquiry a generation ago. he next discovered that these magazines, which had an aggregate circulation of over , , copies per month, could put a full-page advertisement into the hands of , , readers, or seven times the population of the united states, for the astonishingly insignificant sum of $ , , or for two thousandths of a cent for each reader. [ ] _the critic_, august, . the amount paid by the purchasers of these magazines was $ , , , for which they received , pages of text and pictures, and , pages of advertisements. magazine advertisements are better written and better illustrated than the reading matter. this is because they are of no use to the man who pays for their insertion if they do not attract attention, whereas the contributor's interest in his article after its acceptance is mostly nominal. that is, the advertiser must win several thousand readers; the contributor has to win but one editor. these magazines were found to receive $ , , a year from their advertisements and $ , , from their sales and subscriptions. this shows that in monthly magazines the receipts from advertising and subscriptions are about the same. in weeklies the receipts from advertising are often four times as much as the receipts from sales and subscriptions, while in the dailies the proportion is even greater. the owner of one of the leading evening papers in new york told me that per cent of its total receipts came from advertising. from whatever standpoint you approach the subject, it is the advertisements that are becoming the most important factor in publishing. indeed, some students in yale university carried this out to its logical conclusion last autumn by launching a college daily supported wholly by the revenues from advertisements. they put a free copy every morning on the door-mat before each student's room. if it were not for the postal prohibition many dailies and other periodicals would make money by being given away. thus you see that if there were no advertisements and the publishers had to rely on their sales and subscriptions for their receipts, the monthlies would have to double their price, and the weeklies and dailies multiply theirs from four to ten times. this advantage to the reading public must certainly be put to the credit of advertising. the preponderance of advertising over subscription receipts, however, is of comparatively recent occurrence. thirty years ago the receipts from subscriptions and sales of all the american periodicals exceeded those from advertising by $ , , ; twenty years ago they were about equal; and to-day the advertising exceeds the subscriptions and sales by $ , , . in the total amount of advertising was equivalent to the expenditure of cents for every inhabitant in the united states; in it was $ . . on the other hand, the per capita value of subscriptions has increased hardly at all. the reason of this is the fall of the price of subscriptions. we take more papers but pay less--a cent a copy. comparatively few buy the new york "evening post" for three cents. this is all the more remarkable, because advertising is the most sensitive feature of a most sensitive business and is sure to suffer first in any industrial crisis or depression. no wonder that the man who realizes the significance of all these figures and the trend disclosed by them is coming to look upon the editorial department of the newspaper as merely a necessary means of giving a literary tone to the publication, thus helping business men get their wares before the proper people. mr. trueman a. deweese, in his recent significant volume, "practical publicity," thinks that this is about what mr. curtis, the proprietor of "the ladies' home journal," would say if he ventured to say what he really thought:-- it is not my primary purpose to edify, entertain, or instruct a million women with poems, stories, and fashion-hints. mr. bok may think it is. he is merely the innocent victim of a harmless delusion, and he draws a salary for being deluded. to be frank and confidential with you, "the ladies' home journal" is published expressly for the advertisers. the reason i can put something in the magazines that will catch the artistic eye and make glad the soul of the reader is because a good advertiser finds that it pays to give me $ a page, or $ an agate line, for advertising space. yes, the tremendous power of advertising is the most significant thing about modern journalism. it is advertising that has enabled the press to outdistance its old rivals, the pulpit and the platform, and thus become the chief ally of public opinion. it has also economized business by bringing the producer and consumer into more direct contact, and in many cases has actually abolished the middle man and drummer. as an example of the passing of the salesman, due to advertising, "the saturday evening post" of philadelphia, in its interesting series of articles on modern advertising exploits, recently told the story of how the n. h. fairbanks co. made a test of the relative value of advertising and salesmen. a belt of counties in illinois were set aside for the experiment, in which the company was selling a certain brand of soap by salesmen and making a fair profit. it was proposed that the identical soap be put up under another brand and advertised in a conservative way in this particular section, and at the same time the salesmen should continue their efforts with the old soap. within six months the advertised brand was outselling its rival at the rate of $ a year. the douglas shoe is another product that is sold entirely by general advertising. so successful has the business become that the company has established retail stores all over the country, in which only men's shoes are sold at $ . a pair. now other shoe-manufacturers have adopted this plan, and in most of our large cities there are several chains of rival retail shoe stores. but all the advertising is not in the advertising columns. a united states senator said last winter that, when a bill he introduced in the senate was up for discussion, the publicity given it through an article he wrote for "the independent" had more to do with its passage than anything he said in its behalf on the floor of the upper house;--that is, his article was a paying advertisement of the bill. and in mentioning the incident to you, i give "the independent" a good advertisement. universities advertise themselves in many and devious ways--sometimes by the remarkable utterances of their professors, as at chicago; sometimes by the victories of their athletes, as at yale; and sometimes by the treatment of their women students, as at wesleyan. but perhaps the most extraordinary case of university advertising that has come to my attention was when, not so very long ago, a certain state institution of the middle west bought editorials in the country press at advertising rates for the sole purpose of influencing the state legislature to make them a larger appropriation. in other words the university authorities took money forced from a reluctant legislature to make the legislature give them still more money. the charitable organizations are now beginning to advertise in the public press for donations, and even churches are falling into line. the rev. charles stelzle, one of the most conspicuous leaders of the presbyterian church, has just published a book entitled "principles of successful church advertising," in which he says:-- from all parts of the world there come stories of losses in [church] membership, either comparative or actual. in the face of this, dare the church sit back and leave untried a single method which may win men to christ, provided that this method be legitimate?... the church should advertise because of the greatness of its commission, "go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature." to fulfill this command does not mean that christian men are to confine themselves to the methods of those who first heard the commission. the question whether advertising pays will never be known in the individual case, for, like marriage, you can't tell till you try it. but in the aggregate, also like marriage, there is no doubt of its value. the tremendous power of persistent advertising to carry an idea of almost any kind into the minds of the people and stamp it there, is amazing. how many "sunny jims," for instance, are there in this audience? if there are none, it is singular; for learned judges have referred to him in their decisions, sermons have been preached, and volumes written about him, though it took a million dollars and two years of persistent work to introduce this modern "mark tapley" to the public. have you a little fairy in your home? do you live in spotless town? do you use any of the varieties? "there's a reason." "that's all." formerly a speaker used a quotation from the bible or shakespeare when he wanted to strike a common chord. nowadays he works in an allusion to some advertising phrase, and is sure of instant and universal recognition. the socialists and other utopian critics, who are supposed to drill to the bedrock of questions, have looked upon advertising as essentially a parasite upon the production and distribution of wealth. they tell us that in the good time coming, advertising will be relegated to the scrap-heap of outworn social machinery, along with war, race prejudice, millionaires, the lower education of women, and other things of an undesirable nature. this has not been the experience, however, of those "sinister offenders" who have come nearest to the coöperative ownership of wealth in this country--i refer of course to "the trusts." when the breakfast food trust was formed, one of the chief reasons for the combination was that the rival companies thus hoped to save the cost of advertising that had hitherto been required when they sold their food-stuffs in competition with each other. but they very soon found that their sales fell off after they stopped advertising, and they kept on falling off until the advertising was resumed. this teaches us that the american people have not enough gumption to buy even the staple products they need except through the stimulus of hypnotic suggestion--which is nothing but another name for advertising. even such a benevolent institution as a great life insurance company could not get much new business on its own merits. if all the money now spent on agents' commissions, advertising, yellow-dog funds, and palatial offices were devoted sacredly to the reduction of the rates of insurance, probably fewer rather than more persons would insure. the american people have to pay to be told what is good for them, otherwise they would soon abolish editors, professors, and all the rest of us who get paid for preaching what others practice. now while advertising pays the consumer who buys, the advertiser who sells, and the publisher who brings both together, there is a limit to the amount of advertising which can be "carried" by a certain amount of reading matter. in newspapers we see the result of this in the vast sunday editions, with sometimes fifty or a hundred detachable pages. in the magazines the case is different. interesting and attractive as magazine advertising has become--it certainly should be so, considering the advertisers pay good money to put it before the people--it is not enough alone to sell a magazine, and when it forms more than half or two thirds of the number the issue becomes too bulky and the value of the advertising pages themselves decreases. in making sandwiches the ham must not be sliced too thin. that necessitates starting a new magazine; and so we find from three to a dozen periodicals issued by the same house, often similar in character and apparently rivals. this accounts for the multiplication of magazines. it is not a yearning for more love stories. thus you see advertising has made possible the great complex papers and magazines of the day with their corps of trained editors, reporters, and advertising writers, in numbers and intellectual calibre comparable with the faculty of a good-sized university. advertising makes it possible to issue a paper far below the cost of manufacturing--all to the benefit of the consumer. so far as i know there is not an important daily, weekly, or monthly in america that can be manufactured at the selling price. but, on the other hand, with the growth of advertising a department had to be created in every paper for its handling. as advertising still further increased, rival papers competed for it and the professional solicitor became a necessary adjunct of every paper, until now the advertising department is the most important branch of the publication business, for it is the real source of the profits. because the solicitor seeks the advertiser, and, therefore, is in the position of one asking for favors, he puts himself under obligations to the advertiser, and so in his keenness to bring in revenue for his paper, he is often tempted to ask the aid of the editor in appeasing the advertiser. thus the advertiser tends to control the policy of the paper. and this is the explanation of the condition that confronts most publications to-day. by throwing the preponderating weight of commercialism into the scales of production, advertising is at the present moment by far the greatest menace to the disinterested practice of a profession upon which the diffusion of intelligence most largely depends. if journalism is no longer a profession, but a commercial enterprise, it is due to the growth of advertising, and nothing else. there was a time, not so very long ago, when journalism was on the verge of developing a system of professional ethics, based on other considerations than those of the cash register. then a greeley, bowles, medill, dana, or raymond, with a hand-press and a printer's devil, could start a paper as good as any university consisting of mark hopkins, a student, and a log. in those days the universal question was, "what does old greeley have to say?" because old greeley was the ultimate source of his own utterances. imagine the rage he would have flown into if any one had dared insinuate that the advertisers dictated a single sentence in "the tribune"! but now the advertisers are aggressive. they are becoming organized. they look upon the giving of an advertisement to a publisher as something of a favor, for which they have a right to expect additional courtesies in the news and editorial columns. advertising is also responsible for the fact that our papers are no longer organs but organizations. the individuality of the great editor, once supreme, has become less and less a power, till finally it vanishes into mere innocuous anonymity. to show you how far the editor has receded into public obscurity, it is only necessary to try to recall the portrayal of a modern editor in a recent play. stage lawyers, stage physicians, and stage preachers abound; when you think of them your mind calls up a very definite image. but no one has yet attempted to portray the typical editor, and it is doubtful if the populace would recognize him if he were portrayed, for the modern editor is a mystery. despite the editorial impersonality which controls modern newspapers, the editors still touch life in more points than any other class of men. and for this reason, if for no other, it is important to know the limitations under which they work. i leave aside the limitations that come from within the editor himself; for manifestly ignorance, prejudice, venality and the like, in the editor are in no wise different from similar faults in other men. there are just two temptations, however, peculiar to the editor, that tend to limit his freedom: first, the fear of the advertisers, and second, the fear of the subscribers. the advertisers when offended stop their advertisements; the readers, their subscriptions. the editor who is afraid to offend both must make a colorless paper indeed. he must discuss only those things about which every one agrees or nobody cares. the attitude of such an editor to his readers is, "gape, sinner, and swallow," and to his advertisers, as senator brandegee said at a recent yale commencement in regard to a proposed rockefeller bequest, "bring on your tainted money." as a rule, the yellows are most in awe of the mob, while the so-called respectables fear the advertising interests. now let me take up in some detail the influences brought to bear upon us which tend to make us swerve from the straight and narrow path. i invite your attention first of all to the press agent, that indispensable adjunct of all projects that have something to gain or to fear from publicity. i have seen the claim made in print, though doubtless it is a press agent's story, that there are ten thousand press agents in the city of new york,--that is, men and women employed to boom people and enterprises in the papers and magazines. you are familiar with the theatrical press agent, the most harmless, jovial, inventive, and resourceful of his kind. he is the one who writes the articles signed by grand opera singers which appear in the magazines. it is he who gets up stories about miss "pansy pinktoes," her milk-baths, the loss of her diamonds, the rich men who follow her. it is he who got for me an interview with a filipino chief at coney island three summers ago, whose unconventional remarks and original philosophy on america and the inhabitants thereof startled me no less than our readers. when the press agent has no news, he manufactures it. the readers of the new york papers the other day read that a prominent socialist, who occupied a box in the theatre where a play was given in which socialism is attacked, stood up and offered to harangue the audience between the acts. the actor who played the rôle of the wicked capitalist came on the stage and invited the audience to vote whether they cared to hear the socialist or him. the audience thereupon voted both down. but the management the next sunday evening very kindly offered the use of the stage for a debate on socialism, to which the leading socialists and anti-socialists of the city were invited. the meeting was a great success, and all the reporters in town were present, just as by some singular coincidence they happened to be on the first night. one of our most successful operatic managers--impressario, i believe, is the more correct appellation--was about to produce the opera of "salome," which had been taken off the rival stage after its first performance, on the assumption that new york was shocked. the singer was not only to sing the part, if one can sing a strauss opera, but was also to dance it. finally, about a week before the opera was produced, a new soprano was engaged to sing another rôle hitherto taken by the prospective salome. instantly the dread headlines on all the front pages of the metropolitan press announced that miss garden would resign before madame cavalieri should sing in any of _her_ rôles. mr. hammerstein's "eyes twinkled," as the reporters besieged him. he said he guessed he could untangle matters. out of the kindness of his heart he had thought the rehearsals of "salome" were too fatiguing for miss garden, and so got assistance for her. after a three or four days' operatic war, in which literally columns of printers' ink was shed, the _entente cordiale_ was resumed, and the song-birds became doves of peace again. the new york "evening post" printed the next day an editorial entitled, "genius in advertising"; and a week later the opera, or rather the song and dance of "salome," was given, with seats selling at ten dollars apiece, and "standing room only" signs at the box-office. this desire for publicity on the part of the histrionic profession goes so far, that often absolute fakes are sent out to the poor, unsuspecting editor. here is a statement that was printed, let us hope in good faith, in one of the brooklyn papers not long ago. it referred to the leading lady in a popular stock company. miss s. has a remarkably fine collection of miniatures painted on ivory. her attention was attracted to them several years ago by a miniature of one of her ancestors, painted by edward greene malbone, which came into her possession. the delicate quality of the painter's art that was of necessity lavished upon the ivory pleased her as an amateur and she began to collect. miss s. has haunted the antique shops of manhattan and brooklyn during the few leisure moments that came to her, in her search after miniatures. she now owns something like one hundred examples of famous miniatures. one of her greatest treasures is a portrait of john dray, by that master-painter of miniatures, richard cosway. the publication of this article brought such a number of requests from the friends of miss s. to see her collection, that the ingenious press agent was obliged to invent and publish another fabrication--this time of a midnight robbery in which the collection disappeared. this shameless story was told me by the press agent himself, and he gave me from his scrap-book the fake clipping i have just read. similarly the imitation riots, and protests from delegations of negroes, where thomas dixon's ku-klux play, "the clansman," was to be produced, were often due to the initiative of the enterprising press agent--at least so he told me. i would not have you think, however, that the press bureau is not in many instances a perfectly legitimate institution, and cannot be used with all propriety by religious, reform, political, and other organizations. the woman's suffrage movement, for instance, has a well-equipped and organized bureau; while the two great political parties during campaign times have sent out for many years news-articles and editorials of great value to the country and partisan press. perhaps the most efficacious press bureau of the legitimate kind is that of the christian scientists. every time an editor prints anything derogatory to the rev. mary baker g. eddy, or her influential cult, a suave and professionally happy gentleman immediately sends his card into the sanctum, and, holding the offensive clipping in one hand, together with a brief and well-written reply, says with the utmost courtesy:-- "inasmuch, my good sir, as you deemed it worth while to devote so much of your valuable space to spreading broadcast before your intelligent audience an error about christian science, i feel sure that your sense of justice will make plain to you the privilege of giving us space to demonstrate the real truth of the matter." to the editor with a conscience--and some of us still have the vestiges of one--this is a hard argument to evade; and as a result christian science gets twice as much notice in the papers as it would were there no smiling press agent to follow up every unfavorable reference, no matter how obscure the publication. the next time the editor wants to point a jest at the expense of christian science, he thinks twice and then substitutes some other cause that does not employ an editorial rectifier. but perhaps the best use of a publicity bureau was made recently by the street-railway company of roanoke, virginia, and the water company of scranton, pennsylvania. both of these companies had become very unpopular, one as a result of poor street-car service, and the other on account of a typhoid epidemic supposed to have been started from the pollution of the company's reservoir. both companies appropriated a good sum of money, hired a press agent, and bought advertising space in the local papers every day for a month or more. these advertisements gave the companies' side of the case with such candor and convincing fairness that they soon became the talk of the town, personal letters were written to the papers about them, and the hostility toward them very quickly turned to a feeling of good-will. it pays to take the public into your confidence. and now the staid "rail-road age-gazette" has sounded the call for a great press agent to arise and stem the growing public hostility to the railroads. the "age-gazette" did not use the phrase "press agent," as the appellation has not as yet come into its full dignity. it employed the more euphonious term "railroad diplomatist." still, high-sounding titles have their use, as when some of my brother editors call their "reporters" "special commissioners," and their foreign correspondents "journalistic ambassadors." we had a peace and arbitration congress in new york two years ago. being chairman of the press committee, i employed a firm of press agents to get for us the maximum amount of publicity. as a result we received over ten thousand clippings from the papers of the united states alone. i do not mean to claim that the congress would not have been extensively noticed without the deft work of the agents; but they unquestionably helped a great deal. the newspapers welcome them when they represent such well-known philanthropic institutions as the peace society, the society for prevention of cruelty to animals, and the people's institute, because the copy they "turn in" requires little or no further editing before it is sent to the printer. but when they are employed to promote financial ventures, wars on labor unions, anti-municipal ownership campaigns, or other private and class interests, then the editors discount what they provide and they actually do more harm than good to the cause they are intended to promote. press agents, however, are sometimes enabled to get illegitimate matter into our best papers. i recall to your memory the reports favorable to the companies sent out during the great insurance investigations in new york. "collier's" has told the whole story.[ ] one of the agents employed testified on the witness-stand that a great insurance company agreed to pay a dollar a line for what he could get into the papers. he made his own arrangements with the journals that took his stuff, and the difference between the price he had to pay and the dollar a line he got from the insurance company was to be his private rake-off. he succeeded in securing the publication of six dispatches of about two hundred and fifty words, in such well-known newspapers as the st. paul "pioneer press," the boston "herald," the toledo "blade," the buffalo "courier," the florida "times-union," the atlanta "constitution," and the wilmington "news." it is only fair to state, however, that there was nothing in the evidence to show whether the papers went into the arrangement on a business basis, or were fooled into thinking the dispatches they published were genuine reports of the proceedings before the committee. [ ] _collier's_, nov. , . examples of the use of press agents for both legitimate and illegitimate purposes could be extended almost indefinitely. the standard oil company, i understand, now issues all its manifestoes to the public through a trained press-representative; and the fight against messrs. gompers, mitchell, and morrison, in the buck stove controversy, was conducted with the aid of a press bureau, as one of the lawyers in the case informed me. whenever such a question comes before the people as the choice between the nicaragua and panama routes for the interoceanic canal, a press bureau is usually an important factor in the campaign. the big navy craze and the japan war cry can hardly be accounted for except on the theory that it has been for somebody's interest to agitate them through the press. whenever the naval appropriation bill comes before congress, the far-eastern war-clouds threaten in thousands of newspaper sanctums, while all of us shudder at the danger of war, for the benefit of ordnance manufacturers, battleship builders, and every incipient "fighting bob" who hopes some day to command another american armada on its gastronomic voyage around the world. fortunately none of our papers are subsidized by the government itself, as is so often the case with the semi-official organs of europe. nor are any of our papers directly in the pay of foreign governments, though the espousal of the infamous reactionary régime in russia by some of them is at least open to suspicion. the danger of manufactured public opinion in this country comes not from governments. even the political parties are losing the allegiance of the press. the days when the republican organs told the people the worst republican was better than the best democrat, and the democratic papers said the same about the republicans, have happily passed, never to return again, though the spirit still lingers in the organs of the socialist, populist, and prohibition parties. the growth of the great politically-independent press is one of the most hopeful signs of the times. but we have only jumped out of the frying-pan of politics into the fire of commercialism, and the fight of the future will therefore be to extricate ourselves from the fetters of commercialism, just as we have already broken away from the bonds of party politics. but the press agent has come to stay. indeed, his business has now assumed such proportions that the profession of anti-press agent will doubtless soon come into existence. i know already of one gentleman in new york whose aid has been invoked when people want things kept out of the papers. on more than one occasion he has prevented good spicy bits of scandal from seeing the light; though in his case i can aver that it was his personal influence with the editors, rather than any improper lubricant, that kept the papers silent. now let me turn from the press agent to the advertiser as a twister of editorial opinion. here let me say at once, and with all emphasis, that the vast majority of advertisements are not only honest but dependable. leaving out of account a few stock phrases which deceive nobody, such as "the most for the money," "the cheapest in the market," etc., what is said about the goods to be sold is not in the least overdrawn. i have taken the pains to go over the advertising columns of the leading papers and periodicals of new york during the month of february, and, with the exception of a few medical, financial, and perhaps real-estate advertisements, i could find absolutely nothing that on the face of it seemed fraudulent, and very little that was misleading. the advertisers have at last come to realize that for the long run, whatever the rule may be for the short run, it does not pay to overstate the qualities of their merchandise. you can now order your purchases by mail from the advertising pages of any reputable publication about as safely as over the counter of a store. at all events the phenomenal growth of the mail-order houses and their sales through advertising, lend strength to this opinion. on the th of march, , a single chicago mail-order house sent to the post office six million catalogues, weighing four hundred and fifty tons, and all were to be distributed within a week. many periodicals now claim that they will not take advertisements that look fraudulent or even misleading. some papers, like the london "times," have a guaranteed list of advertisements which they have investigated and vouch for, though naturally the advertisers have to pay extra for the guarantee. "the sunday school times" printed, several weeks ago, a long list of secular papers that were "going dry," as so many of our southern states. the fact that our best periodicals no longer accept liquor advertisements is another one of the encouraging signs of the coming of the new journalism. the vigorous fight that "the ladies' home journal" and "collier's" waged against the patent-medicine concerns is too fresh in the public memory to need recounting here. the two pictures printed cheek by jowl in "the ladies' home journal,"--one, of the tombstone above the mortal remains of lydia e. pinkham, whose inscription showed that she had been dead since , and the other an advertisement representing lydia in , sitting in her laboratory at lynn, massachusetts, engrossed in assuaging the sufferings of ailing womanhood,--these are eloquent of the type of fraud perpetrated through the press upon a gullible public. similarly, in the negro papers the favorite advertisements are those that claim to straighten kinky hair and bleach complexions--all fakes, of course. perhaps the most fraudulent advertisements, however, are those which purpose to sell mines in brazil, mexico, alaska, or wherever else the investor is unlikely to go. these offer their shares often as low as ten cents each, and guarantee fabulous profits. i have a college classmate who is extensively interested in mexican mines, and he tells me that literally per cent of all the mining companies that float their shares through advertisements are pure, or rather impure, swindles. i am not in the least surprised, for i know how many letters come to a financial editor from the dupes of these slick mine promoters, asking advice as to how they can get their money back. the most demoralizing advertisements are those paid for by loan-sharks, clairvoyants, medical quacks, and the votaries of vice. the new york "herald" has recently stopped printing its vicious personals. it also refuses fortune-tellers the hospitality of its columns, though it is not so squeamish in regard to loan-agencies and patent medicines. how many papers still publish the advertisement of mrs. laudanum's soothing syrup for babies? when you remember that the proprietary medicine concerns have been accustomed to spend forty million dollars a year, which is distributed among the papers of the land, you can see that it requires considerable financial independence for a publisher to forego a taste of their patronage. it is a curious fact that, aside from the country weeklies, the papers most plentifully besprinkled with medical advertisements are the yellow journals, the religious weeklies, the socialistic and other propaganda organs, and in general those which preach most vociferously reform and the brotherhood of man. the danger from the advertising columns is not, as i have said, that the advertisements misrepresent the goods, but that the terms on which they are solicited tend to commercialize the whole tone of the paper and make the editor afraid to say what he believes. the advertiser is coming more and more to look on his patronage as a favor, and he seldom hesitates to withdraw his advertisement if anything appears that may injure his business or interfere with his personal fad or political ambition. let me give you some examples of the withdrawal of advertisements to punish too daring and independent editors. a few weeks ago the paper which, in my opinion, has the ablest editorial page in the country lost some very valuable musical advertising because it had published letters of a decidedly compromising nature, written by a man high in the musical world to a lady who was suing him for damages. another paper, which many consider the brightest in america, discharged its dramatic critic after a theatrical firm had taken out all their advertising. but strange to say, as soon as a new critic was engaged, the advertising was forthwith resumed. i refrain from giving the name of this newspaper because one brave and witty little weekly published the story with names and dates, and is now being sued for libel. "life" states that in cincinnati, lately, every theatrical advertisement in all other newspapers carried this line:-- "we do not advertise in 'the times-star.'" the paralyzing power of advertising is again exemplified in the case of a new york evening paper which was so much interested in the popularization of bicycles that it organized the first bicycle parade ever held in the city. just before the day of the parade, however, it printed an article telling the people that it cost only some fifteen or twenty dollars to manufacture bicycles that sold at from seventy-five to one hundred and twenty-five dollars. instantly all the bicycle advertising was withdrawn, and the paper lost thousands of dollars. the new york "evening post" some years ago offended the department stores by some utterance it made about the tariff, and they withdrew their advertising. the "evening post," instead of quietly backing down, started in to fight single-handed, calling on the public for aid. the personal friends of the editor, mr. godkin, and a few loyal readers rallied to its support, and threatened to boycott the stores. but the public as a whole and all the "post's" esteemed contemporaries, as might have been anticipated, enjoyed the conflict from a safe distance and minded their own business. the department stores not only refused to make terms, but in some instances carried the war into the enemy's territory by stopping the credit accounts of those customers who took the "post's" side. it was only after a very great financial loss and many years of estrangement, that most of the stores came back to the "post," and it was long before the old relations of cordiality were entirely reëstablished. the department stores are seldom or never referred to unfavorably by the new york papers. when an elevator falls down in an office-building and somebody is injured, the headlines ring to heaven. a similar catastrophe in a department store is considered of hardly sufficient human interest to publish. the name and shame of a woman caught shoplifting in a department store can seldom be kept out of the papers. a department store caught overworking and underpaying its sales-girls--well, that is of no public concern. one of the most striking articles i ever printed recounted the experiences of a sales-girl in one of new york's department stores, yet it was unnoticed by the new york papers, which are quick enough to republish and comment on such articles when we print them, as "graft in panama," "peonage in georgia," or "race-prejudice in california." four years ago, in our annual vacation number, we advised our readers to go back to their boyhood village, buy the old homestead, and take a vacation on the farm, abjuring the summer hotels with their temptations to spend money, their vapidities and artificialities, manufactured lovers' lanes, and old cats on the piazza. this so offended a few hotels that they have never since advertised in "the independent." i will not tell you their names, but you can find out by noticing what hotels are not represented in our advertising pages. three years ago i printed the life-story of a girl then on strike in a factory. it was a simple, straightforward autobiography, giving the employés' side of the case. although we printed subsequently--as we are always glad to do--a statement from the company giving their side of the controversy, we must still be on their "we don't patronize" list, judging by the amount of advertising with which they have since favored us. other papers have suffered still more, i understand, from the same factory. the great book-publishing firms are about the only class of advertisers i know of who do not directly or indirectly seem to object to have their wares damned in the editorial pages. whether they have attained more than other men to the christian ideal of turning the other cheek; whether they think that nobody pays any attention to a scathing book-review, or whether they hold that the "best seller" is the offspring of hostile criticism, i do not know. but again and again we denounce books in our literary department that the publishers pay good money to praise in the advertising pages of the same issue. i know of only one prominent publishing firm which is an exception to this rule in that it sometimes attempts to influence the reviews of its books by means of its patronage. but with the small book-houses this happy relationship does not always exist. it would surprise you to know how many of them badger and threaten us. some, i understand, have a rule not to advertise where their books are not indiscriminately puffed. it is a poor maxim, however, that won't shoot both ways; for i am sorry to report that some papers adopt the equally bad rule of not reviewing the books of these firms who do not keep an advertising account with them. i once dined at a public banquet where the guests were both whites and negroes, and made some harmless and well-meaning remarks. a philadelphia advertiser subsequently said he would never do business with a paper that employed such an editor. last year an insurance company withdrew its advertising from the columns of a great weekly because it repeated a disagreeable truth about one of its directors. recently san francisco has gone through one of the most important struggles for civic betterment ever waged in an american city. the whole nation stood at attention. the issue was clear and unequivocal. the story of how san francisco was redeeming her fair name, as every newspaper man knows, was sensational enough to be featured day by day on the front pages of every great paper in the land. the eastern dailies started in bravely enough, but soon cut down their reports until they became so meagre and inadequate as to cause people in the east to surmise that some influence hostile to the prosecution had poisoned the sources of their information. the archbold letters, given to the press by mr. hearst in the late campaign, are further examples of commercialism in journalism. how the standard oil company sent its certificates of deposit and giant subscriptions to sundry editors and public-opinion promoters, and how a member of congress from the great state of pennsylvania actually suggested to mr. archbold that it might be a good plan to obtain "a permanent and healthy control" of that very fountain-head of publicity,--the associated press,--these sinister transactions and suggestions have been so fully discussed as to need no further comment from me. from the standpoint of journalistic ethics, the only thing more reprehensible than selling your opinions is offering them for sale. this is editorial prostitution. the mere getting out of winter-resort numbers, automobile numbers, financial numbers, and alaska-yukon-pacific exposition numbers is not at all to be condemned, though the motive may be commercial, as the swollen advertising pages in such special numbers attest. but what shall we suspect when a paper which claims a million readers devotes a long editorial to praising a poor play, and then in a subsequent issue there appears a full-page advertisement of that play? what does it mean when not a single denver paper publishes a line about three nefarious telephone bills before the colorado legislature? and what shall we think of a certain daily whose editor recently told me that there was on his desk a list three feet long of names of prominent people who were not to be mentioned in his paper either favorably or unfavorably? but direct bribe-giving and bribe-taking are, as i have said, very rare. such a procedure is too crude. if you should get up some palpable advertisement disguised as news, and send it around to the leading papers asking them to put it in as reading matter, and send you the bill, expecting them to swallow the bait, you would be disappointed. it is more likely to be done in another way. a financier invites an editor to go with him on a cruise in his private yacht to the west indies, or offers to let him in on the ground floor in some commercial undertaking. then, after the editor is under obligations, favors are asked and the editor is enmeshed. although i have said much about the sordid side of journalism, and the temptations that we editors have to meet in one form or another, i do not want you to think that the profession or trade of journalism offers no scope for the highest moral and intellectual attainments. i have dwelt thus long on the seamy side of our profession because there is a seamy side, and i believe it does good occasionally to discuss it with frankness. the first step in correcting an evil is to acknowledge its existence. were the title of this lecture "journalism and progress," or "the leadership of the press," i could have told a far different and rosier, though a no less true story. but, as i approach my conclusion, let me give you some more pleasing examples of the better side of "commercialism and journalism." george jones, the late owner of the new york "times," when that paper made its historic fight against the tweed ring, was offered five million dollars by "slippery dick" connolly, one of the gang, and an officer of the city government, if he would sell the "times," which was then not worth over a million. mr. jones said afterwards, "the devil will never make a higher bid for me than that." yet he declined the bribe without a tremor. a certain religious weekly lost a hundred thousand dollars for refusing to take patent-medicine advertisements--probably ten times what the paper was worth. "everybody's magazine," and many others of its class, refuse every kind of questionable advertising. many editors and publishers scrupulously eschew politics, lest obligations be incurred that might limit their opportunities for public service. some will not even accept dinner invitations when the motive is known to be the expectation of a _quid pro quo_. perhaps one of the few disagreeable things a conscientious editor cannot hope to avoid is the necessity of denouncing his personal friends. yet this must be done again and again. indeed, there are thousands of editors to-day who will not hesitate a moment to espouse the unpopular cause, though they know it will endanger their advertising receipts and subscription list. "the independent," for instance, could undoubtedly build up a great circulation in the south among white people if we could only cease expressing our disapproval of the way they mistreat their colored brothers. but we consider it a duty to champion a race, who, through no fault of their own, have been placed among us, and whom few papers, statesmen, or philanthropists feel called upon to treat as friends. there is a limit, of course, to the length to which a paper can go in defying its constituency, whether advertisers or subscribers. manifestly a paper cannot be published without their support. but there are times when an editor must defy them, even if it spells ruin to himself and bankruptcy to the paper. it is rarely necessary, however, to go to such an extremity as suicide. the rule would seem to be--and i think it can be defended on all ethical grounds--that under no circumstances should an editor tell what he knows to be false, or urge measures he believes to be harmful. this is a far different thing from telling all the truth all of the time, or urging all the measures he regards as good for mankind in season and out. that is the attitude of the irreconcilable, and the irreconcilable is as ineffectual in journalism as he is in church or state. thus "the ladies' home journal" has not as yet taken any part in furthering the great woman's suffrage movement which is sweeping over the world, and which ought to, but nevertheless does not, interest most american women. from mr. bok's point of view this policy of silence is quite right, and the only one doubtless consistent with the great circulation of his magazine. a periodical which wants a million readers must adhere strictly to the conventions if it would keep up its reputation as a safe guide for the multitude. this may not be the ideal form of leadership, but it is common sense, which is, perhaps, more to be desired. "ed" howe, the editor of "the atchison globe," the paper which gets closer to the people than any other in america, evidently admires this theory of editing, for he confesses, "when perplexities beset me and troubles thicken, i stop and ask myself what would edward bok have me do, and then all my difficulties dissolve." despite the sinister influences that tend to limit the freedom of editors and taint the news, the efficiency, accuracy, and ability of the american press were never on such a high plane of excellence as they are to-day. the celerity with which news is gathered, written, transmitted, edited, published, and served on millions of breakfast-tables every morning in the year is one of the wonders of the age. when great events happen, especially of a dramatic nature, we see newspapers at their best. witness the recent wreck of the steamship republic. only a few wireless dispatches were sent out by the heroic binns during the first few hours, and yet every paper the next morning had columns about the disaster, all written without padding, inaccuracy, or disproportion. also recall the way the press handled the recent witla kidnaping case. within twenty-four hours every newspaper reader in the united states was apprised of the crime in all its details, and in most cases the photograph of the little boy was reproduced. it is the gathering of the less important news of the day, however, where reporting has deteriorated, and yellow journalism is largely responsible for this. yellow journalism is a matter of typography and theatrics. the most sensational, and often the most unimportant, news is featured with big type, colored inks, diagrams, and illustrations. "a laugh or tear in every line" is the motto above the desk of the copy editor. the dotted line showing the route taken by the beautiful housemaid as she falls out of the tenth-story window to the street below adds a thrill of the yellow "write up." the two prime requisites for an ideal yellow newspaper, as that prince of yellow editors, arthur brisbane, once told me, are sport for the men and love for the women; and as the hearst papers have secured their great circulation by putting in practice this discovery, we find the other papers are consciously or unconsciously copying them. a typographical revolution has thus been brought about, as well as a general deterioration of reporting. even in papers of the highest character an over-indulgence in headlines is coming into vogue, while the reporter is allowed too often to treat the unimportant and most personal events in a picturesque or facetious way without regard to truthfulness. on a lecture trip west last winter, a reporter of one of the most respectable and influential papers in the country asked if i was going to attack anybody in my speech, or say anything that would "stir up the mud." when i said i hoped not, he replied that it would not be necessary for him to attend the lecture. "just give me the title, and the first and last sentences," said he, "and i'll write up an account of it at my desk in the office." sometimes, by this method of reporting, a serious injury is done to the individual. a reporter on the new york "times" wrote up last winter a sensational account of the marriage of the head worker of the university settlement on the east side to a young leader of one of the girls' classes. the marriage was performed by one of the officers of the society of ethical culture, who are expressly authorized by the new york legislature to officiate on such occasions. and yet the reporter called the marriage an "ethical" one, putting the word "ethical" in quotation marks and also the word "mrs.," to which the bride was morally and legally entitled, implying that the marriage was irregular, and indicated a tendency towards free love. though many letters of protest were written to the "times" about this, the "times" made no editorial apology for a breach of journalistic ethics, which should have cost the reporter who wrote the article and probably the managing editor who passed it their positions. it is this lack of sense of the fitness of things that would make the average reporter scribble away for dear life, if, when the president's message on the tariff was being read in congress, a large black cat had happened to walk up the aisle of the house and jumped on the back of speaker cannon. such an occurrence, i venture to say, would have commanded more space in the next morning's papers than any pearls cast before congress by the president in his message. the yellows, however, despite their "night special" editions issued before nine o'clock in the morning, their fake pictures and fake sensations, have come to stay. they serve yellow people. formerly the masses had to choose between such papers as "the atlantic monthly," "the nation," the new york "tribune," and nothing. no wonder they chose nothing. in the yellow press they now have their own champion,--a press that serves them, represents them, leads them, and exploits them, as tammany hall does its constituency. of course they give it their suffrage. the hopeful thing is that yellow readers don't stay yellow always. when a man begins to read he is apt to think. when he begins to think there is no telling where he will end,--maybe by reading the london "times" or the "edinburgh review." in new york the yellow papers, while they still have an enormous circulation, are losing their influence as a political and moral force. evidently as soon as yellow people begin to use their wits they first apply them to the yellow journals. the daily newspapers, however, both yellow and white, like natural monopolies, are public necessities. the people must have the news, and therefore, the predatory interests, whether political or financial, have been quick to get control of the people's necessity. "read the comments on the payne tariff bill," says the "philadelphia north american" in its issue of march , "and every sane, well-informed american discounts the comment of the boston papers regarding raw and unfinished materials that affect the factories of new england. most of the philadelphia criticism counts for no more than what new orleans says of sugar, or pittsburg of steel, or san francisco of fruits, or chicago of packing-house products. and it is common knowledge that what almost every big new york paper says is an echo of wall street." the weeklies and monthlies, however, are not, like the dailies, necessities. they have to attract by their merits alone. they must at all hazards therefore retain the people's confidence in their integrity, enterprise, and leadership. whether this be the true explanation or not, there is at least no doubt that the moral power of the american periodical press has been transferred from the dailies to the monthlies and weeklies. the monthlies and weeklies have also the advantage of being national in circulation instead of local, and therefore less subject to local and personal influence. they are also preserved, bound or unbound, and not thrown away on the day of publication like the daily paper. at all events, the weeklies and monthlies have been the pioneers and prime movers in the great moral renaissance now dawning in america. moral strife always brings out moral leaders. where will you find in the daily press to-day twenty editors to compare with richard watson gilder and robert underwood johnson, of "the century," henry m. alden and george harvey, of "harper's," ray stannard baker and ida m. tarbell, of "the american," lyman abbott and theodore roosevelt, of "the outlook," walter page, of "the world's work," albert shaw, of the "review of reviews," paul e. more, of "the nation," s. s. mcclure, of "mcclure's," erman ridgway, of "everybody's," bliss perry, of "the atlantic monthly," norman hapgood, of "collier's," edward bok, of "the ladies' home journal," george h. lorimer, of the "saturday evening post," robert m. la follette, of "la follette's," william j. bryan, of "the commoner," or shailer matthews, of "the world to-day"? these are the men--and there are more, too, i might name--who came forward with their touch upon the pulse of the nation when the day of the daily newspaper as a leader of enlightened public opinion had waned. as a philadelphia daily has admitted, "a vacuum had been created. they filled it." let me quote from a recent editorial,[ ] which seems to sum up this transformation most clearly:-- "the modern american magazines have now fallen heir to the power exerted formerly by pulpit, lyceum, parliamentary debates, and daily newspapers in the moulding of public opinion, the development of new issues, and dissemination of information bearing on current questions. the newspapers, while they have become more efficient as newspapers, that is, more timely, more comprehensive, more even-handed, more detailed, and, on the whole, more accurate, have relinquished, or at least subordinated, the purpose of their founders, which was generally to make people think with the editor and do what he wanted them to do. the editorials, once the most important feature of a daily paper, are rarely so now. they have become in many cases mere casual comment, in some have been altogether eliminated, in others so neutralized and inoffensive that a man who had bought a certain daily for a year might be puzzled if you asked him its political, religious, and sociological views. he would not be in doubt if asked what his favorite magazine was trying to accomplish in the world. unless it is a mere periodical of amusement it is likely to have a definite purpose, even though it be nothing more than opposition to some other magazine. if a magazine attacks mrs. eddy, another gallantly rushes to her defense. if one gets to seeing things at night, the other becomes anti-spirituous. if the first acquires the muck-raking habit, the complementary organ publishes an 'uplift number' that oozes optimism from every paragraph. the modern editor does not sit in his easy-chair, writing essays and sorting over the manuscripts that are sent in by his contributors. he goes hunting for things. the magazine staff is coming to be a group of specialists of similar views, but diverse talents, who are assigned to work up a particular subject, perhaps a year or two before anything is published, and who spend that time in travel and research among the printed and living sources of information." [ ] _the independent_, oct. , . now my conclusion of the whole question under discussion is this: while commercialism is at present the greatest menace to the freedom of the press, just as it is to the freedom of the church and the university, yet commercialism as it develops carries within itself the germ of its own destruction. for no sooner is its blighting influence felt and recognized than all the moral forces in the community are put in motion to accomplish its overthrow, and as the monthlies and weeklies have thrived by fighting commercialism, so it is reasonable to suppose that the dailies will regain their editorial influence when they adopt the same attitude. i know of only four ways to hasten the time when commercialism will cease to be a reproach to our papers. first. the papers can devote themselves to getting so extensive a circulation that they can ignore the clamor of the advertisers. but this implies a certain truckling to popularity, and the best editors will chafe under such restrictions. second. the papers can become endowed. that others have thought of this before, mr. andrew carnegie can doubtless testify. there would be many advantages, however, of having several great endowed papers in the country. the same arguments that favor endowed theatres or universities apply equally to papers. we need some papers that can say what ought to be said irrespective of anybody and everybody, and which can serve as examples to other papers not so fortunately circumstanced. but manifestly the periodical industry as a whole is much too large to be endowed, and the few papers that may be endowed by private capital, or by the government, would have only a limited influence on the industry as a whole. our government now publishes a weekly paper in panama, which takes no advertisements, and is furnished free to every government employee on the isthmus. it is a model paper in many respects, but manifestly its example is not apt to be followed extensively before the dawn of the coöperative commonwealth. it may be that the practice newspapers conducted by the schools of journalism connected with our great universities will raise the standard by making their chief object the publication of accurate and reliable news. third. the papers can combine in a sort of trust. take the theatrical syndicate, for instance, whose theatres could not be kept open a week without newspaper publicity. the theatrical syndicate's policy seems to be to single out any paper that becomes too critical and give it an absent-advertisement treatment. at the present moment this medicine is being prescribed in several of our large cities. but let all the publishers form a publishers' trade union as it were, and whenever an advertisement is withdrawn, appoint a committee of investigation, and if the committee reports that the withdrawal of the advertisement was done for any improper reason, then let all the papers refuse to print an advertisement of the play, or allow their critics to mention it until the matter is satisfactorily adjusted. this would bring the advertisers to their knees in a moment. the papers have the whip hand if they will only combine, but they are all so jealous of one another that probably any real combination is a long way off. still there are indications of a gentleman's agreement in the air, for all other interests are combining and they will be forced to follow suit. and what will the public do then, poor thing? a newspaper trust will certainly be as inimical to the public welfare as any other combination doing business in the fear of the sherman law. indeed it would be more dangerous, for a periodical trust would practically control the diffusion of intelligence, and that no self-respecting democracy would or should allow. but this is borrowing trouble from the future. fourth and last. we come back to the old, old remedy, which if sincerely applied would solve most all the ills of society. i refer to personal integrity, to character. despite what may be said to the contrary, integrity is the only thing in the newspaper profession, as in life itself, that really counts. the great journalists of the past, whatever their personal idiosyncrasies, have all been men of integrity; the great journalists of to-day are of the same sterling mould; and the journalistic giants of to-morrow--and the journalists of the future will be giants--must also be men of inflexible character. there has never been a time in all history when so many and so important things were waiting to be done as to-day. the newest school of sociology tells us that the human race in its spiral progress onward and upward through sweat and blood, misery and strife, has at last reached the point where, emerging from the control of the blind forces of an inexorable environment, it is about to take its destiny into its own control and actually shape its future. from now on, evolution is to be a psychical rather than a physical process. the world is on the threshold of a new era. we see the first faint dawn of universal peace and of the brotherhood of man. fortunate that editor whose privilege it is to share in pointing out the way. _the riverside press_ cambridge · massachusetts u · s · a the style book of the detroit news _for helpful suggestions the editor is beholden to the style books of the united states government printing office, the universities of missouri, iowa and montana, the indianapolis news, the chicago herald, and the new york evening post; to "newspaper writing and editing," by willard g. bleyer; "newspaper editing," by grant m. hyde; "the writing of news," by charles g. ross; and to the new york tribune for permission to make applicable to michigan its digest of the libel laws of new york._ _the inscriptions on the building of the news, reprinted in this book in boxes, were written by prof. fred n. scott, of the university of michigan._ [illustration: the home of the detroit news _fort street, second avenue and lafayette boulevard_] founded by james edmund scripps august , absorbed the subscription lists of the detroit daily union july , established a sunday edition nov. , sunday news and sunday tribune combined as sunday news-tribune october , daily tribune merged with the news and discontinued february , ground broken for present building november, sunday news-tribune became the sunday news october , the news entered new building october , _the_ style book of the detroit news edited by a. l. weeks published and copyrighted by the evening news association detroit this edition consists of , copies, of which this is no. table of contents the aim of the detroit news instructions to reporters instructions to copy readers preparing copy leads heads diction a. p. style capitalization punctuation quotations nouns pronouns conjunctions verbs adverbs adjectives prepositions articles numbers roman numerals weights and measures abbreviation names and titles jew and hebrew church titles compounds superfluous words vital statistics spelling popular names of railroads do and don't the cannery michigan institutions army and navy organization dates often called for the law of libel first three years of the war index the aim of the detroit news formation of a newspaper's ideals comes through a process of years. the best traditions of the past, blending with hopes of the future, should be the writer's guide for the day. nov. , , the editor-in-chief of the detroit news, in a letter to the managing editor, wrote his interpretation of the principles under which the staff should work, in striving toward those journalistic ideals to which this paper feels itself dedicated. his summary of the best practices of the profession follows: the detroit news should be: vigorous, but not vicious. interesting, but not sensational. fearless, but fair. accurate as far as human effort can obtain accuracy. striving ever to gain and impart information. as bright as possible, but never sacrificing solid information for brilliancy. looking for the uplifting rather than the depraved things of life. we should work to have the word reliable stamped on every page of the paper. the place to commence this is with the staff members: first, getting men and women of character to do the writing and editing; and then training them in our way of thinking and handling news and other reading matter. if you make an error you have two duties to perform--one to the person misrepresented and one to your reading public. never leave the reader of the news misinformed on any subject. if you wrongfully write that a man has done something that he did not do, or has said something that he did not say, you do him an injustice--that's one. but you also do thousands of readers an injustice, leaving them misinformed as to the character of the man dealt with. corrections should never be made grudgingly. always make them cheerfully, fully, and in larger type than the error, if there is any difference. the american people want to know, to learn, to get information. to quote a writer: "your opinion is worth no more than your information." give them your information and let them draw their own conclusions. comment should enlighten by well marshaled facts, and by telling the readers what relation an act of today has to an act of yesterday. let them come to their own conclusions as far as possible. no issue is worth advocating that is not strong enough to withstand all the facts that the opposition to it can throw against it. our readers should be well informed on both sides of every issue. kindly, helpful suggestions will often direct officials in the right, when nagging will make them stay stubbornly on the wrong side. that does not mean that there should be any lack of diligence in watching for, and opposing, intentional criminals. a staff can be good and strong only by having every part of it strong. the moment it becomes evident that a man, either by force of circumstance or because of his own character, does not fit into our organization, you do him a kindness and do justice to the paper by letting him know, so he can go to a calling in which he can succeed, and will not be in the way of filling the place with a competent man. no one on the staff should be asked to do anything that will make him think less of himself or the paper. make the paper good all the way through, so there will not be disappointment on the part of a reporter if his story is not found on the first page, but so he will feel that it must have merit to get into the paper at all. avoid making it a "front-page paper." stories should be brief, but not meager. tell the story, all of it, in as few words as possible. nature makes facts more interesting than any reporter can imagine them. there is an interesting feature in every story, if you will dig it out. if you don't get it, it is because you don't dig deep enough. the most valuable asset of any paper is its reputation for telling the truth; the only way to have that reputation is to tell the truth. untruth due to carelessness or excessive imagination injures the paper as much as though intentional. everyone with a grievance should be given a respectful and kindly hearing; especial consideration should be given the poor and lowly, who may be less capable of presenting their claims than those more favored in life. a man of prominence and education knows how to get into the office and present his complaint. a washerwoman may come to the door, timidly, haltingly, scarcely knowing what to do, and all the while her complaint may be as just as that of the other complainant, perhaps more so. she should be received kindly and helped to present what she has to say. simple, plain language is strongest and best. a man of little education can understand it, while the man of higher education, usually reading a paper in the evening after a day's work, will read it with relish. there is never any need of using big words to show off one's learning. the object of a story or an editorial is to inform or convince; but it is hard to do either if the reader has to study over a big word or an involved sentence. use plain english all the time. a few readers may understand and appreciate a latin or french quotation, or one from some other foreign language, but the big mass of our readers are the plain people, and such a quotation would be lost on the majority. be fair. don't let the libel laws be your measure in printing of a story, but let fairness be your measure. if you are fair, you need not worry about libel laws. always give the other fellow a hearing. he may be in the wrong, but even that may be a matter of degree. it wouldn't be fair to picture him as all black when there may be mitigating circumstances. it is not necessary to tell the people that we are honest, or bright, or alert, or that a story appeared exclusively in our paper. if true, the public will find it out. an honest man does not need to advertise his honesty. time heals all things but a woman's damaged reputation. be careful and cautious and fair and decent in dealing with any man's reputation, but be doubly so--and then some--when a woman's name is at stake. do not by direct statement, jest or careless reference raise a question mark after any woman's name if it can be avoided--and it usually can be. even if a woman slips, be generous; it may be a crisis in her life. printing the story may drive her to despair; kindly treatment may leave her with hope. no story is worth ruining a woman's life--or a man's, either. keep the paper clean in language and thought. profane or suggestive words are not necessary. when in doubt, think of a -year-old girl reading what you are writing. do not look on newspaper work as a "game," of pitilessly printing that on which you are only half informed, for the mere sake of beating some other paper; but take it rather as a serious, constructive work in which you are to use all your energy and diligence to get all the worth-while information for your readers at the earliest possible moment. instructions to reporters when you go after a story, make sure that you get all of it. drill yourself into searching for facts; almost anybody can write a story--it takes real brains and resourcefulness to get one. you are urged to call the city editor for instructions whenever in doubt, and it is a good idea to call as often as possible to keep the office informed and also to get any information on your story that may have come in from other sources. before you write or telephone your story, make sure that you have all your facts marshaled in your own mind. a good reporter usually plans his story, lead and details in his head on his way to the office. never guess. know what you are writing about. when you turn in a story know that everything in that story is true--and if you feel there is a statement you can not prove, call your city editor's attention to it. to color or fake a story is not newspaper work--it is prostitution of the profession of journalism. be sure of your sources of information. never take anything for granted--find out for yourself. you will discover that many persons talk convincingly about things although they have no actual knowledge of the subject under discussion. remember always that a newspaper has to prove what it says--and any decent newspaper is eager to. if you don't know, tell the city editor you don't know. to guess is criminal because nobody can guess with any consistent degree of accuracy. and accuracy should be your guide. reporters should study their stories after they are printed, with the realization that any changes made in them were made to better them. ask why your stories have been changed so your next story will be better through avoidance of the same mistake. never be afraid to ask anybody anything. the mainspring of a good newspaper man is a wholesome curiosity. the essentials of newspaper writing are accuracy and simplicity. the newspaper is no place for fine writing. simplicity means directness and conciseness in telling the story as well as an avoidance of hifalutin phrases, obsolete words and involved sentences. walt whitman wrote: "the art of arts, the glory of expression, and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity. nothing is better than simplicity--nothing can make up for excess or the lack of definiteness." every worker on a newspaper knows the value of accuracy. accuracy is the god before whom all newspaper men bow. if one could analyze the effort put forth in one day in this office, one might discover that perhaps a third of that effort was in an attempt to obtain accuracy. the city directory is the newspaper man's bible because accuracy is his deity. the hardest lesson the journalist must learn is the development of the impersonal viewpoint. he must learn to write what he sees and hears, clearly and accurately, with never a tinge of bias. his own views, his personal feelings and his friendships should have nothing to do with what he writes in a story. the ideal reporter would be a man who could give the public facts about his bitterest enemy even though such facts would make the man he personally hated a hero before the public. in journalism more than in any other profession does the advice hold good: "beware of your friends; your enemies will take care of themselves." by this is meant: learn well the code of ethics which governs your profession, and when any man in the guise of friendship asks you to violate that code, you may say to him, "if you were truly my friend, you would not ask me to do this any more than you would ask a physician as a matter of friendship to perform an illegal operation, or a lawyer to stoop to shyster practices." supplying his editors with the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, is the only mission of the reporter, and any man who asks the reporter to deviate from that principle asks that which is dishonest. be true thomas carlyle: to every writer we might say: be true, if you would be believed. let a man but speak forth with genuine earnestness the thought, the emotion, the actual condition of his own heart; and other men, so strangely are we all knit together by the tie of sympathy, must and will give heed to him. in culture, in extent of view, we may stand above the speaker, or below him; but in either case, his words, if they are earnest and sincere, will find some response within us; for in spite of all casual varieties in outward rank or inward, as face answers to face, so does the heart of man to man. +-------------------------------------------+ | ... voice of the lowly and oppressed ... | | advocate of the friendless ... righter of | | public and private wrongs. | +-------------------------------------------+ instructions to copy readers the copy reader's position carries with it larger responsibilities than the position of any other member of the staff. he can mar or ruin a good story; he can redeem the poor story; he can save the reporter from errors of commission or omission in the matter of his story or in the manner of its writing. no matter how accomplished a writer a reporter may be, the copy reader who handles his story can destroy his product. then, too, it is the function of the copy reader, if he believes that a better story can be written with the same facts as a basis, to suggest to the city editor that the story be rewritten by the reporter, by another reporter or by the copy reader himself. because a man is reading copy, he should not imagine that he is not to write a story or rewrite one when occasion demands. charles g. ross writes: "his [the copy reader's] work is critical rather than creative. it is destructive so far as errors of grammar, violations of news style and libel are concerned. but if his sense of news is keen, as that of every copy reader should be, he will find abundant opportunity for something more than mechanical deletion and interlineation. he may insert a terse bit of explanation to clear away obscurity, or may add a piquant touch that will redeem a story from dullness. to the degree that he edits news with sympathy and understanding, with a clear perception of news values, his work may be regarded as creative. if, on the other hand, he conceives it his duty to reduce all writing to a dead level of mediocrity * * * * he richly deserves the epithet that is certain to be hurled at the copy reader by the reporter whose fine phrases have been cut out--he is in truth a 'butcher' of copy." dr. willard g. bleyer writes: "the reading and editing of copy consists of ( ) correcting all errors whether in expression or in fact; ( ) making the story conform to the style of the newspaper; ( ) improving the story in any respect; ( ) eliminating libelous matter; ( ) marking copy for the printer; ( ) writing headlines and subheads." learning the metier said robert louis stevenson to a painter friend: "you painter chaps make lots of studies, don't you? and you don't frame them all and send them to the salon, do you? you just stick them up on the studio wall for a bit, and presently you tear them up and make more. and you copy velasquez and rembrandt and vandyke and corot; and from each you learn some little trick of the brush, some obscure little point of technic. and you know damn well that it is the knowledge thus acquired that will enable you later on to deliver your own message with a fine and confident bravado. you are simply learning your metier; and believe me, mon cher, an artist in any line without the metier is just a blind man with a stick. now, in the literary line i am simply doing what you painter men are doing in the pictorial line--learning the metier." preparing copy use the typewriter. see that the keys are clean. use triple space. write on one side of the paper. do not paste sheets together. leave wide margins on both sides and at the top. write your name and a brief description of the story in two or three words at top of first sheet. number sheets. never write perpendicularly in the margin. never divide a word from one page to another, and if possible do not divide a word from one line to the next. try to make each page end with a completed paragraph to aid the composing room in setting the story in "takes." when necessary to write in long hand, underscore _u_ and overscore _n_, and print proper names and unusual words. ring periods or write _x_ to stand for them. when there is a chance that a word intentionally misspelled will be changed by the printer, write _follow copy_ in the margin. indent deeply for paragraphs. use an end-mark to indicate your story is completed. avoid interlining by crossing out the sentence you desire to correct and writing it again. save time for your office by care in writing and editing. a little thought before setting down a sentence will save you the trouble of rewriting and the copy reader the annoyance of reading untidy copy. leads there is generally a better way to begin a story than with _a_, _an_, _the_, _it is_, _there is_, _there are_. avoid beginning a story with figures, but when this must be done, then spell out, as: _ten thousand men marched away today._ the comprehensive a. p. lead is generally preferable, but in writing some stories, particularly feature stories, a reporter may find a more effective lead than the sentence or sentences that summarize the story. remember that your reader's time may be limited and that if your story begins with a striking sentence, arresting either because of what it says or the manner in which it says it, your story will be read. the cuttlefish he that uses many words for the explaining of any subject doth, like the cuttlefish, hide himself in his own ink.--anon. +---------------------------------------------+ | bearer of intelligence ... dispeller of | | ignorance and prejudice ... a light shining | | into all dark places. | +---------------------------------------------+ heads "the head," says ross, "is an advertisement, and like all good advertisements it should be honest, holding out no promise that the story does not fulfill. it should be based on the facts as set forth in the story and nothing else." the head should be a bulletin or summary of the important facts, not a mere label. it is usually best to base the head on the lead of the story. the first deck should tell the most important feature. every succeeding deck should contribute new information, not merely explain previous statements or repeat them in different language. the function of the head is to tell the facts, not to give the writer's comment on the facts. the head for the feature story, the special department, the editorial or the illustration may properly be a title that suggests the material it advertises instead of summarizing it. indeed, the success of a feature story often depends on its having a head that directs the reader to the story and arouses his curiosity in it without disclosing the most interesting content. head writers should beware of revealing in the head the surprise of a story, if it has one. never turn in a head that you _guess_ will fit. make sure. heads that are too long cause delay and confusion. as a general rule write heads in the present tense. principal words should not be repeated. do not, however, use impossible synonyms, as _canine_ for _dog_ or _inn_ for _hotel_. make every deck complete in itself. use articles sparingly. occasionally they are needed. observe the difference in meaning between _king george takes little liquor_ and _king george takes a little liquor_. avoid such overworked and awkward words as _probe_, _rap_, _quiz_, _russ_. never abbreviate _president_ to _pres._ avoid ending a line with a preposition, an article or a conjunction, as, to make plans for american defense do not divide phrases, as, cut in schedule "k" is probable camp picks all- american team try to make each line of the first deck a unit, as, postoffice robbed by band of tramps tariff board reports on all wool schedules story of dying man reopens graft case observe that in reading these heads there is a natural pause that comes at the end of the line. the same principle may govern the writing of three-line heads, as, one girl's act prevents , from working wayne men want canal to connect city with detroit in the head just written observe that the first line has fewer letters because it contains two w's and an m. either an m or a w is equal to a letter and a half, and an i and a space are each equal to half a letter. the first line contains ½ units; the second line contains units; the third line contains units. and yet the first line contains letters and spaces, the second , and the third . every deck should contain a verb, expressed or implied. in this head, thieves busy in north end the verb _are_ is understood. if the subject of the verb in the first deck is not written, it should be the first word of the second deck, as, investigate wet victory texas senators all agreed to inquire into late election. omit all forms of the verb _to be_ whenever possible. this head, asked how he got stolen automobile is more effective than this, is asked how he got the stolen automobile avoid expressions that are awkward because of omission of some form of the verb _to be_ such as this: u. s. weather man says summer here negatives should be avoided. the head should as a rule tell what happened, not what did not happen. avoid the word _may_. the head should as a rule tell what happened, not what is going to take place, perhaps. beware of heads that contain words of double meaning, as, nurses hope to win game the word _nurses_ may be taken as a noun or a verb. in this head the first word might be read as a noun or as a verb: scouts claim kaiser is to blame for war use as little punctuation as possible in the first deck. avoid alliteration. use few abbreviations. use figures sparingly. insert subheads in long stories at intervals of to words. use at least two subheads or none. when there is a paragraph ending, _the president spoke as follows:_, place the subhead before this paragraph and not between it and the quoted matter. avoid such makeshift constructions as m a y o r will resign, said wilson won't reply, rumor avoid beginning a head with quotation marks because the white space destroys the balance of the head. when it is unavoidable, use single quotation marks. avoid heads in which a dash takes the place of _says_, as, shipping board must go--wilson when this style is necessary, use quotation marks. it is permissible to make the first deck of a head a quotation without quotation marks, writing the name of the person quoted in full-face caps immediately below the deck. one need seldom resort to this expedient. be careful of the present tense in writing of historical events. the head on a story about the legality of christ's trial should not read, jesus christ is illegally slain nor should it read jesus christ was illegally slain but it should read says christ was illegally slain remember always in writing heads that although a newspaper man seldom reads more than the first deck, deciding by that whether to read the story, many readers of the paper read no more than the head, and for them it should summarize the story, embodying all its salient features. grammar the most common errors in grammar to be found in copy are in: the agreement of a verb with its subject. the relation of pronouns to their antecedents. the position of participles in relation to the words they modify. the use of co-ordinate conjunctions to connect elements of the same kind. the position of correlative conjunctions with relation to the elements they connect. to gain grace in writing one must either be born with a natural aptitude in the use of words--and such men: stevenson, poe, walter pater and others, are geniuses--or one must study the writings of these masters of prose and attempt to discover the secret of their success. it is not necessary that a good writer should know rules of grammar, but he must know enough to observe them. a writer may be unable to tell why a dangling participle is faulty english by testing it with a rule, but he may nevertheless avoid such a construction because his ear tells him it is not the best style. copies of the best grammars may be found in the office library and should be consulted when reporters and copy readers are in doubt. simplicity in character, in manners, in style and in all things the supreme excellence is simplicity.--longfellow. notes diction the newspaper writer must beware of two pitfalls in writing: fine writing and dialect. stilted english, pompous and high-sounding, is in just as bad taste as garish clothing or pungent perfume. reporters often give to their stories a wordy and turgid flavor by their refusal to repeat a word, preferring a synonym. one often sees such sentences as this: "the policeman took his pistol away as he was about to shoot at the bluecoat's partner, another officer of the law." this is a quite unnecessary avoidance of the repetition of the word policeman. fine writing is quite out of place at all times in a newspaper and is particularly obnoxious when a reporter quotes a person of inferior mentality in polished--or what the reporter thinks are polished--phrases. things like this shouldn't get into the paper: _"it is with poignant grief that i gaze on the torn frame of my dear spouse," said mrs. sowikicki, as she stood beside a slab in the morgue._ on the other hand reporters should not try to be funny at the expense of someone inexpert in the use of the language. if a person interviewed uses bad grammar, correct him when you write the story. to make a person say _hadn't ought to of_ or _hain't got no_ is not only insulting to that person and to your readers, but is poor comedy. dialect must be absolutely accurate if it is used. finley peter dunne can write irish dialect and not many other persons in america can write as good. probably no reporter on the news can write it. dialect that might hurt the feelings of others who speak the same way should not be used. in fact as a general rule: don't write dialect. the greatest masters of humor, such as moliere, cervantes, shakespeare, mark twain, have obtained their best effects by writing their language straightforwardly. the grit of compact, clear truth i began to compose by imitating other authors. i admired, and i worked hard to get, a smooth, rich, classic style. the passion i afterwards formed for heine's prose forced me from this slavery, and taught me to aim at naturalness. i seek now to get back to the utmost simplicity of expression, to disuse the verbosity i tried so hard to acquire, to get the grit of compact, clear truth, if possible, informal and direct. it is very difficult. i should advise any beginner to study the raciest, strongest, best spoken speech and let the printed speech alone; that is to say, to write straight from the thought without bothering about the manner, except to conform to the spirit or genius of the language. i once thought latinized diction was to be invited; i now think latinized expression is to be guarded against.--w. d. howells. a. p. style what m. e. stone says to his correspondents on story writing may be read with profit by any newspaper man. the following is clipped from the monthly bulletin issued by the associated press to its correspondents: a plain statement of fact is the best introduction to a news story. a simple, direct style--which does not mean a wooden style--is always desirable. in the opening sentence it is of particular value. the news which a story contains is the one thing which entitles it to place in the associated press report. it is the news, not the manner of telling the news, on which the story must stand. it is therefore essential to present the vital point at the outset, in such form as will enable the reader to grasp it quickly, clearly and easily. for this purpose there is no acceptable substitute for plain english. in an effort to make the most vivid and emphatic impression at the opening, objectionable forms of construction often are employed. a highly-colored or strained introduction almost always fails of its purpose of enlisting interest at once, since it tends to divert the attention of the reader from the subject-matter of the story to the writer's manner of telling it. this renders the introduction cloudy and lessens interest instead of stimulating it. once the main point is established, the well known rules of news writing should be observed. to say that "'william brown may obtain a fair trial in greene county,' judge smith so ruled today," is to misstate the facts. it places the associated press on record as making a statement made by the court. use of this and similar introductory sentences which require subsequent qualification is objectionable. opening sentences frequently lose directness and clearness because of the effort to crowd too much into them. all that is essential is to cover the vital point, leaving details for subsequent narration. introductions must be impartial. it is possible to take almost any given set of statements and present them in such a way as to convey any one of several shades of meaning. this may depend merely on the order of presentation. associated press stories must be accurate and accuracy involves not only the truthfulness of individual statements but the co-relation of these statements in such a way as to convey to the reader a fair and unbiased impression of the story as a whole. an account of a court proceeding, a political debate, or any other event which involves conflicting claims or interests, should not be introduced by singling out a particular phase of the story which is limited to one side of the controversy, simply because that is the most striking feature. such a form of introduction tends to place the emphasis on one side of the case, giving bias to the entire story. stereotyped introductions should be avoided. one of the most common is the "when" introduction, as: "two men were killed when a train struck ..." etc. "if" and "after" often are used similarly. inverted sentences are also frequent; as "that the prisoner was guilty was the opinion expressed by ..." etc. constant employment of these fixed styles becomes monotonous. moreover, it is possible to state the facts more simply, directly and effectively without them. broaden the vocabulary edward harlan webster gives this excellent advice on how to broaden the vocabulary: practice is the first aid. actually get hold of new words and then use them. you will perceive that you will not startle others so much as yourself. gradually the words will begin to assume a standing in your vocabulary, and before long, they will seem like old friends. to obtain these words, various practical methods are possible. here are a few: . find synonyms for words which you have a tendency to overuse. . record words with which you are familiar but you never use--and then "work" them. . make a list of important, unfamiliar words which you hear, or discover in your reading. . listen carefully to the conversations or addresses of educated people. . if possible, try to translate from a foreign language. in this way a fine perception of shades of meaning, almost unattainable by any other method, is acquired. . get interested in the dictionary, where you can trace the life history of words. the pictorial power of words "words have a considerable share in exciting ideas of beauty--they affect the mind by raising in it ideas of those things for which custom has appointed them to stand. words, by their original and pictorial power have great influence over the passions; if we combine them properly, we may give new life and beauty to the simplest object. in painting, we may represent any fine figure we please, but we never can give it those enlivening touches which it may receive from words. for example, we can represent an angel in a picture by drawing a young man winged: but what painting can furnish out anything so grand as the addition of one word--'the angel of the lord'? is there any painting more grand and beautiful?"--edmund burke. capitalization capitalize titles preceding names, as, chief of detectives fox, gen. bell. lower-case titles following names, as john downey, superintendent of police, except these which are capitalized always: president } vice-president } cabinet } of the united states. government } administration } supreme court } governor (of michigan). lieutenant-governor (of michigan). mayor (of detroit). supreme court (of michigan). judges and justices of all courts of record. the names of all courts of record. king, emperor, czar, kaiser, sultan, viceroy, etc. the crown prince. the duke of blank. the prince of dash. do not capitalize _former_ preceding a title, as _former senator wilson_. _former_ is preferred to _ex-_. capitalize the full names of associations, clubs, societies, companies, etc., as michigan equal suffrage association, detroit club, society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, star publishing company. _the_ preceding such a name is not to be capitalized. do not capitalize _association_, _club_, etc., when not attached to a specific name. capitalize _university_, _college_, _academy_, etc., when part of a title, as university of detroit, olivet college. but do not capitalize when the plural is used, as the state universities of michigan, kansas and ohio. capitalize the first word after a colon in giving a list, as, _the following were elected: president, william jones; vice-president, sam smith_, etc. _try this menu: rice, milk and fruit._ when the colon is used merely to indicate a longer pause than a semicolon, it is not followed by a capital, as, _a tire blew out: the car skidded: we were in the ditch_. capitalize _building_, _hall_, _house_, _hotel_, _theater_, _hospital_, etc., when used with a distinguishing name, as book building, hull house, cadillac hotel, garrick theater, harper hospital. capitalize the names of federal and state departments and bureaus, as department of agriculture, state insurance department, bureau of vital statistics. but lower-case municipal departments, as fire department, water and light department, street department. capitalize the names of national legislative bodies, as congress, house of representatives or house, senate, parliament, reichstag, duma, chamber (france). capitalize _state legislature_ and synonymous terms (_legislature_, _assembly_, _general assembly_) only when the michigan legislature is meant. capitalize the names of all political parties, in this and other countries, as democratic, republican, progressive, socialist, liberal, tory, union. but do not capitalize these or similar words, or their derivatives, when used in a general sense, as republican form of government, democratic tendencies, socialistic views. capitalize _pole_, _island_, _isthmus_, _cape_, _ocean_, _bay_, _river_, and in general all such geographical terms when used in specific names, as north pole, south sea islands, cape hatteras, hudson bay, pacific ocean, mississippi river, isthmus of panama. capitalize _county_ when used in a specific name, as wayne county. capitalize the _east_, the _west_, the _middle west_, the _orient_ and other terms used for definite regions; but do not capitalize _east_, _west_, etc., when used merely to designate direction or point of compass, as "west of here." do not capitalize _westerner_, _southerner_, _western states_ and other such derivatives. capitalize sections of a state, as upper peninsula, western michigan, etc., but not the _northern part of michigan_, etc. capitalize, when used with a distinguishing name, _ward_, _precinct_, _square_, _garden_, _park_, etc., as first ward, eighth precinct, cadillac square, madison square garden, palmer park. capitalize _jr._ and _sr._ after a name. capitalize _room_, etc., when followed by a number or letter, as room , dime bank building; parlor c, normandie hotel. capitalize distinctive names of localities in cities, as north end, nob hill, back bay, happy hollow. capitalize the names of holidays and days observed as holidays by churches, as fourth of july, dominion day, good friday, yom kippur, columbus day, washington's birthday. capitalize the names of notable events and things, as the declaration of independence, the war of , the revolution, the reformation, the civil war, the battle of the marne. capitalize _church_ when used as a specific name, as north woodward methodist church, first christian church. but write: a methodist church, a christian church. capitalize the names of all religious denominations, as baptist, quaker, mormon, methodist. capitalize names for the bible, as the holy scriptures, the book of books. but do not capitalize adjectives derived from such names, as biblical, scriptural. capitalize all names and pronouns used for the deity. capitalize the last supper, lord's prayer, ten commandments, book of ruth, etc. capitalize the names of races and nationalities, as italian, american, indian, gypsy, caucasian and negro. capitalize titles of specific treaties, laws, bills, etc., as treaty of ghent, eleventh amendment, workmen's compensation act, good roads bill. but when the reference is general use lower-case, as the good roads legislation of the last congress. capitalize such terms as stars and stripes, old glory, union jack, stars and bars, etc. capitalize u. s. army and navy. capitalize names of military organizations, as first regiment, b company (do not quote letter), national guard, grand army of the republic, michigan state militia, university cadet corps (but university cadets). capitalize such names as triple alliance, triple entente, quadruple entente, allies (in the european war). capitalize the fanciful titles of cities and states, as the city of the straits, the buckeye state. capitalize the nicknames of base ball, foot ball and other athletic teams, as chicago cubs, boston braves, tigers. capitalize epithets affixed to or standing for proper names, as alexander the great, the pretender. capitalize the names of stocks in money markets, as federal steel, city railway. capitalize college degrees, whether written in full or abbreviated, as bachelor of arts, doctor of laws, bachelor of science in education: a.b., ll.d., b.s. in ed. capitalize _high school_ when used thus: central high school (but the high school at port huron). capitalize, but do not quote, the titles of newspapers and other periodicals, the new york world, the outlook, the saturday evening post. do not capitalize _the_, except the detroit news. capitalize and quote the titles of books, plays, poems, songs, speeches, etc., as "the scarlet letter," "within the law," "the man with the hoe." _the_ beginning a title must be capitalized and included in the quotation. all the principal words--that is, nouns, pronouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs and interjections--are to be capitalized, no matter how short; thus: "the man who would be king." other parts of speech--that is, prepositions, conjunctions and articles--are to be capitalized only when they contain four or more letters; thus: at, in, a, for, between, through, into. the same rules apply to capitalization in headlines. capitalize adjectives derived from proper nouns, as english, elizabethan, germanic, teutonic. but do not capitalize proper names and derivatives whose original significance has been obscured by long and common usage. under this head fall such words as india rubber, oriental colors, street arab, pasteurize, macadam, axminster, gatling, paris green, plaster of paris, philippic, socratic, herculean, guillotine, utopia, bohemian, philistine, platonic. when, however, a name is comparatively recent, use capitals, as in alice blue, taft roses, burbank cactus. capitalize the particles in french names, as _le_, _la_, _de_, _du_, when used without a christian name or title preceding, as du maurier. but lower-case when preceded by a name or title, as george du maurier. the same rule applies to the german _von_: field marshal von mackensen, but, without christian name or title, von mackensen. always capitalize _van_ in dutch names unless personal preference dictates an exception, as henry van dyke. capitalize the names of french streets and places, as rue de la paix, place de la concorde. do not capitalize _street_, _avenue_, _boulevard_, _place_, _lane_, _terrace_, _way_, _road_, _highway_, etc., as ninth street, boston boulevard, maryland place, rosemary lane, seven mile road. do not capitalize _addition_, _depot_, _elevator_, _mine_, _station_, _stockyards_, etc., as wabash freight depot, yellow dog mine, union station, chicago stockyards. do not capitalize _postoffice_, _courthouse_, _poorhouse_, _council chamber_, _armory_, _cadets_, _police court_, _women's parlors_. white house, referring to president's residence, should be capitalized. capitalize only the distinguishing words if two or more names are connected, as the wabash and missouri pacific railroad companies. (in singular form, wabash railroad co.) do not capitalize the seasons of the year unless they are personified. do not capitalize _a. m._ and _p. m._ except in headlines. capitalize o. k., write it with periods, and form present tense, o. k.'s and past tense, o. k.'d. capitalize _boy scouts_ (referring to organization). make _campfire_ (referring to the girls' organization) one word, capitalized. capitalize _constitution_ referring to that of the united states. but state constitution (lower-case). notes punctuation a series of three or more words takes commas except before conjunctions, as: _there were boxes of guns, bayonets, cartridges and bandages_. separate members of the series with semicolons if there are commas within the phrase, as: __there were boxes of guns, bayonets and cartridges; casks of powder, high explosives and chemicals; and many other prohibited articles_._ use asterisks to indicate that part of quoted matter has been omitted, as, _he said: "i favor all measures that * * * will help the people."_ use leaders to indicate a pause in the thought. _he said he would never return . . . . . ._ _when the news reached his mother, she fainted._ commas set off an explanatory phrase but not a restrictive phrase of inclusive qualification. one writes: poe, a poet of america, wrote "the raven." but one writes: poe the poet is a finer craftsman than poe the fiction writer. use commas before conjunctions in a sentence made up of separate clauses, each with its own subject nominative, as, _the horse is old, but it is still willing_. if the same subject, write it: _the horse is old but willing_. use no period after letters used in place of numbers, as, =b company=. (companies of soldiers are designated as _b company_, not _company b_.) use hyphen and no apostrophe when dates are joined, as, _ - _. write the _caliber_ of a revolver or rifle with a period, as _. _. use no commas in years and street numbers, as, _ _, not _ , _; and _ high street_. but write: _ , persons_ and _$ , _. follow this style in date lines: chicago, may .-- brownsville, mich., may .-- avoid this form as hackneyed: _his wealth (?) has disappeared._ place a comma or a colon after _said_, _remarked_ and similar words when quoted matter follows. three rules writes the duke of argyll: i have always held that clear thinking will find its own expression in clear writing. as to mere technical rules, there are very few that occur to me, except such as these--first, to aim at short sentences, without involution or parenthetical matter; second, to follow a logical order in construction of sentences, and in the sequence of them; third, to avoid absolutely such phrases as "the former" and "the latter," always preferring repetition to the use of such tiresome references. the last rule, and in some measure the other, i learned from macaulay, and have found it of immense use. there is some mannerism in his style, but it is always clear as crystal, and this rule of repetition contributed much to this. quotations quotation marks are not needed when matter is indented, thus: _the speaker said in part_: _i do not believe that, etc._ sometimes marks of punctuation belong inside quotation marks and sometimes outside, as: "_did you hear him say, 'i am here'?_" but in this case: "_i heard him say, 'are you here?'_" continental usage permits this form: "_are you shot!?_" but it is not in good use on this side. use no quotation marks with slang of your own writing. use no quotes in writing testimony with question and answer. this is the style: q.--what is your name? a.--john jones. observe the style on quotes within quotes: _the witness said: "i asked him, 'where is my copy of "paradise lost"?'"_ observation writes arnold bennett: one is curious about one's fellow-creatures: therefore one watches them. and generally the more intelligent one is, the more curious one is, and the more one observes. the mere satisfaction of this curiosity is in itself a worthy end, and would alone justify the business of systemized observation. but the aim of observation may, and should, be expressed in terms more grandiose. human curiosity counts among the highest social virtues (as indifference counts among the basest defects), because it leads to a disclosure of the causes of character and temperament and thereby to a better understanding of the springs of human conduct. observation is not practiced directly with this high end in view (save by prigs and other futile souls); nevertheless it is a moral act and must inevitably promote kindliness--whether we like it or not. it also sharpens the sense of beauty. an ugly deed--such as a deed of cruelty--takes on artistic beauty when its origin and hence its fitness in the general scheme begin to be comprehended. in the perspective of history we can derive esthetic pleasure from the tranquil scrutiny of all kinds of conduct--as well, for example, of a renaissance pope as of a savonarola. observation endows our day and our street with the romantic charm of history, and stimulates charity--not the charity which signs cheques, but the more precious charity which puts itself to the trouble of understanding. the condition is that the observer must never lose sight of the fact that what he is to see is life, is the woman next door, is the man in the train--and not a concourse of abstractions. to appreciate all this is the first inspiring preliminary to sound observation. nouns watch for nouns ending in _-ics_. many of them are singular, such as _politics_, _mathematics_, _ethics_. make sums of money singular: _five dollars was spent_, unless individual pieces of money are meant, as: _five silver dollars were placed on the table_. write _moneys_, not _monies_. remember that _data_, _memoranda_, _phenomena_, _paraphernalia_, _bacteria_ and _strata_ are plural. distinguish between _majority_ and _plurality_. _majority_ means the lead of a candidate over _all other_ candidates. _plurality_ means the lead of a candidate over _one other_ candidate. _event_, _incident_, _affair_, _occurrence_, _happening_, _circumstance_ do not mean the same things. look them up. use _preventive_, not _preventative_. distinguish between _ambassador_, _minister_, _consul_, _envoy_. avoid feminine forms of such words as _author_, _artist_, _dancer_, _violinist_, _pianist_, _poet_. it may be necessary occasionally to change more than the spelling. for example, _the world's greatest pianiste_ may not mean _the world's greatest pianist_. prefer motorist to automobilist and autoist. _sewer_ is a drain. _sewage_ is what goes through it. _sewerage_ is a system of drains. don't use _divine_ as a noun. don't write _couple_ unless you mean two things joined and not merely two. don't write _party_ for _person_, nor _people_ for _persons_. don't use _citizens_ when you mean simply _persons_. don't write _a large per cent of_ when speaking of persons when you mean _a large proportion_. when nouns are attended by participles, two constructions are possible. one may say either _i know of john's being there_, or _i know of john being there_; _the fact of the battle's having been lost_, or _the fact of the battle having been lost_. the possessive is to be preferred with proper names and in most simple constructions; it is _altogether to be preferred with pronouns_ when the principal idea is in the participle. one says: _i saw him going_, _i heard them singing_; but _i heard of his going_; _i urged his going_; _i advised their attending_; _i objected to his staying_; _i opposed their going_; _the fact of his being there made a difference_; _on his saying this the people shouted_; _with their consenting the thing was settled_; _he spoke of my setting out as already agreed to_; _he found fault with our accepting the place_, etc. collective nouns are usually singular, as, _the club has increased its membership_. however, a collective noun, when it is used to refer more particularly to individuals than to the mass, is plural, as _the crowd was orderly_, but, _the crowd threw up their hats_. in using collective nouns beware of mixing the number. do not write, _the audience was in their seats_, but _the audience was seated_, or _the audience were in their seats_. prefer _station to depot_ _house or home to residence_ _woman to lady_ _man to gentleman_ _telephone to phone_ _automobile to auto_ _motor car to motor_ _bridegroom to groom_ _rest to balance_ the journalist's creed _by walter williams_ i believe in the profession of journalism. i believe that the public journal is a public trust; that all connected with it are, to the full measure of their responsibility, trustees for the public; that acceptance of lesser service than the public service is betrayal of this trust. i believe that clear thinking and clear statement, accuracy and fairness are fundamental to good journalism. i believe that a journalist should write only what he holds in his heart to be true. i believe that suppression of the news for any consideration other than the welfare of society is indefensible. i believe that no one should write as a journalist what he would not say as a gentleman; that bribery by one's own pocketbook is as much to be avoided as bribery by the pocketbook of another; that individual responsibility may not be escaped by pleading another's instruction or another's dividends. i believe that advertising, news and editorial columns should alike serve the best interests of the readers; that a single standard of helpful truth and clearness should prevail for all; that the supreme test of good journalism is the measure of its public service. i believe that the journalism which succeeds best--and best deserves success--fears god and honors man; is stoutly independent, unmoved by pride of opinion or greed of power; constructive, tolerant, but never careless; self controlled, patient; always respectful of its readers, but always unafraid; is quickly indignant at injustice; is unswayed by the appeal of privilege or the clamor of the mob; seeks to give every man a chance and, as far as law and honest wages and recognition of human brotherhood can make it so, an equal chance; is profoundly patriotic, while sincerely promoting international good will and cementing world comradeship; is a journalism of humanity, of and for today's world. notes pronouns never use _i_ in referring to yourself except in a signed article. avoid the use of _he or she_ and _his or her_. the use of either phrase is seldom required for clearness' sake. when a noun is used which may refer indifferently to both sexes, the accepted practice is to use the masculine pronoun. for example, say: _let the teacher do his duty and he need not fear criticism_, not _let the teacher do his or her duty and he or she need not fear criticism_. similarly after indefinite singulars like _each_, _every_, _somebody_, _anybody_, use the masculine singular pronoun. thus, _everyone should do his duty and he should do it every day_. here one is not only to avoid the use of _he or she_ and _his or her_, but also particularly and constantly to be on guard against _they_ and _their_. sentences like _nobody knows what they can do till they try_; _everyone is urged to come and bring their pocketbooks with them_, are frequently heard and often get into print. do not use _the same_ for a third personal or a demonstrative pronoun. _the farmer brought a load of wheat to town and sold it_ (not _the same_) _at the mill_. do not make _such_ a pronoun, except in the phrase _such as_. _he has fruits of all sorts and his prices for such are unreasonable_, is the sort of use to be avoided. distinguish between _its_, possessive pronoun, and _it's_, contraction of _it is_. use _either_ or _neither_ only of two, _any one_ or _none_ of more than two, as: _in one group are russia, germany and austria, in another france and england. any one of the first group acting with either of the second could determine the question_. (as conjunctions, _either_ and _neither_ may introduce the first of a series of particulars consisting of three or more. it is correct to say _neither this nor that nor the other thing_; but when used as pronouns, _either_ and _neither_ should be rigidly confined to use with reference to two only.) prefer always _no one_ and _nobody_ to _not any one_ or _not anybody_, as _it is no one's_ (or _nobody's_) _business_, not, _it is not any one's_ (or _not anybody's_) _business_. do not use _apiece_ for _each_ of persons. say: _the men each took an apple_ or _took an apple each_, not _the men took an apple apiece_. but they might have bought the apples at so much _apiece_. be careful not to say _these sort of things_, _these kind of men_, for _this sort of things_ or _this kind of men_. in questions direct or indirect be careful to use _whom_ when the objective case is required. do not say, _who did you see there?_ or, _i do not know who he meant_. the relative _who_ should be used only of persons (or of beasts or things personified). do not say: _the dog whom you saw_ or _he drove the horse who made the best record_. the relative _which_ should be used only of beasts and inanimate objects. do not say: _the women and children which were numerous then came trooping in_. the relative _that_ may be used regardless of gender and the antecedent. _that_ should be used after a compound antecedent mentioning both persons and animals or things, as, _the soldiers, the ambulances and the pack mules that were recaptured, were sent to the rear_. be careful of the case of _who_ if a parenthetical sentence intervenes between it and its verb. _he said that gen. harrison, whom, everybody well knew, had long been interested in the case, would make the closing argument._ such faulty objective is often heard in daily speech and not infrequently gets into the papers. of course _who_ should be used. but _whom_ should be used when the infinitive follows: _he said that gen. harrison, whom everybody admitted to be profoundly versed in the law, would discuss the point_. it is proper to omit the relative pronoun on occasion when it is the object of the following verb, as _he was among the men (whom) i saw_. conjunctions never use _like_ as a conjunction. john may look _like_ james or act _like_ james or speak _like_ james, but he never looks, acts or speaks _like_ james looks, acts or speaks; he never looks _like_ he wanted to do something, nor conducts himself _like_ he thought he owned the earth, or _like_ he was crazy. _like_ (as in the first example) may be followed by an objective case of a substantive, with which the construction is completed: _you are like me in this_; _you, like me, believe this_; _he conducted himself like a crazy man_. when a clause is demanded, _as if_ should be used: _he looks as if he wanted something_; _he acts as if he were crazy_. do not use _if_ for _whether_ in introducing indirect questions: _i doubt whether_ (not _if_) _this is true_; _i asked whether_ (not _if_) _he would go_. do not use _as_ for _that_. not _i do not know as this is so_, but _i do not know that this is so_. do not use _without_ for _unless_. _we cannot go unless_ (not _without_) _he comes_. do not use _but what_ for _but that_ or _that_. _i do not doubt that_ (or _but that_) _he will come_, not _but what he will come_; _they did not know but that_ (not _but what_) _they might accept it_. do not use _while_ for _although_, as, _while it is probable_. _while_ refers to time. verbs the verb should agree with its subject in person and number. it ought not to be necessary to give this obvious rule, but hardly a day passes without violation of it in almost every paper. its violation is especially common in the inverted sentence, introduced with _there_. _there is likely to be some changes_; _there is, at the present writing, some hopes of peace_; _there seems to be, in view of all the conditions, many objections to this plan_, are examples of the faulty usage. the _to_ should not be separated from the infinitive by word or phrase. the modifier should precede the _to_ or follow the verb. do not say _to promptly act_, but _to act promptly_ or _promptly to act_. such use as in the example just given is bad enough, but it is not so offensive as the intrusion of time adverbs and negatives as, for example, _he decided to now go_, or _he expected to not only go but to stay_, or _he preferred to not stay_. do not end a sentence with the _to_ of an omitted infinitive; as: _he could not speak but tried to_; but _he refused to go but he ought to go_, or _he ought to go but he refuses_. subordinate infinitives and participles take their time from the verb in the principal clause. they should therefore be the simple so-called present forms. do not say: _i intended to have gone_, or _i intended having gone_, but _i intended to go_, _i intended going_; not _he had expected to have been present_, but _he had expected to be present_; not _he would have liked to have seen you_; but _he would have liked to see you_; not _i was desirous to have gone_, but _i was desirous to go_. with the verbs _appear_ (in the sense of _seem to be_) and _feel_, _look_, _smell_ and _sound_ (used intransitively) use an adjective and not an adverb, i. e., _the rose smells sweet_; _miss coghlan as lady teazle looked charming_; _she appeared happy_. but _appear_ in the same sense of _behave_ is followed by an adverb, as _he appears well_; and the other verbs used transitively of course take an adverb, as _he looked sharply at the man_. when one wishes to imply doubt or denial in a condition of present or indefinite time, the imperfect subjunctive should be used, as _if the book were here, i should show you_--but the book is not here; _if it were true, you would long ago have heard it_--but it is not true. but if one is referring to past time, the imperfect indicative must be used, as, _if he was here yesterday, i did not know it_. be careful to distinguish between _lay_ and _lie_, _raise_ and _rise_, _set_ and _sit_. the first of each pair is transitive, and always requires an object; the second is intransitive and never takes an object. (the only exception is _sit_ used of a rider, as, _he sits his horse well_.) one _lays_ or _sets_ a thing down and _raises_ it up. one _lies_ or _sits_ down and _rises_ from one's place. land _lies_ this way or that. (but we speak of the _lay_ of the land.) especially pains must be taken to keep straight the past tenses and past participles of _lay_ and _lie_. of _lay_ past tense and participle are alike _laid_. _he laid_ or _he has laid the case before the authorities_. the past tense of _lie_ is _lay_ (the same as the present tense of the transitive verb), the past participle is _lain_. these forms are seldom if ever used for parts of _lay_; but for them _laid_ is very often used, as, _he laid_ or _he has laid down to take a nap_, where the correct usage is _he lay_ or _he has lain down_, etc. prices _rise_, wages _rise_, bread _rises_, bread is _set_ to _rise_; men _raise_ prices or wages; _he rose and raised his hand_. clothing of every sort _sits_ well or ill, it does not _set_. the corresponding noun, however, is _set_; _he admired the set of the garment_. you _set_ a hen, but the hen _sits_ and is a _sitting_ hen. the heavenly bodies _set_, but that is another word, which means to _sink_ or to _settle_. inanimate objects are not _injured_ but _damaged_. use _wish_ to mean simple desire, as, _i wish to see him_. use _want_ to mean acute need, as, _i want food_. only moving objects _collide_. two automobiles may _collide_, but an automobile does not _collide_ with a fence. prefer: _lend_ to _loan_ _lives_ to _resides_ _leaves_ to _departs_ _obtain_ or _procure_ to _secure_ _turn over_ to _turn turtle_ _bought_ to _purchased_ _live at hotel_ to _stop at hotel_ _robbed of_ to _relieved of_ things of a general class are compared _with_ each other to bring out points of similarity or dissimilarity. one thing is compared _to_ another of a different class. he compared detroit _with_ cleveland. he compared detroit _to_ a busy hive of bees. things _occur_ or _happen_ by chance and _take place_ by design. an accident _happens_ or _occurs_; a pre-arranged act _takes place_. except in legal papers use _proved_ instead of _proven_. _transpire_ does not mean to take place but to leak out, as, _they tried to keep their deliberations secret, but it transpired that * * *_ _enthuse_ is not a good word. say _become enthusiastic_. medicine, laws and oaths are _administered_; blows and punishment are _dealt_. _allege_ is used only in referring to formal charges and not as a synonym for _say_ or _assert_. the past tense and past participle of _dive_ are _dived_. don't use _dove_. the past tense and past participle of _forecast_ are _forecast_. don't use _forecasted_. the past tense and past participle of _hang_ are _hung_, except in reference to an execution; then write, _he was hanged_. the past tense and past participle of _plead_ are _pleaded_ and not _plead_ or _pled_. don't write, _he plead guilty_, but _he pleaded guilty_. the past tense of _swim_ is _swam_, and the past participle is _swum_. barred by the sun newspaper men can read with profit this list of words and phrases to be avoided, compiled by charles a. dana for his associates on the new york sun: _above_ or _over_ for _more than_ _aggregate_ for _total_ _balance_ for _remainder_ _call attention_ for _direct attention_ _claim_ for _assert_ _commence_ for _begin_ _comprise_ for _compose_ _conscious_ for _aware_ _couple_ for _two_ _cultured_ for _cultivated_ _date back to_ for _date from_ _donate_ for _give_ _fall_ for _autumn_ _from whence_ for _whence_ _indorse_ for _approve_ _inaugurate_ for _establish_, _institute_ _individual_ for _person_ _infinite_ for _great_, _vast_ _last_ for _latest_ _less_ for _fewer_ _materially_ for _largely_ _named after_ for _named for_ _notice_ for _observe_ _onto_ for _on_ or _upon_ _partially_ for _partly_ _past two years_ for _last two years_ _practically_ for _virtually_ _party_ for _person_ doubling up have's mark twain in "a tramp abroad" wrote: "harris said that if the best writer in the world once got the slovenly habit of 'doubling up his have's,' he could never get rid of it; that is to say, if a man gets the habit of saying 'i should have liked to have known more about it' instead of saying 'i should have liked to know more about it,' his disease is incurable." +-----------------------------------------+ | ... reflector of every human interest | | ... friend of every righteous cause ... | | encourager of every generous act. | +-----------------------------------------+ notes adverbs great liberty may be exercised in placing the adverb according to the emphasis desired. in general it should be placed near the word or phrase it modifies to express the thought most clearly. one should not say, _not only he spoke forcefully but eloquently_; nor _he was rather forceful than eloquent_, but _he was forceful rather than eloquent_. note particularly that when the adverb is placed within the verb, it should regularly follow the first auxiliary. for example: _this can truthfully be said_, not _this can be truthfully said_; _he will probably have set out by noon_, not _he will have probably_, etc.; _it has long been expected_, not _it has been long expected_. if the adverb is intended to modify the whole sentence, it very properly stands first, as, _decidedly, this is not true_; _assuredly, he does not mean that_. in such sentences the adverb really modifies some verb understood, as, _i say decidedly this is not true_. do not use _this_, _that_ and _some_ as adverbs. never say _this high_, _this long_, _that broad_, _that good_, _this much_, _that much_, _some better_, _some earlier_. say _thus_ or _so_ whenever tempted to use _this_ or _that_ in such connections, and use _somewhat_ instead of _some_. do not say a man is _dangerously ill_; say _alarmingly_ or _critically_. never use _illy_; you might as well say _welly_. after a negative use _so_ in a comparison. _this is as good as that_, but _this is not so good as that_. say _as far as_, _as long as_, etc.; not _so far as_, _so long as_. thus, _as far as i know, this is true_; _as long as i stay here, you may use my book_. use _previously to_, _agreeably to_, _consistently with_, etc., instead of the adjective forms, in such expressions as _previously to my arrival, he had been informed_; _we acted agreeably to the instructions_. beware of _only_. better not use it unless you are sure it is correctly placed. observe the difference in the meaning here: i have _only_ spoken to him. i have spoken _only_ to him. don't use _liable_ when you mean _likely_. a man is _likely_ to park his automobile so he will be _liable_ to arrest. don't use _painfully cut_ and similar expressions. one is not _pleasantly cut_. _occasionally_ means _on occasion_. so don't write _very occasionally_, but _very seldom_ or _infrequently_. _farther_ is used to denote distance; _further_ in other senses, as, _i told him further that i walked farther than he_. adjectives be sparing in the use of epithets and of adjectives and adverbs generally. especially avoid the use of superlatives. superlatives are seldom true. rarely is a man the most remarkable man in the country in any particular; rarely is an accident the worst in the history of the city. better understate than overstate; better err on the side of moderation than excess. william cobbett says: "some writers deal in expletives to a degree that tires the ear and offends the understanding. with them everything is excessively, or immensely, or extremely, or vastly, or surprisingly, or wonderfully, or abundantly, or the like. the notion of such writers is that these words give strength to what they are saying. this is a great error. strength must be found in the thought or it will never be found in the words. big sounding words, without thoughts corresponding, are effort without effect." be sure to remember that _nee_ means born. it is of course impossible then to speak of _mrs. doe, nee mary roe_, as one is never born with a christian name, but _mrs. doe, nee roe_. and, of all things when a widow has remarried, do not write _mrs. richard roe, nee mrs. john doe_. adjectives, if wisely used, give desirable color to a story. a thesaurus will brighten up a reporter's adjectival vocabulary. these are suggestions for possible substitutions of fresh words for more or less hackneyed words: _fast_--_fleet_, _swift_ _good_--_meritorious_, _laudable_ _repentant_--_penitent_, _contrite_ _temperate_--_abstemious_ _intemperate_--_inabstinent_ _modest_--_decorous_ _distressing_--_piteous_, _pitiable_, _rueful_ _witty_--_jocose_, _nimble-witted_ _fearful_--_timid_, _apprehensive_, _tremulous_ _crafty_--_cunning_, _artful_ _frank_--_ingenuous_, _guileless_ prefer _agreeable_ to _nice_, which means accurate; and _long_ to _lengthy_. words like _perfect_ and _unique_ cannot be compared. never write, _more perfect_, _most perfect_, _most unique_. eschew the word _very_. it seldom strengthens a sentence. it is better to use such words as _feline_, _bovine_, _canine_, _human_ as adjectives only. prefer _several_ or _many_ to _a number of_. _healthy_ means possessing health, as, _a healthy man_. _healthful_ means conducive to health, as, _healthful climate_, _surroundings_, _employment_. do not use _healthful_ in speaking of food, but _wholesome_. _parlous_ is archaic. don't use the phrase _in these parlous times_. the word in good usage is _perilous_. nobody has explained the difference between _actual photographs_ and _photographs_. _awful_ means inspiring _awe_, _fearful_ inspiring _fear_, and _terrible_ inspiring _terror_. _anxious_ implies _anxiety_. say _eager_ if you mean it. the first meaning of _hectic_ is habitual. the second meaning is _fevered_. it connotes _heat_ more particularly than _red_. great care is needed in using these three words: _livid_, _lurid_ and _weird_. _livid_ means primarily black and blue. it also means a grayish blue or lead color, as flesh by contusion. it doesn't mean anything else. _lurid_ means a pale yellow, ghastly pale, wan; figuratively it means gloomy or dismal, grimly terrible or sensational. when used in its first sense it is properly applicable to the yellow flames seen through smoke. it does not mean fiery red. in its figurative sense it can be used to describe a series of incidents calculated to shock or to stun by the enormity of them. _weird_ means primarily pertaining to witchcraft and is used in reference to the witches in "macbeth." it also means unearthly, uncanny, eerie. a green light might be called _weird_. it must not be used to mean peculiar, as, _she wore a weird hat_. your audience says irvin s. cobb: i'd rather have my work read by thousands of people throughout the country than be the author of the greatest classic that ever mouldered on a shelf. in my opinion, the masses are worth our art. if we believe in a democratic form of government we should believe in a democratic attitude toward the art of the short story, and i, for one, frankly admit that i write for the shop girl and business man rather than for the high-brow critic. that does not mean you must necessarily choose between them, but if i had to choose i would let the critic go. +----------------------------------------------+ | defender of civil liberty ... strengthener | | of loyalty ... pillar and stay of democratic | | government. | +----------------------------------------------+ notes prepositions be careful to use the proper prepositions in all connections. say _different from_, not _different to_. we say a man lives _on_, not _in_, a street, an avenue, etc. children play _in_ the street, but _on_ the pavement. one writes _under_, not _over_, a signature. the preposition has no reference to the place of the signature. do not overwork _on the part of_. this phrase is often used where _by_ or _among_ is to be preferred, as, _much patriotism is displayed on the part of the greeks_. say _off_, not _off from_ or _off of_. _he fell off his horse_, or _he fell from his horse_. discriminate carefully between _beside_ and _besides_. the first is always a preposition and means either _by the side of_, as, _he stood beside me_, or _aside from_, or _out of_, as, _this is beside our present purpose_; _he was beside himself for joy_. _besides_ is either preposition or adverb: as the former it means _in addition to_, as _several others were present besides those you saw_; as adverb it means _moreover_ or _more than that_, as _there were, besides, many pompous volumes_. be careful with _between_ and _among_; _between_ is used with reference to two persons, parties or things; _among_ with reference to many: _in this city democrats and republicans divide the offices between them; in some cities they are distributed among all the parties_. distinguish between _in_ and _into_. _into_ implies action. a man goes _into_ his house and then he is _in_ the house. a person dies _of_ typhoid fever rather than _from_ typhoid fever. distinguish between _consist in_ and _consist of_. virtue consists _in_ right living. the family consists _of_ seven persons. a book is illustrated _with_ sketches and it is illustrated _by_ the artist who made the sketches. omit _from_ from the phrases _from hence_, _from thence_, _from whence_. +-------------------------------------------+ | mirror of the public mind ... interpreter | | of the public intent ... troubler of the | | public conscience. | +-------------------------------------------+ articles use an article with every noun of a series unless the nouns are so closely related that one concept is implied. say, _the bread and jam was good_, but _the bread and the jam were good_. say, _a horse and buggy_, but _a man and a woman_. do not repeat an article before each adjective of a series when all modify the same noun. say, _a red, white and blue flag_. if you mean three flags, say, _a red, a white, and a blue flag_. do not write _a_ or _an_ after _sort of_ and _kind of_. make it: _he is the right sort of man for mayor_. the definite article is used too often when it might better be omitted, as in this sentence: _the study of the dictionary is helpful_. write it: _study of the dictionary_. numbers the general rule on the news is that all numbers above nine shall be written in figures, and that all numbers below shall be spelled out. there are, of course, many exceptions to this rule. figures are always used for degrees of latitude and longitude, degrees of temperature, per cent, prices, racing time, scores, definite sums of money, time, votes, dates (as sept. ), ages, street numbers and tabulated statistics. spell out indefinite figures, as _about a dollar's worth_. use roman numerals in writing of kings, as _george v_, and then without a period. do not use roman numerals in designating centuries. write it _fourteenth century_, not _xivth century_. write _monday at a. m._, not _at o'clock on monday morning_. spell out such expressions as _the early seventies_. use figures in dimensions when written thus: _a lot Ã� feet_. all ages shall be written thus: _john smith, years old_. do not write it: _john smith, aged _, or _aged eight_. it will be easy to remember the rule if you observe that in writing it thus: _john smith, aged , jones street_, you are opening an opportunity for an error easily made. it may appear: _john smith, aged , jones street_. all ordinals are spelled out. write it _thirtieth_, not _ th_. write a date: _feb. _, not _february th_, or _february sixth_. do not use both numerals and figures spelled out in one phrase. write it: _eight feet eleven inches_. if in a phrase a number over precedes a number under , express both in figures, thus _ hours minutes_. if vice versa, express it thus: _two hours eighteen minutes_. roman numerals i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xix xx xxx xl l lx lxx lxxx xc c cl cc ccc cccc d dc dcc dccc dcccc m , weights and measures . inches make link. links make rod. . feet make rod. rods make chain. chains make furlong. furlongs make mile. rods make mile. , feet make mile. square chains make acre. square rods make acre. acres make square mile. , square feet make acre. geographical miles make degree of latitude. , cubic inches make cubic foot. cubic feet make cubic yard. gunter's chain, yards of links. a section is acres. a township is sections, each square mile. a span is inches. a hand--horse measurement--is inches. a knot--nautical--is , feet. a fathom--nautical--is feet. a stone is pounds. a square acre is - feet on each side. the metric system is the system of measurement of which the meter is the fundamental unit. it was first adopted in france and is now in general use in most civilized countries except the english-speaking countries. the system is now used throughout the world for scientific measurements. its use was legalized in the united states in . the meter, the unit of length, was intended to be one ten-millionth part of the earth's meridian quadrant and is nearly so. its length is . inches. the unit of surface is the are, which is square meters. the theoretical unit of volume is the stere, which is a cubic meter. the unit of volume for the purposes of the market is the liter, which is the volume of one kilogram of distilled water at its maximum density and is intended to be one cubic decimeter. for times, times, , times and , times one of these units, the prefixes, deca-, hecto-, kilo- and myria- are used. for - , - and - , of the units, the prefixes deci-, centi- and milli- are used. in this table the equivalents are measures common in the united states and are not to be confused with british measures, which in some cases vary slightly. myriameter . nautical miles or . statute miles. kilometer . statute mile or nearly / mile. hectometer . yards. decameter . rods. meter . inches or about yard inches. decimeter . inches. centimeter . inch. millimeter . inch. hectare . acres. are . square yards. centiare (square meter) . square feet. decastere cubic yards or about ¾ cords. stere (cubic meter) . cubic yards or . cubic feet. decistere ½ cubic feet. hectoliter . gallons. decaliter little more than gallons pints. liter quart ½ gill. deciliter . gill. millier , . pounds avoirdupois. kilogram little more than pounds ounces. hectogram little more than ounces drams. decagram . grains troy. gram . grains. decigram . grains. centigram . grains. milligram . grains. +-----------------------------------------+ | ... chronicler of facts ... sifter of | | rumors and opinions ... minister of the | | truth that makes men free. | +-----------------------------------------+ abbreviation this is the style of the news on abbreviating the names of states and territories: ala. alaska ariz. ark. calif. colo. conn. d. c. ga. fla. ida. ill. ind. ia. kan. ky. la. me. mass. md. mich. minn. miss. mo. mont. n. c. n. d. neb. nev. n. h. n. j. n. m. n. y. o. okla. ore. pa. p. i. (philippine islands) p. r. (porto rico) r. i. s. c. s. d. tenn. tex. t. h. (territory of hawaii) utah va. vt. wash. wis. w. va. wyo. do not abbreviate _port_ to _pt._ abbreviate _fort_ to _ft._, whether a city or a post. abbreviate _mount_ to _mt._ in names like mt. vernon. do not abbreviate names of cities, as kazoo, frisco, st. joe. do not use state with names of well-known cities, such as chicago, cleveland, denver, etc. follow a firm name as the firm writes it, except in the capitalization of _the_, as _the ford motor co._ later in the story the name may appear as _the ford company_. it is _the j. l. hudson company_. however, one may say, after writing the firm name, that _the hudson company will_, etc. use _mich._ after the names of all places in the state except: adrian ann arbor alpena battle creek bay city calumet flint grand rapids jackson kalamazoo lansing muskegon mt. clemens marquette port huron saginaw ypsilanti and places so near detroit that they are generally known. beware of the names of cities in other states identical with those in michigan. also watch for the names of cities identical with those in other states, as portland, me., and portland, ore. a few cities that should carry a state designation because there are places of the same name in michigan are: akron, o. atlanta, ga. augusta, me., or ga. bangor, me. birmingham, ala. brooklyn, n. y. canton, o. caro, ill. chatham, ont. concord, n. h. erie, pa., or n. y. fargo, n. d. frankfort, ky. grand rapids, wis., or minn. hanover, n. h. helena, mont. jackson, miss. lincoln, neb. lowell, mass. manchester, n. h. memphis, tenn. nashville, tenn. phoenix, ariz. plymouth, mass. pontiac, ill. portland, me., or ore. quincy, ill., or mass. rochester, n. y., or minn. richmond, va. sandusky, o. st. louis, mo. sault ste. marie, ont. trenton, n. j. vicksburg, miss. do not abbreviate _attorney_ to _atty._ before a name. do not abbreviate first names except in reproducing signatures, as, _wm. h. taft_, if mr. taft wrote it that way. abbreviate _senior_ and _junior_ with commas on each side, as _john jones, jr., spoke_. do not make _tom_, _dan_, _ben_, _joe_, etc., abbreviations unless you are sure they are. _alex dow_ is written without the period. write _s o s_ and similar telegraphic abbreviations, and _i o u_ without periods. use _bros._ only when firm name is so written. use ampersand (&) in firm name only when the firm uses it. abbreviate _number_ when followed by numerals, as _no. _. spell out united states except in addresses or in army and navy phrases. military and naval titles should be written thus: adjt. adjt.-gen. brig.-gen. capt. col. corp. first lieut. gen. lieut. lieut.-col. lieut.-gen. maj. maj.-gen. private q. m.-gen. q. m.-sergt. second lieut. second sergt. sergt. sergt.-maj. surg.-gen. surg.-maj. _class of ' _ may be used for _class of _. abbreviate _degrees_ after a name. book sizes, _ to_, _ vo_, _ mo_, should be written without periods. use only abbreviations that will surely be understood, such as _y. m. c. a._, _w. c. t. u._, etc., in referring to organizations. never write _xmas_. these abbreviations should be used: ald. atty.-gen. gov. lieut.-gov. sen. rep. cong. supt. abbreviate _saint_ and _saints_ in proper names, as _st. louis_, _sault ste. marie_, _ste. anne's_, _ss. peter and paul's church_. write scriptural texts _gen. xiv, _; _ii kings viii, - _. abbreviate names of political parties only thus, _smith (rep.) defeated jones (dem.) for alderman_. do not abbreviate street, avenue, boulevard, place or other designation of a thoroughfare. abbreviate clock time when immediately connected with figures to _a. m._ and _p. m._ prefer _for example_ to _e. g._ prefer _namely_ to _viz._ prefer _that is_ to _i. e._ write english money _£ s d_, without commas. abbreviate the months thus: jan. feb. march april may june july aug. sept. oct. nov. dec. use _don't_ only when you may substitute do not. perhaps you have seen the advertisement which reads: "hand made tobacco don't bite the tongue." names and titles the one infallible way to insult a man is to misspell his name; that is an old newspaper maxim. more care should be taken with the spelling of the names in a story than with any other mechanical detail. often a name is misspelled because a typewriter is not clean and an _e_ or an _a_ is mistaken for an _o_ or a _u_. it is wise for the reporter to make sure these letters particularly print clearly or he may be held to account for an error. an even better way is to write a proper name in caps if it is at all uncommon. when the reporter writes a name such as willson or jonnes or georg, a name which deviates slightly from a familiar name, it is wise to write it thus "... _and georg (correct) brandes who ..._" then the copy reader knows that the reporter has not left off a letter and the printer and proof reader also know that the word must stand as written. all proper names should be looked up in the directory, dictionary or encyclopedia unless the reporter or copy reader is sure of the spelling. to misspell a man's name shakes that man's faith in the newspaper; leads him to believe that if the newspaper can't write his name correctly, it is likely to make other mistakes. never use _mr._ before a man's christian name. give his full name and then speak of him thereafter as mr. blank. do not write: mr. john j. blank. do not quote familiar nicknames, such as billy sunday, ty cobb, sam crawford, jim corbett. do not write: superintendent of police marquardt, but supt. marquardt, or ernst marquardt, superintendent of police. never refer to a woman, no matter how lowly her social position, as "the smith woman." call her mrs. smith or miss smith. do not use the title _professor_ unless the person spoken of is or was a member of a college or university faculty. because a man is a principal of a high school, a mesmerist or the trainer of sea lions, he is not for that reason entitled to call himself prof. blank. do not use name handles, such as _butcher smith_, _grocer jones_. do not use _master_ in referring to a boy. write _mr. and mrs. james smith_, not _james smith and wife._ do not write mrs. judge smith, or mrs. dr. jones. use the indefinite article, as _frank smith, a plumber_; _william jones, a barber_. use the definite article in naming persons of distinction, as _william dean howells, the writer_; _sarah bernhardt, the actress_. the surname is written first among the chinese. _sun yat sen_ is _dr. sun_. _li hung chang_ is _mr. li_. chinese is a monosyllabic language and all names should be written with each syllable capitalized, but hyphens are used with geographical names, as, _yang-tse-kiang_, _ho-hang-ho_, except _pekin_, _nankin_, _shanghai_, _hankow_ and _canton_. drop unnecessary letters in chinese names whenever possible, as _pekin(g)_, _yuan shi(h) kai_, _ho(w)-hang-ho_. write a man's name as he writes it. it is not _a. h. frazer_; it is not _allan frazer_; but _allan h. frazer_. it is not _f. h. croul_ or _frank croul_, but _frank h. croul_. it is the king of the belgians, not the king of belgium. writing of a knight, be sure that you use his first name with the title _sir_. he is _sir arthur conan doyle_, not _sir conan doyle_. never write _sir doyle_. the wife of a knight, however, is addressed as _lady blank_, not necessarily _lady mary blank_. jew and hebrew the proper use of the words "hebrew" and "jew" has been explained by the american jewish committee, as follows: "although no hard and fast rules can be laid down, the word 'hebrew' has come to have a purely racial connotation. it refers to a race and to the language of that race. thus we hear of a 'hebrew christian,' meaning a person of hebrew descent who has been raised in or adopted the christian religion. the word 'jew,' although often used for denoting a member of the hebrew race without reference to religion or nationality, has come, in the best usage, to have two restricted meanings--a national and a religious meaning. it used to mean a person who was a subject of the kingdom of judah, in the southern part of palestine, and later it was also applied to those who were subjects of the northern kingdom of israel. under roman domination palestine was called 'judea' and its inhabitants 'jews.' the word jew has the same sense now among those who believe that the dispersion of the jewish people and the fact that they possess no territory of their own has not deprived them of their character as a nation or nationality. the other meaning of 'jew' is any one who professes the religious principles laid down in the old testament as interpreted in the talmud. thus, a gentile who adopts the jewish faith may be called a jew, but may not be called a hebrew, because he does not descend from that sub-class of the semitic race from which the hebrews are reputed to come. up to the last quarter of the nineteenth century the jews rarely applied the term 'jew' to themselves, as it was used as a term of opprobrium and as a contemptuous epithet. the jews preferred to call themselves 'hebrews' or 'israelites.' since about , however, the jewish people have come to adopt this name more and more generally, and it has begun to lose its derogatory meaning. the word 'jew' is always a noun, and its use as an adjective in such cases as 'jew boy' and 'jew peddler,' etc., is as ungrammatical as it is vulgar." don't use _jew_ as a verb, as, _i jewed him down to a dollar_. notes church titles writing of clergymen, follow this style: _the rev. dr. john j. blank_, _dr. blank_, the _rev. mr. blank_. never _rev. blank_ or _the rev. blank_. bishops of the catholic, anglican or episcopal communions use the prefix _right reverend_, abbreviated _rt. rev._ bishops of the methodist church never use the prefix _rt. rev._ they make no claim to apostolic succession. the usage of methodism is to write, for example, "bishop theodore somers henderson, of the methodist episcopal area of detroit." in the methodist church an episcopal division is denominated, area; in the catholic and anglican communions, diocese. deans of the catholic and anglican churches use the prefix _very rev._ under no circumstances call priests of the roman catholic church _ministers_. call them either priests or pastors. the denominational usage in the methodist church is to call clergymen _preachers_. in the congregational and presbyterian churches it is in accord with denominational usage to call clergymen _ministers_. archbishops of the catholic church carry the prefix _most rev._; cardinals, _his eminence_; as, _his eminence, james, cardinal gibbons_. invariably the word _rabbi_ should be placed before the name of a jewish pastor. it should be written, _rabbi leo m. franklin, of the temple beth el_; never _dr. leo m. franklin, rabbi of the temple beth el_. never use indiscriminately the prefix _dr._ in the case of a clergyman. clergymen of any denomination are not entitled to the prefix _dr._ unless the degree of doctor of divinity has been conferred on them by some recognized college or university. write a priest's name, _the rev. fr. blank_, or _fr. blank_. compounds webster's new international dictionary is the standard of the office on compounding words, on hyphenation and on spelling, except as the style of the news noted in this book is different. +----------------------------------------------+ | reporter of the new ... remembrancer of the | | old and tried ... herald of what is to come. | +----------------------------------------------+ superfluous words avoid awkward phrases as _a man of the name of_. a _man named_ is not only better style but shorter. do not write _at the corner of state and griswold streets_, but simply _at state and griswold streets_. in place of _so that_ use either _so_ or _that_. in the phrases that follow, observe that the italicized words are not needed. throughout the _whole of the_ state throughout the _entire_ state _in order_ to a hill resembling _in its form_ a hat the problem is _a difficult one_ he addressed the _different_ schools _as yet_ no clue has been found he works _equally_ as hard most are _of a_ large _size_ _the color of_ the hat was green don't say _invited guest_. it is supposed that a guest is invited. don't say _they both went_. omit _they_. write _equally well_, or _as well_, not _equally as well_. don't write _new beginner_ or _new recruit_. don't write _general consensus of opinion_. omit the _general_. consensus means _a general agreement_. don't say _entirely completed_. _completed_ means finished in entirety. don't say _partly completed_; that phrase involves a contradiction. don't write that he has _a brilliant future before him_. futures do not lie in the past. don't say _present incumbent_. _incumbent_ means at present in office. don't say _old adage_. if it's an adage, it's old. don't write _widow woman_, _true facts_, _old veterans_, _the la grippe_, _the hoi polloi_. don't say _possibly may_ or _possibly might_. the verb conveys the idea of possibility. two words may be discarded generally in the phrase _whether or not_. write it: _he doesn't know whether he will go._ omit the italicized phrase in he was thrown _a distance of_ feet. don't write _regular monthly meeting_. if it's monthly, it's _regular_. if a man is _well known_, it is not necessary to say so. omit the adverb in the phrase _totally destroyed_. don't write _still persists_. _still_ is superfluous. make it _noon_, not _high noon_. vital statistics in writing obituaries the reporter must use the greatest care, for it is very easy to offend the family of the subject of the obituary. avoid the conventional euphemisms. prefer: _body_ to _remains_ _send body_ to _ship body_ _coffin_ to _casket_ _flowers_ to _floral offerings_ _funeral_ to _obsequies_ _widow_ to _wife_ _burial_ to _interment_ _the dead man_ to _deceased_ or _defunct_ avoid: _the late_ _late residence_ solemn black__ _sable hearse_ _last sad rites_ _marriage_ is a state. the ceremony is a _wedding_. don't marry the man _to_ the woman. the woman is always married to the man. don't say a marriage was _consummated_. _funeral_ means _interment_. write: _funeral services were held at the church and burial was in evergreen cemetery._ do not use _heart failure_ for _heart disease_. all persons die because the heart fails to beat. write simply, _he died_, and not _passed away_, _shuffled off this mortal coil_, _gave up the ghost_, or any similarly amateurish phrase. there is no occasion for clothing the incident of death in a panoply of words, nor should birth be written of except simply. do not say, _a little stranger was ushered into a cold world_, but _a child was born_. in writing of vital statistics--death, birth, marriage--be content to state the facts without unnecessary embellishment. forget about the stork, the grim reaper, hymen and cupid. a dictionary wrote sir clifford allbutt: "a dictionary 'sanctions' nothing of its contents, but it enables us by consultation of its stores to compare and choose for ourselves. in using this liberty we shall neither be subservient to the prescriptions of age, nor scornful of modern freedom; in every use we shall be guided by historical growth, the example of the best authors, and our present necessities." +---------------------------------------------+ | scourge of evil doers ... exposer of secret | | iniquities ... unrelenting foe of privilege | | and corruption. | +---------------------------------------------+ spelling look it up if you are not sure. better look it up anyway. if two spellings are given in the dictionary, the first cited is preferable. follow these spellings: _airplane_ _ayes and noes_ _ax_ _base ball_ _basket ball_ _bazar_ _birdseye_ _blond_ (both noun and adjective) _budapest_ _can not_ _chile_ (south america) _chili_ (africa) _clue_ _decollete_ _dispatch_ _draft_ _drouth_ _duma_ _employe_ _eskimo_ _facsimile_ _filipino_ _foot ball_ _gaily_ _gaiety_ _goodby_ _guarantee_ (verb) _guaranty_ (noun) _hayti_ _hindu_ _khartum_ _kidnaped_ _korea_ _leipzig_ _macaulay's history_ _mohammed_ _nearby_ _plow_ _porto rico_ _repertory_ _shakespeare_ _shakespearean_ _skilful_ _technic_ _tibet_ _today_ _tolstoy_ _tomorrow_ _turgenieff_ _tying_ _vilify_ _vying_ _whisky_ _wilkes-barre_ _woolly_ _world series_ write: _parcel post_, not _parcels post_. be sure that proper names are spelled uniformly throughout a story. use the form _in_ instead of _en_ in such words as _indorse_, _inclose_. write it: _trade unions_, not _trades unions_. use no diphthongs when they can be avoided. write: _anesthetic_, _esthetic_, _medieval_, _maneuver_, _subpena_, _homeopathic_. follow the american spelling on _checks_, _tires_, _curb_, _pajamas_, disregarding the british _cheques_, _tyres_, _kerb_, _pyjamas_. make the plural of _knight templar_, _knights templar_. don't add _s_ to: _afterward_, _backward_, _forward_, _toward_. as a general rule change _-re_ to _-er_ when it is the last syllable, as in _theater_, _caliber_, _timber_. beware of _effect_ and _affect_, and use them carefully. a long _way_, not a long _ways_. distinguish between: _depository_ and _depositary_; between _insanitary_ and _unsanitary_; between _immoral_ and _unmoral_; between _councilor_, _consular_ and _counselor_; between _council_ and _counsel_ and _consul_; between _capitol_ and _capital_; between _clamant_ and _claimant_; between _sear_ and _seer_ and _sere_; between _emigrant_ and _immigrant_; between _faker_ and _fakir_; between _breech_ and _breach_; between _auger_ and _augur_; between _hoard_ and _horde_; between _lessen_ and _lesson_; between _principle_ and _principal_; between _prophecy_ and _prophesy_; between _advice_ and _advise_; between _maize_ and _maze_; between _site_ and _sight_. the people of panama are panamans, not panamanians, just as we are americans, not americanians. two cities in the united states take final _gh_. they are _pittsburgh, pa._, and _newburgh, n. y._ also write it _edinburgh_. drop the unsounded final letters in such words as _program_, _catalog_, _suffraget_, _dialog_, _cigaret_, _decalog_. similarly, write _armor_, _favor_, _color_, and _savior_. some words have lost prefix or suffix, and if they are in good use in their curtailed form, they should be written without apostrophes, as, _cello_ and _varsity_. popular names of railroads big four cincinnati, chicago & st. louis. burlington chicago, burlington & quincy. clover leaf toledo, st. louis & western. cotton belt st. louis southwestern. katy missouri, kansas & texas. lackawanna delaware, lackawanna & western. lake shore lake shore & michigan southern. lookout mountain nashville, chattanooga & st. louis. monon chicago, indiana & louisville. nickel plate new york, chicago & st. louis. pan handle pittsburg, cleveland, chicago & st. louis. queen & crescent cincinnati, new orleans & texas. rock island chicago, rock island & pacific. soo milwaukee & sault ste. marie. st. paul, or milwaukee chicago, milwaukee & st. paul. notes do and don't don't use the words _suicide_ and _murder_ in heads on stories recounting the details of specific crimes or their prosecution. however, should a story of the sociological type appear, dealing with, for example, the increase in the number of suicides or the attempts of the police to reduce the number of murders, the use of either word in the headline is allowed. in the body of the story the most natural expression and good taste must guide the writer, and the use of these words is permissible if they most clearly and effectively express the information in hand. names of girls or women who are the victims of actual or attempted indecent attack are not to be published under ordinary circumstances. authority for exceptions will be granted by the editor when there is sufficient reason. use the names of poisons only when essential to the story. never call _a policeman a cop_. keep the reporter or a representative of the news out of the story. it is understood that a reporter and a reporter for the news writes a story that appears in the news. write the english language. for _sine qua non_, write _essentials_; for _de riguer_, _coup d'etat_, _coup de grace_, _sturm und drang_, _au fait_ and similar phrases use english equivalents. some exceptions are _decollete_, _fiancee_ and _fiance_, and other words which have been taken over into the language. don't mix languages. write _a day_, not _per day_. as a general rule use _per_ only in the phrase _per cent_. _comatose_ means in a state of _profound insensibility_, not merely dazed as some writers believe. _et al._ stands for the latin _et alii_, _et aliae_, or _et alia_, meaning _and others_. of course it should never be written _et als._ to form a fancied plural. _prone_ means lying flat and face downward. one can not lie prone on the back. _supine_ means lying on the back. use _pseudonym_, a good english word, or _pen name_, and not _nom de plume_, which isn't even good french. says l'intermediaire, a french journal: "we do not know in our language the expression _nom de plume_. we have the phrase _nom de guerre_." don't use _most_ for _almost_, as, _i am most as tall as you_. never write _kiddies_ or _tots_. write _kids_ when referring to young goats or to children in stories written in a spirit of levity, as, _this is the big day for the kids on belle isle_. don't try to arouse sympathy for children in unfortunate circumstances by calling them _poor little tots_, or _poor kiddies_. avoid words borrowed from the yellow-backs, such as, _the bullet crashed through his brain_, _she tripped down the steps_. try such sentences as this on your hisser: _"i will not go," he hissed._ in news stories don't use thieves' slang, as, _dick_, _frisk_, _dip_, _gat_. don't use the editorial _we_. it is old-fashioned. say _the detroit news_. don't refer to the darwinian theory or to dr. osler's theory without knowing what they mean. don't call _a revolver a gun_ or _a pistol a revolver_. it is _automatic pistol_. reporters frequently quote kipling to the effect that west is west, east is east, and never the twain shall meet. but if they knew the poem, they would be aware of the fact that the next line qualifies the quoted lines and vitiates the observation. _the exception proves the rule_ is a phrase that arises from ignorance, though common to good writers. the original word was _preuves_, which did not mean _proves_ but _tests_. say in bad _condition_, not in bad _shape_. a toga was a garment worn by a roman citizen. the word is persistently misused to refer to senatorial honors. avoid newspaper slang. to all but a few of our readers the word _story_ means not _an item of news_ in the paper but a _piece of fiction_. to speak of a _story_ meaning a piece for the paper is to confuse them. say _article_ or _item_. don't write _alright_. there is no such word in the language. avoid poetic forms. do not use _amongst_ for _among_. _thither_ and _whither_ have a bookish sound. prefer the simple _while_ to the fancy _whilst_. there are no degrees of _certainty_. don't write a thing seems _more certain_. _amateur_ means _non-professional_, not necessarily _unskilled_. _novice_ implies lack of skill. _spectators_ see; an _audience_ is a collection of _auditors_. _spectators_ go to ball games and motion picture theaters. use _render_ in speaking of lard and not of songs. don't use _complected_ for _complexioned_. don't write _better half_ for _wife_. do not write that a thing _grows smaller_. we write _wages are_. the biblical phrase is, _the wages of sin is death_. don't write _the three first_. you mean _the first three_. a _justice_ presides in police court, in justice court and in the supreme court. a _judge_ presides in other courts except the recorder's court, which is presided over by the _recorder_ and his associate. justices of the supreme court of the states and the nation are referred to as _mr. justice jones_ or _chief justice white_. avoid the hackneyed phrase, _a miraculous escape_. it is almost an unbreakable rule that reporters and copy readers shall verify all quotations. many of the most familiar phrases are popularly misquoted. don't write _the above statement_ or _the statement given above_. it may not be _above_ when it gets into the paper. write _the foregoing statement_. don't use _about_ meaning _approximately_ except with round numbers. do not write _about cents_ or _about minutes after o'clock_, but write _about $ _ or _about , persons_. don't confuse _o_ and _oh_. the former is the formal spelling of the interjection and is used usually in poetry, as, _sail on, o ship of state!_ it is used in supplication, as, _o god, hear our prayer!_ the _oh_ spelling is that commonly used, as, _oh, dear_; _oh, what shall i do?_ it is usually written with a comma. dana's eight rules charles a. dana's eight rules for the guidance of a newspaper man are: . get the news, all the news, and nothing but the news. . copy nothing from another publication without giving perfect credit. . never print an interview without the knowledge and consent of the party interviewed. . never print a paid advertisement as news matter. let every advertisement appear as an advertisement; no sailing under false colors. . never attack the weak and defenseless, either by argument, by invective, or by ridicule, unless there is some absolute public necessity for so doing. . fight for your opinions, but do not believe that they contain the whole truth or the only truth. . support your party, if you have one; but do not think that all the good men are in it or all the bad ones outside. . above all, believe that humanity is advancing, that there is progress in human affairs, and that as sure as god lives the future will be better than the past or present. +-----------------------------------------+ | ... promoter of civic welfare and | | civic pride ... bond of civic unity ... | | protector of civic rights. | +-----------------------------------------+ the cannery dean alford says: "be simple, be unaffected, be honest in your speaking and writing. call a spade a spade, not a well known oblong instrument of manual husbandry. elegance of language may not be in the power of all of us, but simplicity and straightforwardness are." many pages would be required to list all the so-called bromides that have been worn threadbare by constant use and abuse in newspapers. often these phrases are used to avoid what the writer believes to be annoying repetition. it is better to use the word _fire_ many times in a paragraph than to use the word _conflagration_ once. so many phrases have become hackneyed in newspapers that the comic magazines make jokes about them. this is from puck: a newspaper dictionary =appropriate exercises.=--what the celebration opened with. =good-natured crowd.=--people out on election night. =firm, clear tones.=--what the bride uttered the responses in. =heart of the business section.=--district threatened by fire. (see =under control=.) =land office business.=--what the charity bazaar did. (see =pretty girls=.) =luscious bivalve.=--what the pearl was found in. (see =poor shoemaker=.) =musical circles.=--what the hostess is prominent in. (see =artistic interpretation=.) =pool of blood.=--what the body was lying in. =sensational failure.=--a wall street bankruptcy. =trojans.=--what the men were working like. =undercurrent of excitement.=--something that ran through the audience. (see =tense moment=.) =well-known southern family.=--what the bridegroom is a member of. avoid such phrases as: burly negro smoking revolver cheered to the echo in durance vile herculean efforts it goes without saying limps into port daring robber bolt from a clear sky facile pen breathless silence crisp bill grim reaper dusky damsel tonsorial parlor vale of tears denizens of the deep finny tribe knights of the grip like rats in a trap speculation is rife for long years severed his connection (say _he quit_) solon probe city father leave no stone unturned whipped out a gun old sol fair luna dan cupid dame fashion milady jupiter pluvius affixed his signature vast concourse edifice was consumed infuriated animal summoned a physician busy marts of trade breakneck speed high dudgeon fragrant havana divine passion city bastile immaculate linen minions of the law rash act never in the history of sad rites tidy sum light collation pale as death totally destroyed news leaked out rooted to the spot war to the knife fair sex white as a sheet to the bitter end well-known clubman pillar of the church large and enthusiastic audience natty suit giant pachyderm swathed in bandages tiny tots checkered career angry mob dull, sickening thud foeman worthy of his steel great beyond downy couch toothsome viands study of a thesaurus--there is one in the library--will enlarge the vocabulary and help the writer to rid himself of these trite phrases. how fresh words may give life to a piece of writing is shown in the chapter in this book on the use of adjectives. clarity, force, grace "of the three generally recognized qualities of good style--clarity, force and grace--it is the last and the last alone in which critics of newspaper english find their material," reads an editorial in the new york evening post. "beauty, grace, suggestion of that final touch which confers on its object the immortality of perfect art, are nearly always conspicuously absent." michigan institutions there are no convicts in michigan except men who have escaped or who have been discharged from institutions in other states. the michigan state prison at jackson houses inmates. the same is true of the michigan reformatory at ionia and the state house of correction at marquette. industrial schools, homes, hospitals and a state public school have succeeded reform schools in michigan. the humanizing movement has led the state to declare that persons detained in such institutions shall be designated pupils, patients or inmates. there are no prisoners in michigan juvenile institutions. the practice of printing the prison record of a man arrested in connection with the commission of a crime but not convicted of that crime is discouraged on the news. often, former inmates of prisons, striving to lead decent lives, are brought in by the police on suspicion. to print their names may be to injure them needlessly without imparting valuable information to our readers. the correct names of state institutions as given in the michigan official directory and legislative manual (the red book) are: university of michigan, ann arbor. michigan agricultural college, east lansing. state normal college, ypsilanti. central michigan normal school, mt. pleasant. northern state normal school, marquette. western state normal school, kalamazoo. michigan college of mines, houghton. michigan school for the deaf, flint. michigan school for the blind, lansing. michigan employment institution for the blind, saginaw. state public school, coldwater. industrial school for boys, lansing. industrial home for girls, adrian. michigan soldiers' home, grand rapids. state psychopathic hospital, ann arbor. kalamazoo state hospital. pontiac state hospital. traverse city state hospital. newberry state hospital. michigan home and training school, lapeer. michigan farm colony for epileptics, wahjamega. ionia state hospital. michigan state prison, jackson. state house of correction, marquette. michigan reformatory, ionia. detroit house of correction. state sanitorium, howell. army and navy organization the united states army consists of officers, non-commissioned officers and privates. officers hold commissions. non-commissioned officers hold warrants. officers in the regular army engage to serve the united states for life and may leave the service only on the acceptance of their resignations, on retirement or on dismissal imposed by sentence of a general court martial. enlisted men in time of peace engage to serve for a definite term of years and at the expiration of this term, return to civil life or re-enlist as they may elect. non-commissioned officers are enlisted men and the duration of their service is governed by the same rules that apply to privates. the grades of commissioned officers, given in accordance with their relative rank are: general, lieutenant-general, major-general, brigadier-general, colonel, lieutenant-colonel, major, captain, first lieutenant, second lieutenant. the grades of enlisted men are sergeant, corporal and private. there are numerous special grades in each of these general classes. master sergeants, master electricians, etc., are the highest paid enlisted men and rank all others. every commissioned officer ranks every enlisted man regardless of the length of their respective services. all officers are of equal social rank. officers and enlisted men are forbidden to associate socially. cadets at the united states military academy are neither enlisted nor commissioned but have a status of their own. socially they rank with officers. they are required to salute all officers but are not entitled to the salutes of enlisted men. flying cadets in the signal corps, who are candidates for commissions as aviators or aeronauts, also have a status of their own. they are required to salute officers but do not receive the salutes of enlisted men. officers salute one another, the juniors saluting the seniors, who acknowledge the courtesy. the infantry organization is based on the company. under war conditions, the company consists of men. four companies form a battalion, and three battalions a regiment. a headquarters company, a supply company and a machine gun company also are attached to each regiment. these three are smaller than the other companies. the band is part of the headquarters company. the cavalry organization includes the troop, squadron of four troops, and regiment of three squadrons, with headquarters, machine gun and supply organizations. the field artillery regiment is made up of six batteries, divided into two battalions. it also has headquarters and supply companies. the infantry company is divided into platoons and the platoons into squads of eight men each. the field artillery battery is divided into platoons and sections. the coast artillery until the war had no regimental organization but consisted of several separate companies. all the companies stationed in a coast defense district were under the command of the ranking officer in that district. for service abroad with heavy mobile artillery, several coast artillery regiments were organized on the infantry model. the united states navy consists of commissioned officers, warrant officers, petty officers and enlisted men without ratings. the officers' grades are: admiral of the navy, vice-admiral, rear-admiral, captain, commander, lieutenant-commander, lieutenant, lieutenant junior grade, ensign. the warrant officers rank below commissioned officers and above enlisted men. gunners, boatswains, machinists, etc., are warrant officers. they wear a uniform similar to that of commissioned officers but with different insignia. chief petty officers and petty officers are enlisted men. chief petty officers wear a double-breasted blouse and a cap similar to that won by officers but with a different ornament. petty officers and unrated enlisted men wear the sailor shirt and either the flat hat or the watch cap. petty officers are rated first, second and third class, the first the highest. men aboard ship are organized in divisions. the commander of a ship is called captain by courtesy regardless of his real grade. the marine corps is under the control of the navy department but has an organization separate from the navy proper. it has the same grades of officers and non-commissioned officers (with some exceptions among the latter) as the army. the corps is commanded by a major-general, which is the highest grade to which marine corps officers are eligible. the way to become original here is a classic bit of advice given by flaubert to de maupassant: "whatever one wishes to say, there is only one noun to express it, only one verb to give it life, only one adjective to qualify it. search, then, till that noun, that verb, that adjective are discovered; never be content with 'very nearly,' never have recourse to tricks, however happy; or to buffooneries of language; to avoid a difficulty. this is the way to become original." +--------------------------------------------+ | upbuilder of the home ... nourisher of the | | community spirit ... art letters and | | science of the common people. | +--------------------------------------------+ dates often called for battleship maine blown up in havana harbor, feb. , . baltimore fire, feb. , . black friday, sept. , . columbus discovered america, oct. , . chicago destroyed by fire, oct. - , . dayton flood, march , . emancipation proclamation by lincoln, jan. , . equitable building fire, new york, jan. , . ft. sumter fired on, april , . francis ferdinand, austrian archduke, assassinated at sarajevo, bosnia, june , , by gavrio prinzip, a bosnian. galveston flood, sept. , ; hurricane blew hours and attained velocity of miles an hour; , lives lost; $ , , damage. garfield assassinated, july , . halifax explosion and fire, december , , killed, , injured, property loss, $ , , . iroquois theater fire, chicago, dec. , . johnstown flood, may , ; , lives lost; $ , , damage. lincoln born near hodgenville, larue county, ky., feb. , . lincoln assassinated, april , . mayflower pilgrims landed at plymouth, dec. , , o. s., or dec. , n. s., but landing is celebrated dec. . mount pelee eruption and destruction of martinique, may , . mckinley assassinated, sept. , . north pole discovered by peary, april , . new york great fire, dec. , . republic sunk in collision with florida off nantucket, jan. , ; six lives lost. south pole discovered by amundsen, dec. , . san francisco earthquake, april - , . steamship eastland capsized in chicago river, july , ; more than lives lost. steamship lusitania sunk by german submarine, may , ; , lives lost. steamship titanic wrecked, april , , , lives lost. steamboat gen. slocum burned in east river new york, june , ; more than , lives lost. steamer larchmont sunk in long island sound, feb. , ; lives lost. volturno burned at sea, oct. , . washington died, dec. , . woodrow wilson born, dec. , . notes the law of libel the following general statement of some of the fundamental principles governing the law of libel is intended to enable the newspaper writer to guard against the publication of indefensible libelous matter. the intention is to state the rules and principles, as far as possible, without legal technicalities, and to include only such portions of the law on the subject as may be necessary or essential for the accomplishment of the double object desired. for the purposes of the newspaper writer, libel may be defined as malicious defamation, either written or printed, charging on or imputing to another that which renders him liable to imprisonment, or tends to injure his reputation in the common estimation of mankind, or to hold him up as an object of hatred, scorn, ridicule or contempt. slander is malicious defamation by speech or oral language; hence the newspaper writer has no especial concern for the law relating to it, further than to remember one general principle--that the law of libel is much stricter than the law of slander. thus, one may apply to another _orally_ words of personal vituperation and abuse that would not render him liable in a suit for slander, but which if published of another in a newspaper would be libelous and actionable. the definition of libel here given is broad enough to cover all the experiences of the newspaper office. but the character of defamatory publication that is brought within its scope is best shown by the language of the courts in individual instances. actionable language language in writing has been held to be actionable _per se_ which "denies to a man the possession of some such worthy quality as every man is _a priori_ to be taken to possess"; "which _tends_ to bring a party into public hatred or disgrace"; which "tends to degrade him in society"; which "tends to expose him to hatred, contempt or ridicule"; which "reflects on his character"; which "imputes something disgraceful to him"; which "throws contumely and odium on him"; which "tends to vilify him"; which "tends to injure his character or diminish his reputation"; which is "injurious to his social character"; which "shows him to be immoral or ridiculous"; which "induces an ill opinion of him"; which "detracts from his character as a man of good morals"; which "imputes to him a bad reputation" or "degradation of character" or "ingratitude," and "_all defamatory words injurious in their nature_." each of the following terms charged on one personally in writing or in print has been adjudged in one or more reported cases to be libelous and actionable, namely: that he was a "villain"; "liar"; "rogue"; "rascal"; "swindler"; "drunkard"; "informer"; that he was the author or the publisher of a libel or slander; that he was a "libelous journalist"; "a hypocrite, and using the cloak of religion for unworthy purposes"; "an imp of the devil"; "a miserable fellow it is impossible for a newspaper article to injure to the extent of six cents"; and "that the community can hardly despise him worse than they do now"; that he had paid money to procure an appointment to an office; that he had received money for offices; that he had been "deprived of the ordinances of the church"; that he was "thought no more of than a horsethief and a counterfeiter"; that he had infringed a patent; that he had been guilty of falsehood; of "dishonesty"; or "moral obliquity"; of "smuggling"; of "blasphemy"; of "false swearing"; that he was "insane"; that he was "fit for a lunatic asylum and unsafe to go at large"; that he had been guilty of gross misconduct in insulting females, etc. where quotation marks are used, they indicate the exact language used in the respective publications complained of on which the suit was brought. objectionable published charges the following published charges have been held to be objectionable, namely: want of chastity (as applied to women, at all events) or adultery (charged on either man or woman); the publication of the obituary of a person known to the writer to be living; a charge that a member of congress was a "misrepresentative" and a groveling office-seeker; that a juror agreed with another juror to rest the determination of the damages in a case upon a game of checkers; characterizing a verdict of a jury as "infamous" and charging the jurors with having done injustice to their oaths; stating in the criticism of a book that the motives of the author are dishonorable or disreputable. the illustrations of this character might be multiplied indefinitely, but these cover the general range of libelous expressions when personally applied to an individual. imputations on character in allegory or irony may amount to a libel. imputing to a person the qualities of a frozen snake in the fable; _heading_ an article in regard to a lawyer's sharp practices, "an honest lawyer." the general rule is that it is libelous _per se_ to impute to a person in his official capacity, profession, trade or business any kind of fraud, dishonesty, misconduct, incapacity or unfitness--any imputation, in fact, which would _tend_ to prevent him deriving that pecuniary reward from a _legitimate_ business which otherwise he would have obtained. it has been held actionable to publish of a _butcher_ that he used false weights; of a _jeweler_ that he was a "cozening knave" who sold a sapphire for a diamond; of a _brewer_ that he makes and sells unwholesome beer or uses filthy water in the malting of grain for brewing; of a _tradesman_ that he adulterates the article he sells; of a _schoolmaster_ that he is an "ignoramus" on the subject he pretends to teach; of a _clergyman_ that he is immoral, or "preaches lies" or is a "drunkard" or "perjurer"; of an _attorney_ that he offered himself as a witness in order to divulge the secrets of his client, or that he "betrayed his client," or "would take a fee from both sides," or that he "deserves to be struck off the roll"; of a _physician_ that he is an "empiric," or "mountebank," or "quack," or "vends quack medicines"; of a _mechanic_ that he is ignorant of his trade; of a _judge_ that he lacks capacity and has abandoned the common principles of truth; and of anyone _in public office_ of a charge of malfeasance or want of capacity to fulfill its duties. so also personal criticism of an _author_ might go so far as to injure him in his business as an author and come within the rule. and so of any other occupation from which the injured person derives pecuniary benefit. charging with a crime it is hardly necessary, except for completeness, to add that to charge a person with _any crime_ brings the publication within the definition of libel. if matter libelous _per se_ is published falsely concerning a person he is _presumed_ to have suffered loss without proving the specific amount or the manner of loss, the amount of damages being found by the jury in accordance with the circumstances of the case and various legal rules. if the language complained of does not come within the foregoing definitions and limitations, and is not therefore libelous _per se_, still, if untrue, it may furnish the basis for a libel suit _where it has resulted in pecuniary loss or the loss of other material advantage_. "any false words are actionable," say the courts, "by which the party has sustained _special damage_." but special damages have to be proved. that is to say, in such case, excluding general damages arising from a _per se_ libel, the character and manner of the loss and the amount in dollars and cents must be proved, and the verdict should not exceed such amount. a single illustration will be sufficient for this class. a newspaper _falsely_ publishes that a man has died of the smallpox at a certain hotel. the proprietor brings a libel suit, claiming loss of custom by way of special damage. his recovery would be limited to such special damages as he could fairly show. libel has been defined above as "_malicious_ defamation," etc. but it is not generally necessary that the injured complainant should prove actual malice. if the defamatory matter complained of is _false_, the law _presumes_ that the publication was malicious, unless it can be shown either that it was "privileged" by statute or otherwise, or the presumption of malice is overcome by actual proof. that is to say, if the publisher claims that, although false and not privileged, the defamatory publication was not malicious, he must prove it. of course, if it was not false, it would not be legally malicious. the three defenses the defense to libel suits, therefore, are three, namely: ( ) to prove the published charge is true. this is called a "justification." ( ) to show that the publication was "privileged." ( ) to prove circumstances connected with the publication tending to show that it was not malicious, or was provoked and excused by the conduct of the complainant. this is called a defense "in mitigation of damages." to prove that the defamatory publication complained of is _true_ is an absolute and complete defense. the old maxim of the english criminal law, "the greater the truth the greater the libel," frequently quoted erroneously in this connection, has no application to actions in the civil courts, and at the present time would scarcely be invoked even in any of the criminal courts of this country, except under the most extraordinary circumstances. but it is not enough that the writer of defamatory articles himself knows that they are true, unless he is able to produce, when required, _competent legal proof of their truth_. what he himself has witnessed is, of course, competent evidence as far as it goes; when such proof can be strengthened by official records or other documentary proof, and by the evidence of other persons who can testify of their personal knowledge to the truth of the publications, a defense of the strongest character is presented. but one distinction should be observed carefully, a misconception in regard to which has given rise to many libel suits that have been difficult to defend. when it is said that "the truth is a complete defense," the literal truth of the published statement is not meant; _but the truth of the defamatory charge_. _to illustrate_: a prominent official, say a judge, during the progress of a political campaign, either in the course of an interview or of a public speech, makes the charge against a candidate for an important office that he (the candidate) obtained his naturalization papers either through perjury or subornation of perjury. a newspaper publishes the interview or the speech, giving the speaker's name and the exact language he used. if the candidate referred to should sue the newspaper for libel because of this publication, it would be no defense for the publishers to show that it was _true_ that the speaker had said just exactly what the newspaper represented him to have said. to justify they would have to show that the defamatory charge was true, that the candidate had been guilty of perjury or subornation of perjury in obtaining his naturalization papers. in other words, no publishers or writers can escape responsibility for defaming a man's character by showing that it was on the authority of some other individual. the same principle applies to defamatory accusations republished from another newspaper, whether the name of the newspaper from which they are copied is given or not. privileged publications there is a certain class of publications concerning official proceedings which, although they be defamatory in character, public policy demands that publishers should be protected in making, entirely regardless of the question whether the defamatory matter be true or false. these are termed "privileged publications" and are defined by law. the mere fact that a paper is _entitled_ as being in a certain suit or that _its contents are sworn to_ does not necessarily make it a part of any "judicial, legislative or other public and official proceedings." such proceedings must actually and legally have been instituted before it becomes entitled to the privilege. _an instance_ would be the publication of libelous statements taken from a complaint or affidavit that had been sworn to in a suit but before _the paper had been actually introduced in the trial of the case_. here there would be no privilege. the same would be true of an affidavit charging crime on a person which had not before the publication of it been presented to and judicially recognized by the committing or police magistrate. criticism is also privileged in a limited degree. nowhere else in the world, not even in england, is so great freedom of legitimate criticism allowed and protected by law as in the united states. the constitution of the united states provides: "congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech or of the press." the constitution of michigan provides: "every citizen may freely speak, write and publish his sentiments on all subjects, being responsible for the abuse of that right; and no law shall be passed to restrain or abridge the liberty of speech or of the press. in all prosecutions for libel the truth may be given in evidence to the jury; and if it shall appear to the jury that the matter charged as libelous is true and was published with good motives and for justifiable ends, accused shall be acquitted." but the right to criticise is general, and belongs quite as much to any other individual as to the newspaper writer, editor or publisher. the _actions_ of individuals are always legitimate subjects of discussion and criticism. "in this country," says judge smith, of the new hampshire supreme court, "every citizen has the right to call the attention of his fellow-citizens to the maladministration of public affairs or the misconduct of public servants, if his real motive in so doing is to bring about a reform of abuses or to defeat the re-election or reappointment of an incompetent officer." "no one can doubt the importance," is the language of judge story, "in a free government of the right to canvass the _acts_ of public men and the tendency of public measures--to censure boldly the conduct of rulers and to scrutinize the policy and plans of government." the language of the english courts is nearly as broad. "god forbid that you should not be allowed to comment on the _conduct_ of all mankind, providing you do it justly and honorably," says baron alderson. chief justice cockburn said: "it is of vast importance that criticism, so long as it is fair, reasonable and just, should be allowed the utmost latitude, and that the most unsparing censure of works which are fairly subject to it should not be held libelous." criticism does not extend to person but the privilege of criticism extends only to the _actions_ or _works_ of an individual; it does not extend to the _person_. in the case of an author, his _works_ may be criticised as severely as the occasion demands. "every man who publishes a book commits himself to the judgment of the public," says an eminent english judge; but this can not be made the excuse for personal abuse of the author himself. the author, the artist, the architect, who produces a book, a painting or a building, is in this respect in the same position as the maker or producer of a watch, a piano or a carving-knife. the thing produced in either case may be "criticised." but if the _person_ who produces it is defamed, this must be defended, if at all, upon some other ground than that it is _criticism_. moreover, to justify such comment on men's actions or on the products of their hands or brains _as criticism_, it is essential that the acts or things so criticised should have actual existence. _for instance_, a newspaper comments with great severity on certain occurrences which it publishes as the official acts of a mayor of its city. before these strictures can be defended as _criticism_, it must appear that such official acts really occurred. again, newspaper proprietors might well be held liable for publishing a ridiculing criticism of language pretended to be quoted from the book which the critic is reviewing, but which language the author of the book had not actually used. if the publishers who are defendants in a libel suit are unable to show that the defamatory publication is _true_ or that it is _privileged_, then the injured plaintiff is entitled to a verdict _in some amount_. how small this sum shall be will depend upon how good a case the defendants can make out _in mitigation of damages_. the range of defenses that may be interposed for this purpose is very broad. the following may be enumerated as the most important: ( ) that the general conduct of the plaintiff gave the defendant "probable cause" for believing the charges to be true. ( ) that the complainant's general character is bad. ( ) that the publication was made in heat and passion, provoked by the acts of the plaintiff. ( ) that the charge published had been made orally in the presence of the plaintiff before publication, and he had not denied it. ( ) that the publication was made of a political antagonist in the heat of a political campaign. ( ) that as soon as the defendant discovered that he was in error he published a retraction, correction or apology. ( ) that the defamatory publication had reference not to the plaintiff, but to another person of a similar name, concerning whom the charges were true, and that readers understood this other individual to be meant. absence of actual malice the principle underlying all the above defenses is that they tend to show an absence of _actual malice_. many other circumstances, too numerous and varied to be classified, and which properly could be used in the same manner and for the same reason to reduce damages, will readily suggest themselves to every one. the successful defense of libel suits depends largely on having clear and trustworthy proof of the facts sought to be sustained promptly at hand as soon as the suit is brought. any metropolitan newspaper that deserves the name finds itself compelled every day to publish matter that is defamatory in character. otherwise there would be no journalistic records of crimes or of a large portion of the other occurrences in which the public is interested. the publisher's concern in that particular is a double one--that whatever of that nature is published in his newspaper should be _true_ or _privileged_ and that there should be clear _proof_ of the truth or privilege. every newspaper writer frequently finds himself called upon to deal with such matter. if it is the report of a trial in court, he need have regard, so far as his report is concerned, to four points: ( ) that the judicial or official proceedings have been already begun in open court; ( ) that his report of the testimony, etc., or synopsis of the sworn papers is fair and impartial; ( ) that he knows where he can put his hands on the official records to sustain the privilege at any time; and ( ) that both sides are similarly published. if the matter is defamatory and not privileged in any way, then the utmost care before publication with regard to the proof of its truth will be the only safeguard against libel suits. the publication of such matter on the authority of any person's mere word, however truthful, trustworthy and careful that person may be believed to be, will always be attended with danger. the statements may be entirely true, and yet the giver of the information when called upon may not be able to furnish the proof. if he is, probably he could furnish it as well before as after publication. the only absolutely certain way for any newspaper writer to avoid all risk of this sort is for him to furnish for publication such defamatory matter only as he can sustain by his own testimony as an eye-witness, or such as he has seen the proofs of before writing the article. the almost certain result will be to prevent the bringing of a libel suit--the first consideration in this connection. if, on the other hand, a libel suit should be brought, the writer would be able to furnish the publishers with the best means of defense, namely, proof of the truth of the publication--which is of next importance. precision, simplicity, euphony adams sherman hill, professor of rhetoric at harvard university for nearly years, gives these three rules for good writing: precision: of two forms of expression which may be used in the same sense, that one should be chosen which is susceptible of only one interpretation. observance of this rule tends to give each word a meaning of its own. simplicity: of two forms of expression which may be used in the same sense, the simpler should be chosen. the simpler a word or phrase, the more likely it is to be understood, and simplicity in language, like simplicity in dress or manners, belongs to the best society. euphony: of two forms of expression which may be used in the same sense, that one should be chosen which is the more agreeable to the ear. it is of course wrong to give undue weight to considerations of euphony, but when no sacrifice is involved it is desirable to avoid an expression that is unusually difficult to pronounce or to substitute for an extremely disagreeable word one that is agreeable to the ear. first three years of the war june , --archduke francis ferdinand, heir to throne of austria-hungary, and wife shot by gavrio prinzip, a bosnian, at sarajevo, bosnia. july --austria declares war on serbia. aug. --germany declares war on serbia. aug. --great britain declares war on germany. germany proclaims state of war between germany and belgium. wilson proclaims u. s. neutrality. aug. --austria-hungary declares war on russia. aug. --montenegro declares war on austria. aug. --british troops land in france. aug. --great britain declares state of war with austria-hungary. aug. --germans occupy louvain. aug. --germans occupy brussels. aug. --japan declares war on germany. aug. --st. petersburg becomes petrograd. sept. --after seven days' battle russians take lemberg. sept. --french capital transferred to bordeaux. sept. --germans occupy rheims. sept. --joffre reports five-day battle at the marne a victory. sept. --japanese invest tsing-tau. oct. --antwerp surrenders. oct. --seat of belgian capital moved from ostend to havre. oct. - --first battle of ypres. nov. --great britain and france declare war on turkey. nov. - --second battle of ypres. dec. --austrians capture belgrade. dec. --british sink german fleet off falkland islands. dec. --serbians force evacuation of belgrade. dec. --germans evacuate dixmude. jan. , --naval battle in north sea. feb. --germany declares war zone about england and ireland after feb. . feb. --allied fleet reduces four forts at dardanelles entrance. march --austrian fortress of przemysl surrenders to russians. april --gas first used in war by germans at ypres. may --american steamer gulflight sunk. may --lusitania sunk by german submarine off ireland; , lost, rescued. may --italy declares war on austria-hungary. june --teutons recapture przemysl. june --bryan resigns. june --russians driven out of lemberg. aug. --germans occupy warsaw. sept. --u. s. asks recall by austria-hungary of ambassador dumba. sept. --germans capture wilna. oct. --king constantine of greece won't support allies and premier venizelos resigns. allies land at saloniki. oct. --bulgaria enters war by sending army into serbia. dec. --ford peace party sails. dec. --allies evacuate gallipoli. jan. , --montenegro surrenders to austria-hungary, first belligerent to withdraw. jan. --compulsory service measure passes final reading in british house of lords. feb. --germans open verdun offensive. march --germany declares war on portugal. march --von tirpitz resigns as german minister of marine; succeeded by admiral von capelle. april --sinn feiners' revolution breaks out in dublin. april --british besieged in kut-el-amara, mesopotamia, surrender. may --king george signs compulsory bill, applicable to all men from to . may --battle of jutland. june --lord kitchener drowned. july --german submarine deutschland arrives at baltimore. aug. --rumania enters the war on side of allies. nov. --first great air battle; airplanes brought down. nov. --francis joseph, emperor of austria and king of hungary, dies; . dec. --germans occupy bucharest. feb. , --u.s. severs diplomatic relations with germany. feb. --cunard liner laconia sunk. feb. --wilson asks authority to arm merchantmen; declares sinking of laconia is overt act. march --british take bagdad. march --czar nicholas ii abdicates in favor of his brother, grand duke michael alexandrovitch. april --american steamer aztec sunk. april --u. s. declares state of war with germany. april --cuba declares war on germany. april --brazil severs diplomatic relations with germany. may --wilson signs selective conscription bill for army of , . june --americans register for draft. june --gen. pershing in england. june --king constantine abdicates. june --american mission reaches russia. june --first u. s. troops arrive in france. june --greece severs relations with germany and her allies. july --chinese empire re-established for three days. july --chancellor von bethmann-hollweg resigns, dr. george michaelis succeeding. july --kerensky made dictator in russia. aug. --u. s. rejects pope's peace proposal. sept. --germans capture riga. sept. --kerensky proclaims russia a republic. oct. --peru severs diplomatic relations with germany. oct. --uruguay severs diplomatic relations with germany. oct. --u. s. transport antilles torpedoed. oct. --first of u. s. troops enter french trenches. oct. --brazil declares war on germany. nov. --three-cent postage in effect. nov. --bolsheviki in control of russian government. nov. --lenine made russian premier. nov. --british capture jaffa. dec. --wilson asks congress to declare war on austria-hungary. dec. --part of halifax wrecked by explosion and fire. dec. --congress declares war on austria-hungary. dec. --british capture jerusalem. dec. --u. s. takes over the railroads. notes index a abbreviations in heads, rules governing, _about_, use of, meaning approximately, _above statement_ barred, _academy_, capitalization of, accuracy, - _acts_, capitalization of, _actual photographs_ barred, _a day_ preferred to _per day_, adjectives, capitalization of, rules governing, _administered_, use of, _administration_, capitalization of, adverbs, rules governing, _advice_ confused with _advise_, _advise_ confused with _advice_, _affair_, misuse of, _affect_ confused with _effect_, _afterward_, spelling of, ages, writing of, _agreeable_ preferred to _nice_, _agreeably to_ preferred to _agreeable to_, agreement of verbs, _airplane_, spelling of, _alarmingly_ preferred to _dangerously_, alford, dean, quoted, allbutt, sir clifford, quoted, _allege_ not a synonym for _say_, _alliance_, capitalization of, _allies_, capitalization of, alliteration in heads, _almost_ preferred to _most_, _alright_ barred, _although_ preferred to _while_, _a. m._, capitalization of, use of, - _amateur_, meaning of, _ambassador_, misuse of, _amendment_, capitalization of, _among_, misused for _between_, preferred to _amongst_, _amongst_, prefer _among_ to, ampersand, use of, _anesthetic_, spelling of, _a number of_, prefer _several_ to, _anxious_ misused for _eager_, _anybody_, use masculine pronoun with, a. p., leads, style, _apiece_ misused for _each_, apostrophe, use of, _appear_, use of, intransitively, _approximately_ preferred to _about_, _arab_, capitalization of, _armor_, spelling of, _armory_, capitalization of, _army_, abbreviation of titles of, capitalization of, organization of, articles, in heads, rules governing, use of, with names, _artist_, avoid feminine form of, _as far as_, use of, misused for _that_, _long as_, use of, _assembly_, capitalization of, associated press, see a. p. _associations_, capitalization of, asterisks, use of, _as yet_ superfluous, _at the corner of_ superfluous, _attorney_, abbreviation of, _audience_, meaning of, _au fait_ to be avoided, _auger_ confused with _augur_, _augur_ confused with _auger_, _author_, avoid feminine form of, _auto_, prefer _automobile_ to, _autoist_, prefer _motorist_ to, _automatic pistol_ preferred to _automatic revolver_, _automobile_ preferred to _auto_, _automobilist_, prefer _motorist_ to, _avenue_, capitalization of, _awful_, meaning of, _ax_, spelling of, _axminster_, capitalization of, _ayes and noes_, spelling of, b _backward_, spelling of, _bacteria_, plural of, _balance_ misused for _rest_, barred by the sun, _base ball_, spelling of, _basket ball_, spelling of, _battle_, capitalization of, _bay_, capitalization of, _bazar_, spelling of, _be_, forms of, in heads, omission of, in heads, belgians, king of, belgium, king of, misused, bennett, arnold, quoted, _beside_ not to be misused for _besides_, _besides_ not to be misused for _beside_, _better half_, prefer _wife_ to, _between_ not to be misused for _among_, _bible_, capitalization of, _bills_, capitalization of, _birdseye_, spelling of, _birth_, avoid euphemisms regarding, _birthday_, capitalization of, _bishop_, use of, bleyer, dr. willard g., quoted, _blond_, spelling of, _body_ preferred to _remains_, _bohemian_, capitalization of, book sizes, _bought_ preferred to _purchased_, _boulevard_, capitalization of, _bovine_ used as adjective, _boy scouts_, capitalization of, _breach_ misused for _breech_, brevity, , _bridegroom_ preferred to _groom_, bromides, _bros._, use of, _budapest_, spelling of, _building_, capitalization of, _bureau_, capitalization of, _burial_ preferred to _interment_, burke, edmund, quoted, _but that_ preferred to _but what_, _but what_ misused for _but that_, _by_, book illustrated, artist, c _cabinet_, capitalization of, _cadets_, capitalization of, _caliber of guns_, punctuation of, _caliber_, spelling of, _campfire girls_, capitalization of, _canine_, use as adjective, cannery, _can not_, spelling of, _cape_, capitalization of, _capital_ misused for _capitol_, capitalization, rules governing, _capitol_ misused for _capital_, _cardinals_, how referred to, carlyle, thomas, quoted, _casket_, prefer _coffin_ to, _catalog_, spelling of, _cello_, spelling of, _century_, use ordinal with, _certainly_, no degrees of, _chamber_, _of deputies_, etc., capitalization, _checks_, spelling of, _chile_, spelling of, _chili_, spelling of, chinese names, christmas preferred to _xmas_, _church_, capitalization of, titles, _cigaret_, spelling of, _circumstance_, meaning of, _cities_, abbreviation of, _citizens_ misused for _persons_, city directory, importance of, city editor, telephone to, _civil war_, capitalization of, _claimant_ misused for _clamant_, clarity, - clauses, punctuation of, cleanliness of thought, clemens, samuel l., see mark twain, clock time, how to write, _clubs_, capitalization of, _clue_, spelling of, cobb, irvin s., quoted, cobbett, william, quoted, _coffin_ preferred to _casket_, collective nouns, _college_, capitalization of, _college degrees_, abbreviation of, capitalization of, _collide_, only moving objects, colon, use of, capitalization after, _color_, spelling of, of, _comatose_, meaning of, commas, use of, _compared to_, meaning of, _compared with_, meaning of, _complected_ preferred to _complexioned_, compounds, how formed, _consistently with_ preferred to _consistent with_, _condition_, bad, preferred to _bad shape_, _congress_, capitalization of, conjunctions, punctuation before, in heads, rules governing, _consensus of opinion_, use of, _consist in_ misused for _consist of_, _consist of_ misused for _consist in_, _constitution_, capitalization of, _consul_, confused with _ambassador_, etc., confused with _counsel_, _consummated_, when to avoid, _convict_, prefer _inmate_ to, _cop_ barred, copy, reading, preparation of, corrections, making, _council_ confused with _counsel_, _council chamber_, capitalization of, _councilor_ confused with _counselor_, _counsel_ confused with _council_, _counselor_ confused with _councilor_, _county_, capitalization of, _coup de grace_, use of, _coup d'etat_, use of, _couple_, misuse of, _courthouse_, capitalization of, _courts_, capitalization of, creed, journalist's, _critically_ preferred to _dangerously_, _crown prince_, capitalization of, _cupid_, avoid use of, _curb_, spelling of, curiosity, cuttlefish, _czar_, capitalization of, d _damaged_, inanimate things are, dana, charles a., quoted, , dancer, avoid feminine form of, _dangerously_, prefer _alarmingly_ to, dangling participle, darwinian theory, dash in heads, _data_, number of, date lines, punctuation and capitalization of, dates, how to write, often called for, _day_, capitalization of, _dealt_, use of, _death_, write simply of, _decalog_, spelling of, _deceased_, prefer _dead_ man to, _declaration of independence_, capitalization of, _decollete_, spelling of, _decoration day_, capitalization of, definite article misused, _defunct_, avoid use of, _degree of temperature_, use figures for, abbreviation of, capitalization of, _deity_, capitalization of names and pronouns used for, _democrat_, _-ic_, capitalization of, _denial_, use of subjunctive to imply, department head, capitalization of, _departs_, prefer _leaves_ to, _depositary_ confused with _depository_, _depot_, prefer _station_ to, capitalization of, _de riguer_ to be avoided, derivatives, capitalization of, dialect, _dialog_, spelling of, _dick_ to be avoided, diction, dictionary, get interested in, sanctions nothing, _different_, when superfluous, _different from_, preferred to _different to_, dimensions, how to write, _dip_ to be avoided, _dispatch_, spelling of, _distance of_ superfluous, _dive_, past tense of, _dived_ preferred to _dove_, _divine_ to be avoided as noun, do and don't, _dominion day_, capitalization of, _don't_, use of, double meaning in heads, doubling up have's, _dove_, prefer _dived_ to, _dr._, use of, _draft_, spelling of, _drouth_, spelling of, _duke_, capitalization of, duke of argyll, quoted, _duma_, capitalization of, spelling of, e _each_, preferred to _apiece_, use masculine pronoun with, _eager_ preferred to _anxious_, _east_, _-ern_, _-erner_, capitalization of, editing copy, editorial head, _effect_ confused with _affect_, _e. g._, use of, _either_, use of, _emigrant_ confused with _immigrant_, _emperor_, capitalization of, _employe_, spelling of, ending a sentence with _to_, end-mark, use of, english money, abbreviation of, _entente_, capitalization of, _enthuse_ to be avoided, _entirely completed_, use of, _envoy_, use of, epithets, capitalization of, _equally well_, use of, errors in grammar, _eskimo_, spelling of, _esthetic_, spelling of, _et al._, use of, ethics of the profession, euphony, _event_, use of, events, names of notable, capitalization of, _every_, use masculine pronoun with, _ex-_, use of, exception proves the rule, f _facsimile_, use of, facts, , , _faker_ misused for _fakir_, _fakir_ misused for _faker_, _farther_ distinguished from _further_, _favor_, spelling of, _fearful_, meaning of, feature heads, _feel_, use of, intransitively, _feline_ misused as a noun, feminine forms of words, _fiance_ and _fiancee_, use of, fictitious names, capitalization of, figures, beginning a story, rules governing, punctuation of, _filipino_, spelling of, fine writing, , firm names, use of, _first of series_, writing of, first three years of the war, - _flag_, capitalization of, flaubert, camille, quoted, _floral offerings_, use of, _flowers_, use of, _follow copy_, use of phrase, _foot ball_, spelling of, force, _forecast_, past tense of, _forecasted_, prefer _forecast_ to, _foregoing statement_, use of, foreign phrases, , , _former_, capitalization of, _fort_, abbreviation of, _forward_, spelling of, _fourth of july_, capitalization of, _fr._, use of, _frisk_, misuse of, _from_ misused with diseases, when to omit, front page paper, _funeral_, terms referring to, _further_ distinguished from _farther_, _future before him_, phrase to avoid, g _gaiety_, spelling of, _gaily_, spelling of, game, newspaper work as a, _garden_, capitalization of, _gat_, misuse of, _gatling_, capitalization of, _gentleman_, use of, geographical terms, capitalization of, girls, protection of good name of, _goodby_, spelling of, _government_, capitalization of, _governor_, capitalization of, grace, grammar, bad, not funny, grievance, treatment of reader with a, _grim reaper_ to be avoided, _groom_ misused for _bridegroom_, _guarantee_ misused for _guaranty_, _guillotine_, capitalization of, _grows smaller_, misuse of, _gun_, misuse of, h hackneyed phrases, _hall_, capitalization of, handles, name, _hang_, past tense of, _hanged_, use of, _happen_, use of, _happening_, use of, heads, _heart disease_, use of, _failure_, use of, _hebrew_, rules governing use of, _he or she_, avoid, _healthful_, use of, _healthy_, use of, _herculean_, capitalization of, _high noon_, avoid, _high school_, capitalization of, _highway_, capitalization of, hill, adams sherman, quoted, _hindu_, spelling of, _his or her_, avoid, _hoard_ confused with _horde_, _hoi polloi_, use of, without article, _holidays_, capitalization of, _holy names_, _places_, _events_, etc., capitalization of, _home_ preferred to _residence_, _homeopathic_, spelling of, _horde_ confused with _hoard_, _hospital_, capitalization of, _hotel_, capitalization of, _house_, _of representatives_, etc., capitalization of, _hull_, _palmer_, etc., capitalization of, preferred to _residence_, howells, william dean, quoted, _human_ used as adjective, _hung_, use of, _hymen_, avoid use of, hyphens, use of, i _i_, when barred, _-ics_, nouns ending in, _i. e._, use of, _if_ misused for _whether_, illustration head, _illy_, never use, _immigrant_ confused with _emigrant_, _immoral_ confused with _unmoral_, impersonal viewpoint, _in a street_, prefer _on a street_ to, _incident_, meaning of, indefinite figures, indentions, _india rubber_, capitalization of, _in_ distinguished from _into_, infinitives, split, time of, _injured_, inanimate things not, inmate preferred to convict, _in order to_, avoid use of, _insanitary_ misused for _unsanitary_, institutions, michigan, instructions, to reporters, to copy readers, interlining, _interment_, use of, interrogation point, use of, _into_ distinguished from _in_, _invited guest_, misuse of, _i o u_ written without periods, _island_, capitalization of, _isthmus_, capitalization of, _item_ used for _story_, _its_ distinguished from _it's_, j _jew_, use of, journalist's creed, _judge_, capitalization of, distinguished from justice, _junior_, abbreviation of, capitalization of, _justice_, capitalization of, distinguished from _judge_, of supreme court, k _kaiser_, capitalization of, _khartum_, spelling of, _kiddies_, avoid use of, _kidnaped_, spelling of, _kids_, use of, _kind of_ not followed by article, _king_, capitalization of, with roman numerals, _knight_, use of title of, _knight templar_, plural of, _korea_, spelling of, l _labor day_, capitalization of, _lady_, use of, _la grippe_, omit article with, _lane_, capitalization of, _late_, _the_, use of, _latitude_, use figures to express, law of libel, , - _laws_, capitalization of, _lay_, use of, - leaders, use of, leads, a. p., _leaves_ preferred to _departs_, _legislative bodies_, capitalization of, _legislature_, capitalization, _leipzig_, spelling of, _lend_ preferred to _loan_, _lengthy_, prefer _long_ to, _lessen_ confused with _lesson_, libel laws, , - _liable_ misused for _likely_, liberal, capitalization of, _lie_, use of, - _lieutenant-governor_, capitalization of, _like_ misused as conjunction, _likely_ preferred to _liable_, _live at hotel_ preferred to _stop at hotel_, _lives_ preferred to _reside_, _livid_, use of, _loan_, prefer _lend_ to, _localities_, capitalization of names of, _long_ preferred to _lengthy_, longfellow, henry w., quoted, _longitude_, use figures with, _long way_, spelling of, _look_, use of, intransitively, _lurid_, use of, m _m_ in heads, _macadam_, capitalization of, macaulay, thomas babington, quoted, _maize_ confused with _maze_, _majority_, meaning of, _man_ preferred to _gentleman_, _maneuver_, spelling of, _many_ preferred to _a number of_, margins, _marriage_ confused with _wedding_, _master_ to be avoided, _may_ in heads, _mayor_, capitalization of, _maze_ confused with _maize_, _medieval_, spelling of, _memoranda_, number of, metric system, - metier, learning the, _mich._, use of, michigan institutions, _middle west_, capitalization of, military titles, punctuation of, capitalization of, abbreviation of, _minister_, diplomatic, of gospel, _miraculous escape_, avoid use of, misspelled names, _mohammed_, spelling of, money, sums of, how written, english, abbreviation of, _months_, abbreviation of, _more certain_ to be avoided, _most_ misused for _almost_, _most rev._, use of, _motor car_ preferred to _auto_, _motorist_ preferred to _autoist_, _mount_, abbreviation of, _murder_ not always barred, _mrs. judge_, use of, barred, n names, abbreviation of, connected, capitalization of, holy, capitalization of, of railroads, rules governing use of, rules governing capitalization of, _nationalities_, capitalization of, _navy_, abbreviation of titles of, capitalization of, organization of, _nearby_, spelling of, _nee_, use of, negatives in heads, _neither_, use of, _newburgh_, spelling of, _new recruit_ to be avoided, news, aim of, the, capitalization of the, newspapers, capitalization, of names of, _new year's_, capitalization of, new york sun, words barred by the, _nice_, prefer _agreeable_ to, nicknames, use of, capitalization of, _no._, use of, _nobody_ preferred to _not anybody_, _no one_ preferred to _not any one_, _nom de guerre_ in good usage, _nom de plume_ to be avoided, _north_, _-ern_, _-erner_, capitalization of, nouns, rules governing, _novice_, meaning of, numbers, rules governing, punctuation of, street, , o _o_, use of, _obsequies_ to be avoided, observation, _obtain_ preferred to _secure_, _occasionally_, use of, _occur_, use of, _occurrence_, meaning of, _ocean_, capitalization of, _off from_, prefer _off_ to, _off of_, prefer _off_ to, _off_, use of, _of_ when used with diseases, _oh_, use of, _o. k._, use of, _old adage_ to be avoided, _old glory_, capitalization of, _old veterans_ to be avoided, _on a street_ preferred to _in a street_, _on the part of_ to be avoided, _only_, beware of, ordinals, _orient_, capitalization of, _oriental_, capitalization of, originality, oslerian theory, _over a signature_ to be avoided, overscore _n_, p _pajamas_, spelling of, _panamans_, spelling of, _pants_, prefer _trousers_ to, _painfully_, when to avoid, _paraphernalia_, number of, _parcel post_, spelling of, _paris green_, capitalization of, _park_, capitalization of, _parliament_, capitalization of, _parlor_, capitalization of, _parlous_, prefer _perilous_ to, participial construction, participle, dangling, particles, capitalization of, in foreign names, _parties_, _political_, capitalization of, _political_, abbreviation of, _partly completed_ to be avoided, _party_ misused for _person_, paste sheets, do not, _pasteurize_, capitalization of, _pen name_ preferred to _nom de plume_, _people_ misused for _persons_, _per_, use of, _per cent_, use of, , _per day_, prefer _a day_ to, _perilous_ preferred to _parlous_, period, use of, ring, _periodicals_, capitalization, of names of, _person_ preferred to _party_, _phenomena_, number of, _philistine_, capitalization of, _philippic_, capitalization of, _phone_, prefer _telephone_ to, phrases, holy, capitalization of, _pianist_, avoid feminine form of, pictorial power of words, _pistol_ confused with _revolver_, _pittsburgh_, spelling of, _place_, capitalization of, _platonic_, capitalization of, _plead_, past tense of, _pleaded_ preferred to _pled_, _pled_, prefer _pleaded_ to, _plow_, spelling of, _plurality_, meaning of, _p. m._, use of, , capitalization of, _poet_, avoid feminine form of, poisons, use of names of, _pole_, capitalization of, _police court_, capitalization of, _policeman_ preferred to _cop_, _poorhouse_, capitalization of, _port_, abbreviation of, _porto rico_, spelling of, _possibly_, redundant with _may_, post, new york evening, quoted, _postoffice_, capitalization of, _preachers_, use of, _precinct_, capitalization of, precision, preparing copy, prepositions in heads, rules governing, _present incumbent_ to be avoided, _present tense_, heads in, , president, abbreviation of, capitalization of, _preventative_, prefer _preventive_ to, _previously to_ preferred to _previous to_, prices written in figures, _priest_, use of, _princes_, capitalization of, _principal_ confused with _principle_, prison record, do not print, _procure_ preferred to _secure_, profanity, use of, _professor_, use of, _program_, spelling of, _progressive_, capitalization of, _prone_, meaning of, pronouns, rules governing, proper nouns and derivatives, capitalization of, _prophecy_ confused with _prophesy_, _proportion_ preferred to _per cent_, _proven_, prefer _proved_ to, _pseudonym_ preferred to _nom de plume_, punctuation, in heads, inside quotation marks, rules governing, _purchased_, prefer _bought_ to, q question mark, use of, quotation marks, in heads, use of, quotations misapplied, verify, r _rabbi_, use of, _racing_ time written in figures, _races_, capitalization of, _raise_, use of, , reading copy, _recorder_, definition of, _reformation_, capitalization of, _regular monthly meeting_ to be avoided, _reichstag_, capitalization of, _relieved of_, prefer _robbed of_ to, _religious denominations_, capitalization of, _remains_, prefer _body_ to, _render_ to be avoided, _repertory_, spelling of, reporters, instructions to, kept out of story, _republican_, capitalization of, reputation, woman's, _residence_, prefer _home_ to, _rest_ preferred to _balance_, _resides_, prefer _lives_ to, _rev._, use of, _revolution_, capitalization of, _revolver_ misused for _pistol_, _rise_, use of, , _river_, capitalization of, _road_, capitalization of, _robbed of_ preferred to _relieved of_, roman numerals, use of, table of, _room_, capitalization of, ross, charles g., quoted, , s _sable hearse_ to be avoided, _sad rites_ to be avoided, _saint_, abbreviation of, _same, the_, use of, _savior_, spelling of, scores written in figures, _scriptural texts_, how to write, _sear_ confused with _sere_, _seasons_, capitalization of, _sections of states_, etc., capitalization of, _secure_, prefer _obtain_ to, _seer_ confused with _sear_, semicolons, use of, _senate_, capitalization of, _senior_, abbreviation of, capitalization of, _sere_ confused with _seer_, _set_, use of, , _several_ preferred to _a number of_, _sewage_, meaning of, _sewer_, meaning of, _sewerage_, meaning of, _shakespeare_, spelling of, _shakespearean_, spelling of, _shape_, prefer _condition_ to, _ship body_ to be avoided, _sight_ confused with _site_, _signature_, write _under a_, _sine qua non_ to be avoided, _sit_, use of, , _site_ confused with _sight_, _skilful_, spelling of, simplicity, , , , , sincerity, slang, use of, punctuation of, _smell_, use of, intransitively, _socialist_, _-ic_, capitalization of, _societies_, capitalization of, _socratic_, capitalization of, _so far as_ to be avoided, _so_ followed by negative, _solemn black_ to be avoided, _so long as_, use of, _some_, barred as adverb, prefer _somewhat_ to, _somebody_, use masculine pronoun with, _somewhat_ preferred to _some_, _sort of_, omit article after, _s o s_, punctuation of, _so that_ to be avoided, _sound_, use of, intransitively, sources of information, _south_, _-ern_, _-erner_, capitalization of, space, triple, _spectators_, meaning of, spelling, split infinitives, _square_, capitalization of, _stars and bars_, capitalization of, _stars and stripes_, capitalization of, states, abbreviations of, _station_, preferred to _depot_, capitalization of, statistics, use figures in, vital, stevenson, robert louis, quoted, _stocks_, capitalization of names of, _stop at hotel_ to be avoided, _stork_, avoid reference to, _story_, prefer _item_ to, _street_, capitalization of, _strata_, number of, _street numbers_, writing of, punctuation of, _sturm und drang_ to be avoided, _subpena_, spelling of, subjunctive, use of, _such_, use of, as pronoun, _suffraget_, spelling of, _suicide_, when to use, _sultan_, capitalization of, sun, the new york, words barred by, superfluous words, superlatives to be avoided, _supine_, meaning of, _supreme court_, capitalization of, synonyms, search for, in heads, misuse of, t _take place_, use of, _technic_, spelling of, _telephone_ preferred to _phone_, _temperature_, how to write, _terrace_, capitalization of, _terrible_, meaning of, _testimony_, punctuation of, _thanksgiving day_, capitalization of, _that_, barred as adverb, preferred to _as_, use of, _the_, capitalization of, _theater_, capitalization of, spelling of, thesaurus, use of, _these sort_ misused, _things_, names of notable, capitalization of, _this_ barred as adverb, _thither_ to be avoided, three rules, _tibet_, spelling of, _timber_, spelling of, time, how to write, _tires_, spelling of, titles, capitalization of, church, punctuation of, rules governing, _to_, different, barred, in infinitives, things compared, _today_, spelling of, _toga_, misuse of, _tolstoy_, spelling of, _tomorrow_, spelling of, _tory_, capitalization of, _totally destroyed_ to be avoided, _tots_ to be avoided, _toward_, spelling of, _trade unions_, plural of, _transpire_, meaning of, _treaties_, capitalization of, _triple entente_, etc., capitalization of, trite phrases, _trousers_ preferred to _pants_, _true facts_ to be avoided, truth, , , _turgenieff_, spelling of, _turn over_ preferred to _turn turtle_, twain, mark, quoted, _tying_, spelling of, u _under a signature_ preferred, underscore _u_, _union_, _-ist_, capitalization of, _union jack_, capitalization of, unit lines in heads, _university_, capitalization of, _unless_ preferred to _without_, _unmoral_ confused with _immoral_ _unsanitary_ confused with _insanitary_, untruth, _upper peninsula_, etc., capitalization of, _utopia_, capitalization of, v _varsity_, punctuation of, verbs, in heads, rules governing, _very_, eschew the word, _very rev._, use of, _vice-president_, capitalization of, _viceroy_, capitalization of, _violinist_, avoid feminine form of, vital statistics, _viz._, use of, vocabulary, broaden the, _votes_, use figures for, _vilify_, spelling of, _vying_, spelling of, w _want_ preferred to _wish_, war, first three years of, - _ward_, capitalization of, _war_, capitalization of, _w_ in heads, _wages_, number of, _way_, capitalization of, way to become original, _we_, _editorial_, use of, webster, edward harlan, quoted, webster's dictionary, _wedding_ confused with _marriage_, weights and measures, _weird_, use of, well known, use of, _west_, _-ern_, _-erner_, capitalization of, _whether, or not_, preferred to _if_, _while_ misused for _although_, preferred to _whilst_, _whilst_ to be avoided, _whisky_, spelling of, _white house_, capitalization of, _whither_ to be avoided, whitman, walt, quoted, _wholesome_ preferred to _healthful_, _who_, use of, _whom_, use of, _widow_, use of, _widow woman_ to be avoided, _wife_, use of, , _wilkes-barre_, spelling of, williams, walter, quoted, _wish_ preferred to _want_, _with_, book illustrated, sketches, things compared, _without_ misused for _unless_, _woman_ preferred to _lady_, women, protection of good name of, words, pictorial power of, superfluous, _woolly_, spelling of, _world series_, spelling of, x _xmas_, prefer christmas to, y _years_, punctuation of, your audience, transcriber's note: spelling, grammar and punctuation have been preserved as they appear in the original publication except as follows: page cartridges and bandages_, _changed to_ cartridges and bandages_. page thay are saying _changed to_ they are saying page care is needed is using _changed to_ care is needed in using anything else. lurid means a _changed to_ anything else. _lurid_ means a page general concensus of opinion _changed to_ general consensus of opinion page pittsburg, cleveland, chicago _changed to_ pittsburgh, cleveland, chicago page _de rigueur_ _changed to_ _de riguer_ page call a _revolver a gun_ _changed to_ call _a revolver a gun_ page one adjective to quality it _changed to_ one adjective to qualify it page avoid euphuisms regarding _changed to_ avoid euphemisms regarding page lines, punctuatuon and capitalization _changed to_ lines, punctuation and capitalization _democrat_, _-ic._, capitalization _changed to_ _democrat_, _-ic_, capitalization page _repertory_, spelling of, in the original this entry appeared between "room" and ross. for this ebook it has been placed in alphabetical order between render and reporters the free press by hilaire belloc london: george allen & unwin ltd. ruskin house museum street w.c first published in (all rights reserved) dedication kings land, shipley, horsham. _october , ._ my dear orage, i dedicate this little essay to you not only because "the new age" (which is your paper) published it in its original form, but much more because you were, i think, the pioneer, in its modern form at any rate, of the free press in this country. i well remember the days when one used to write to "the new age" simply because one knew it to be the only paper in which the truth with regard to our corrupt politics, or indeed with regard to any powerful evil, could be told. that is now some years ago; but even to-day there is only one other paper in london of which this is true, and that is the "new witness." your paper and that at present edited by mr. gilbert chesterton are the fullest examples of the free press we have. it is significant, i think, that these two papers differ entirely in the philosophies which underlie their conduct and in the social ends at which they aim. in other words, they differ entirely in religion which is the ultimate spring of all political action. there is perhaps no single problem of any importance in private or in public morals which the one would not attempt to solve in a fashion different from, and usually antagonistic to, the other. yet we discover these two papers with their limited circulation, their lack of advertisement subsidy, their restriction to a comparatively small circle, possessing a power which is not only increasing but has long been quite out of proportion to their numerical status. things happen because of words printed in "the new age" and the "new witness." that is less and less true of what i have called the official press. the phenomenon is worth analysing. its intellectual interest alone will arrest the attention of any future historian. here is a force numerically quite small, lacking the one great obvious power of our time (which is the power to bribe), rigidly boycotted--so much so that it is hardly known outside the circle of its immediate adherents and quite unknown abroad. yet this force is doing work--is creating--at a moment when almost everything else is marking time; and the work it is doing grows more and more apparent. the reason is, of course, the principle which was a commonplace with antiquity, though it was almost forgotten in the last modern generation, that truth has a power of its own. mere indignation against organized falsehood, mere revolt against it, is creative. it is the thesis of this little essay, as you will see, that the free press will succeed in its main object which is the making of the truth known. there was a moment, i confess, when i would not have written so hopefully. some years ago, especially after i had founded the "eye-witness," i was, in the tedium of the effort, half convinced that success could not be obtained. it is a mood which accompanies exile. to produce that mood is the very object of the boycott to which the free press is subjected. but i have lived, in the last five years, to see that this mood was false. it is now clear that steady work in the exposure of what is evil, whatever forces are brought to bear against that exposure, bears fruit. that is the reason i have written the few pages printed here: to convince men that even to-day one can do something in the way of political reform, and that even to-day there is room for something of free speech. i say at the close of these pages that i do not believe the new spirit we have produced will lead to any system of self-government, economic or political. i think the decay has gone too far for that. in this i may be wrong; it is but an opinion with regard to the future. on the other matter i have experience and immediate example before me, and i am certain that the battle for free political discussion is now won. mere knowledge of our public evils, economic and political, will henceforward spread; and though we must suffer the external consequences of so prolonged a regime of lying, the lies are now known to be lies. true expression, though it should bear no immediate and practical fruit, is at least now guaranteed a measure of freedom, and the coming evils which the state must still endure will at least not be endured in silence. therefore it was worth while fighting. very sincerely yours, h. belloc. the free press i propose to discuss in what follows the evil of the great modern capitalist press, its function in vitiating and misinforming opinion and in putting power into ignoble hands; its correction by the formation of small independent organs, and the probably increasing effect of these last. i about two hundred years ago a number of things began to appear in europe which were the fruit of the renaissance and of the reformation combined: two warring twins. these things appeared first of all in england, because england was the only province of europe wherein the old latin tradition ran side by side with the novel effects of protestantism. but for england the great schism and heresy of the sixteenth century, already dissolving to-day, would long ago have died. it would have been confined for some few generations to those outer northern parts of the continent which had never really digested but had only received in some mechanical fashion the strong meat of rome. it would have ceased with, or shortly after, the thirty years war. it was the defection of the english crown, the immense booty rapidly obtained by a few adventurers, like the cecils and russells, and a still smaller number of old families, like the howards, which put england, with all its profound traditions and with all its organic inheritance of the great european thing, upon the side of the northern germanies. it was inevitable, therefore, that in england the fruits should first appear, for here only was there deep soil. that fruit upon which our modern observation has been most fixed was _capitalism_. capitalism proceeded from england and from the english reformation; but it was not fully alive until the early eighteenth century. in the nineteenth it matured. another cognate fruit was what to-day we call _finance_, that is, the domination of the state by private capitalists who, taking advantage of the necessities of the state, fix an increasing mortgage upon the state and work perpetually for fluidity, anonymity, and irresponsibility in their arrangements. it was in england, again, that this began and vigorously began with what i think was the first true "national debt"; a product contemporary in its origins with industrial capitalism. another was that curious and certainly ephemeral vagary of the human mind which has appeared before now in human history, which is called "sophistry," and which consists in making up "systems" to explain the world; in contrast with philosophy which aims at the answering of questions, the solution of problems and the final establishment of the truth. but most interesting of all just now, though but a minor fruit, is the thing called "the press." it also began to arise contemporaneously with capitalism and finance: it has grown with them and served them. it came to the height of its power at the same modern moment as did they. let us consider what exactly it means: then we shall the better understand what its development has been. ii "the press" means (for the purpose of such an examination) the dissemination by frequently and regularly printed sheets (commonly daily sheets) of ( ) news and ( ) suggested ideas. these two things are quite distinct in character and should be regarded separately, though they merge in this: that false ideas are suggested by false news and especially by news which is false through suppression. first, of news:-- news, that is, information with regard to those things which affect us but which are not within our own immediate view, is necessary to the life of the state. the obvious, the extremely cheap, the _universal_ means of propagating it, is by word of mouth. a man has seen a thing; many men have seen a thing. they testify to that thing, and others who have heard them repeat their testimony. the press thrust into the midst of this natural system (which is still that upon which all reasonable men act, whenever they can, in matters most nearly concerning them) two novel features, both of them exceedingly corrupting. in the first place, it gave to the printed words a _rapidity of extension_ with which repeated spoken words could not compete. in the second place, it gave them a _mechanical similarity_ which was the very opposite to the marks of healthy human news. i would particularly insist upon this last point. it is little understood and it is vital. if we want to know what to think of a fire which has taken place many miles away, but which affects property of our own, we listen to the accounts of dozens of men. we rapidly and instinctively differentiate between these accounts according to the characters of the witnesses. equally instinctively, we counter-test these accounts by the inherent probabilities of the situation. an honest and sober man tells us that the roof of the house fell in. an imaginative fool, who is also a swindler, assures us that he later saw the roof standing. we remember that the roof was of iron girders covered with wood, and draw this conclusion: that the framework still stands, but that the healing fell through in a mass of blazing rubbish. our common sense and our knowledge of the situation incline us rather to the bad than to the good witness, and we are right. but the press cannot of its nature give a great number of separate testimonies. these would take too long to collect, and would be too expensive to collect. still less is it able to deliver the weight of each. it, therefore, presents us, even at its best when the testimony is not tainted, no more than one crude affirmation. this one relation is, as i have said, further propagated unanimously and with extreme rapidity. instead of an organic impression formed at leisure in the comparison of many human sources, the reader obtains a mechanical one. at the same moment myriads of other men receive this same impression. their adherence to it corroborates his own. even therefore when the disseminator of the news, that is, the owner of the newspaper, has no special motive for lying, the message is conveyed in a vitiated and inhuman form. where he has a motive for lying (as he usually has) his lie can outdo any merely spoken or written truth. if this be true of news and of its vitiation through the press, it is still truer of opinions and suggested ideas. opinions, above all, we judge by the personalities of those who deliver them: by voice, tone, expression, and known character. the press eliminates three-quarters of all by which opinion may be judged. and yet it presents the opinion with the more force. the idea is presented in a sort of impersonal manner that impresses with peculiar power because it bears a sort of detachment, as though it came from some authority too secure and superior to be questioned. it is suddenly communicated to thousands. it goes unchallenged, unless by some accident another controller of such machines will contradict it and can get his contradiction read by the same men as have read the first statement. these general characters were present in the press even in its infancy, when each news-sheet still covered but a comparatively small circle; when distribution was difficult, and when the audience addressed was also select and in some measure able to criticize whatever was presented to it. but though present they had no great force; for the adventure of a newspaper was limited. the older method of obtaining news was still remembered and used. the regular readers of anything, paper or book, were few, and those few cared much more for the quality of what they read than for its amount. moreover, they had some means of judging its truth and value. in this early phase, moreover, the press was necessarily highly diverse. one man could print and sell profitably a thousand copies of his version of a piece of news, of his opinions, or those of his clique. there were hundreds of other men who, if they took the pains, had the means to set out a rival account and a rival opinion. we shall see how, as capitalism grew, these safeguards decayed and the bad characters described were increased to their present enormity. iii side by side with the development of capitalism went a change in the press from its primitive condition to a worse. the development of capitalism meant that a smaller and a yet smaller number of men commanded the means of production and of distribution whereby could be printed and set before a large circle a news-sheet fuller than the old model. when distribution first changed with the advent of the railways the difference from the old condition was accentuated, and there arose perhaps one hundred, perhaps two hundred "organs," as they were called, which, in this country and the lowlands of scotland, told men what their proprietors chose to tell them, both as to news and as to opinion. the population was still fairly well spread; there were a number of local capitals; distribution was not yet so organized as to permit a paper printed as near as birmingham, even, to feel the competition of a paper printed in london only miles away. papers printed as far from london, as york, liverpool or exeter were the more independent. further the mass of men, though there was more intelligent reading (and writing, for that matter) than there is to-day, had not acquired the habit of daily reading. it may be doubted whether even to-day the mass of men (in the sense of the actual majority of adult citizens) have done so. but what i mean is that in the time of which i speak (the earlier part, and a portion of the middle, of the nineteenth century), there was no reading of papers as a regular habit by those who work with their hands. the papers were still in the main written for those who had leisure; those who for the most part had some travel, and those who had a smattering, at least, of the humanities. the matter appearing in the newspapers was often _written by_ men of less facilities. but the people who wrote them, wrote them under the knowledge that their audience was of the sort i describe. to this day in the healthy remnant of our old state, in the country villages, much of this tradition survives. the country folk in my own neighbourhood can read as well as i can; but they prefer to talk among themselves when they are at leisure, or, at the most, to seize in a few moments the main items of news about the war; they prefer this, i say, as a habit of mind, to the poring over square yards of printed matter which (especially in the sunday papers) are now food for their fellows in the town. that is because in the country a man has true neighbours, whereas the towns are a dust of isolated beings, mentally (and often physically) starved. iv meanwhile, there had appeared in connection with this new institution, "the press," a certain factor of the utmost importance: capitalist also in origin, and, therefore, inevitably exhibiting all the poisonous vices of capitalism as its effect flourished from more to more. this factor was _subsidy through advertisement_. at first the advertisement was not a subsidy. a man desiring to let a thing be known could let it be known much more widely and immediately through a newspaper than in any other fashion. he paid the newspaper to publish the thing that he wanted known, as that he had a house to let, or wine to sell. but it was clear that this was bound to lead to the paradoxical state of affairs from which we began to suffer in the later nineteenth century. a paper had for its revenue not only what people paid in order to obtain it, but also what people paid in order to get their wares or needs known through it. it, therefore, could be profitably produced at a cost greater than its selling price. advertisement revenue made it possible for a man to print a paper at a cost of d. and sell it at d. in the simple and earlier form of advertisement the extent and nature of the circulation was the only thing considered by the advertiser, and the man who printed the newspaper got more and more profit as he extended that circulation by giving more reading matter for a better-looking paper and still selling it further and further below cost price. when it was discovered how powerful the effect of suggestion upon the readers of advertisements could be, especially over such an audience as our modern great towns provide (a chaos, i repeat, of isolated minds with a lessening personal experience and with a lessening community of tradition), the value of advertising space rapidly rose. it became a more and more tempting venture to "start a newspaper," but at the same time, the development of capitalism made that venture more and more hazardous. it was more and more of a risky venture to start a new great paper even of a local sort, for the expense got greater and greater, and the loss, if you failed, more and more rapid and serious. advertisement became more and more the basis of profit, and the giving in one way and another of more and more for the d. or the / d. became the chief concern of the now wealthy and wholly capitalistic newspaper proprietor. long before the last third of the nineteenth century a newspaper, if it was of large circulation, was everywhere a venture or a property dependent wholly upon its advertisers. it had ceased to consider its public save as a bait for the advertiser. it lived (_in this phase_) entirely on its advertisement columns. v let us halt at this phase in the development of the thing to consider certain other changes which were on the point of appearance, and why they were on the point of appearance. in the first place, if advertisement had come to be the stand-by of a newspaper, the capitalist owning the sheet would necessarily consider his revenue from advertisement before anything else. he was indeed _compelled_ to do so unless he had enormous revenues from other sources, and ran his paper as a luxury costing a vast fortune a year. for in this industry the rule is either very great profits or very great and rapid losses--losses at the rate of £ , at least in a year where a great daily paper is concerned. he was compelled then to respect his advertisers as his paymasters. to that extent, therefore, his power of giving true news and of printing sound opinion was limited, even though his own inclinations should lean towards such news and such opinion. an individual newspaper owner might, for instance, have the greatest possible dislike for the trade in patent medicines. he might object to the swindling of the poor which is the soul of that trade. he might himself have suffered acute physical pain through the imprudent absorption of one of those quack drugs. but he certainly could not print an article against them, nor even an article describing how they were made, without losing a great part of his income, directly; and, perhaps, indirectly, the whole of it, from the annoyance caused to other advertisers, who would note his independence and fear friction in their own case. he would prefer to retain his income, persuade his readers to buy poison, and remain free (personally) from touching the stuff he recommended for pay. as with patent medicines so with any other matter whatsoever that was advertised. however bad, shoddy, harmful, or even treasonable the matter might be, the proprietor was always at the choice of publishing matter which did not affect _him_, and saving his fortune, or refusing it and jeopardizing his fortune. he chose the former course. in the second place, there was an even more serious development. advertisement having become the stand-by of the newspaper the large advertiser (as capitalism developed and the controls became fewer and more in touch one with the other) could not but regard his "giving" of an advertisement as something of a favour. there is always this psychological, or, if you will, artistic element in exchange. in pure economics exchange is exactly balanced by the respective advantages of the exchangers; just as in pure dynamics you have the parallelogram of forces. in the immense complexity of the real world material, friction, and a million other things affect the ideal parallelogram of forces; and in economics other conscious passions besides those of mere avarice affect exchange: there are a million half-conscious and sub-conscious motives at work as well. the large advertiser still _mainly_ paid for advertisement according to circulation, but he also began to be influenced by less direct intentions. he would not advertise in papers which he thought might by their publication of opinion ultimately hurt capitalism as a whole; still less in those whose opinions might affect his own private fortune adversely. stupid (like all people given up to gain), he was muddle-headed about the distinction between a large circulation and a circulation small, but appealing to the rich. he would refuse advertisements of luxuries to a paper read by half the wealthier class if he had heard in the national liberal club, or some such place, that the paper was "in bad taste." not only was there this negative power in the hands of the advertiser, that of refusing the favour or patronage of his advertisements, there was also a positive one, though that only grew up later. the advertiser came to see that he could actually dictate policy and opinion; and that he had also another most powerful and novel weapon in his hand, which was the _suppression_ of news. we must not exaggerate this element. for one thing the power represented by the great capitalist press was a power equal with that of the great advertisers. for another, there was no clear-cut distinction between the capitalism that owned newspapers and the capitalism that advertised. the same man who owned "the daily times" was a shareholder in jones's soap or smith's pills. the man who gambled and lost on "the howl" was at the same time gambling and winning on a bucket-shop advertised in "the howl." there was no antagonism of class interest one against the other, and what was more they were of the same kind and breed. the fellow that got rich quick in a newspaper speculation--or ended in jail over it--was exactly the same kind of man as he who bought a peerage out of a "combine" in music halls or cut his throat when his bluff in indian silver was called. the type is the common modern type. parliament is full of it, and it runs newspapers only as one of its activities--all of which need the suggestion of advertisement. the newspaper owner and the advertiser, then, were intermixed. but on the balance the advertising interest being wider spread was the stronger, and what you got was a sort of imposition, often quite conscious and direct, of advertising power over the press; and this was, as i have said, not only negative (that was long obvious) but, at last, positive. sometimes there is an open battle between the advertiser and the proprietor, especially when, as is the case with framers of artificial monopolies, both combatants are of a low, cunning, and unintelligent type. minor friction due to the same cause is constantly taking place. sometimes the victory falls to the newspaper proprietor, more often to the advertiser--never to the public. so far, we see the growth of the press marked by these characteristics. ( ) it falls into the hands of a very few rich men, and nearly always of men of base origin and capacities. ( ) it is, in their hands, a mere commercial enterprise. ( ) it is economically supported by advertisers who can in part control it, but these are of the same capitalist kind, in motive and manner, with the owners of the papers. their power does not, therefore, clash in the main with that of the owners, but the fact that advertisement makes a paper, has created a standard of printing and paper such that no one--save at a disastrous loss--can issue regularly to large numbers news and opinion which the large capitalist advertisers disapprove. there would seem to be for any independent press no possible economic basis, because the public has been taught to expect for d. what it costs d. to make--the difference being paid by the advertisement subsidy. but there is now a graver corruption at work even than this always negative and sometimes positive power of the advertiser. it is the advent of the great newspaper owner as the true governing power in the political machinery of the state, superior to the officials in the state, nominating ministers and dismissing them, imposing policies, and, in general, usurping sovereignty--all this secretly and without responsibility. it is the chief political event of our time and is the peculiar mark of this country to-day. its full development has come on us suddenly and taken us by surprise in the midst of a terrible war. it was undreamt of but a few years ago. it is already to-day the capital fact of our whole political system. a prime minister is made or deposed by the owner of a group of newspapers, not by popular vote or by any other form of open authority. no policy is attempted until it is ascertained that the newspaper owner is in favour of it. few are proffered without first consulting his wishes. many are directly ordered by him. we are, if we talk in terms of real things (as men do in their private councils at westminster) mainly governed to-day, not even by the professional politicians, nor even by those who pay them money, but by whatever owner of a newspaper trust is, for the moment, the most unscrupulous and the most ambitious. how did such a catastrophe come about? that is what we must inquire into before going further to examine its operation and the possible remedy. vi during all this development of the press there has been present, _first_, as a doctrine plausible and arguable; _next_, as a tradition no longer in touch with reality; _lastly_, as an hypocrisy still pleading truth, a certain definition of the functions of the press; a doctrine which we must thoroughly grasp before proceeding to the nature of the press in these our present times. this doctrine was that the press was an _organ of opinion_--that is, an expression of the public thought and will. why was this doctrine originally what i have called it, "plausible and arguable"? at first sight it would seem to be neither the one nor the other. a man controlling a newspaper can print any folly or falsehood he likes. _he_ is the dictator: not his public. _they_ only receive. yes: but he is limited by his public. if i am rich enough to set up a big rotary printing press and print in a million copies of a daily paper the _news_ that the pope has become a methodist, or the _opinion_ that tin-tacks make a very good breakfast food, my newspaper containing such news and such an opinion would obviously not touch the general thought and will at all. no one, outside the small catholic minority, wants to hear about the pope; and no one, catholic or muslim, will believe that he has become a methodist. no one alive will consent to eat tin-tacks. a paper printing stuff like that is free to do so, the proprietor could certainly get his employees, or most of them, to write as he told them. but his paper would stop selling. it is perfectly clear that the press in itself simply represents the news which its owners desire to print and the opinions which they desire to propagate; and this argument against the press has always been used by those who are opposed to its influence at any moment. but there is no smoke without fire, and the element of truth in the legend that the press "represents" opinion lies in this, that there is a _limit_ of outrageous contradiction to known truths beyond which it cannot go without heavy financial loss through failure of circulation, which is synonymous with failure of power. when people talked of the newspaper owners as "representing public opinion" there was a shadow of reality in such talk, absurd as it seems to us to-day. though the doctrine that newspapers are "organs of public opinion" was (like most nineteenth century so-called "liberal" doctrines) falsely stated and hypocritical, it had that element of truth about it--at least, in the earlier phase of newspaper development. there is even a certain savour of truth hanging about it to this day. newspapers are only offered for sale; the purchase of them is not (as yet) compulsorily enforced. a newspaper can, therefore, never succeed unless it prints news in which people are interested and on the nature of which they can be taken in. a newspaper can manufacture interest, but there are certain broad currents in human affairs which neither a newspaper proprietor nor any other human being can control. if england is at war no newspaper can boycott war news and live. if london were devastated by an earthquake no advertising power in the insurance companies nor any private interest of newspaper owners in real estate could prevent the thing "getting into the newspapers." indeed, until quite lately--say, until about the ' 's or so--most news printed was really news about things which people wanted to understand. however garbled or truncated or falsified, it at least dealt with interesting matters which the newspaper proprietors had not started as a hare of their own, and which the public, as a whole, was determined to hear something about. even to-day, apart from the war, there is a large element of this. there was (and is) a further check upon the artificiality of the news side of the press; which is that reality always comes into its own at last. you cannot, beyond a certain limit of time, burke reality. in a word, the press must always largely deal with what are called "living issues." it can _boycott_ very successfully, and does so, with complete power. but it cannot artificially create unlimitedly the objects of "news." there is, then, this much truth in the old figment of the press being "an organ of opinion," that it must in some degree (and that a large degree) present real matter for observation and debate. it can and does select. it can and does garble. but it has to do this always within certain limitations. these limitations have, i think, already been reached; but that is a matter which i argue more fully later on. vii as to opinion, you have the same limitations. if opinion can be once launched in spite of, or during the indifference of, the press (and it is a big "if"); if there is no machinery for actually suppressing the mere statement of a doctrine clearly important to its readers--then the press is bound sooner or later to deal with such doctrine: just as it is bound to deal with really vital news. here, again, we are dealing with something very different indeed from that title "an organ of opinion" to which the large newspaper has in the past pretended. but i am arguing for the truth that the press--in the sense of the great capitalist newspapers--cannot be wholly divorced from opinion. we have had three great examples of this in our own time in england. two proceeded from the small wealthy class, and one from the mass of the people. the two proceeding from the small wealthy classes were the fabian movement and the movement for women's suffrage. the one proceeding from the populace was the sudden, brief (and rapidly suppressed) insurrection of the working classes against their masters in the matter of chinese labour in south africa. the fabian movement, which was a drawing-room movement, compelled the discussion in the press of socialism, for and against. although every effort was made to boycott the socialist contention in the press, the fabians were at last strong enough to compel its discussion, and they have by now canalized the whole thing into the direction of their "servile state." i myself am no more than middle-aged, but i can remember the time when popular newspapers such as "the star" openly printed arguments in favour of collectivism, and though to-day those arguments are never heard in the press--largely because the fabian society has itself abandoned collectivism in favour of forced labour--yet we may be certain that a capitalist paper would not have discussed them at all, still less have supported them, unless it had been compelled. the newspapers simply _could_ not ignore socialism at a time when socialism still commanded a really strong body of opinion among the wealthy. it was the same with the suffrage for women, which cry a clique of wealthy ladies got up in london. i have never myself quite understood why these wealthy ladies wanted such an absurdity as the modern franchise, or why they so blindly hated the christian institution of the family. i suppose it was some perversion. but, anyhow, they displayed great sincerity, enthusiasm, and devotion, suffering many things for their cause, and acting in the only way which is at all practical in our plutocracy--to wit, by making their fellow-rich exceedingly uncomfortable. you may say that no one newspaper took up the cause, but, at least, it was not boycotted. it was actively discussed. the little flash in the pan of chinese labour was, i think, even more remarkable. the press not only had word from the twin party machines (with which it was then allied for the purposes of power) to boycott the chinese labour agitation rigidly, but it was manifestly to the interest of all the capitalist newspaper proprietors to boycott it, and boycott it they did--as long as they could. but it was too much for them. they were swept off their feet. there were great meetings in the north-country which almost approached the dignity of popular action, and the press at last not only took up the question for discussion, but apparently permitted itself a certain timid support. my point is, then, that the idea of the press as "an organ of public opinion," that is, "an expression of the general thought and will," is not _only_ hypocritical, though it is _mainly_ so. there is still something in the claim. a generation ago there was more, and a couple of generations ago there was more still. even to-day, if a large paper went right against the national will in the matter of the present war it would be ruined, and papers which supported in the cabinet intrigue to abandon our allies at the beginning of the war have long since been compelled to eat their words. for the strength of a newspaper owner lies in his power to deceive the public and to withhold or to publish at will hidden things: his power in this terrifies the professional politicians who hold nominal authority: in a word, the newspaper owner controls the professional politician because he can and does blackmail the professional politician, especially upon his private life. but if he does not command a large public this power to blackmail does not exist; and he can only command a large public--that is, a large circulation--by interesting that public and even by flattering it that it has its opinions reflected--not created--for it. the power of the press is not a direct and open power. it depends upon a trick of deception; and no trick of deception works if the trickster passes a certain degree of cynicism. we must, therefore, guard ourselves against the conception that the great modern capitalist press is _merely_ a channel for the propagation of such news as may suit its proprietors, or of such opinions as they hold or desire to see held. such a judgment would be fanatical, and therefore worthless. our interest is in the _degree_ to which news can be suppressed or garbled, particular discussion of interest to the common-weal suppressed, spontaneous opinion boycotted, and artificial opinion produced. viii i say that our interest lies in the question of degree. it always does. the philosopher said: "all things are a matter of degree; and who shall establish degree?" but i think we are agreed--and by "we" i mean all educated men with some knowledge of the world around us--that the degree to which the suppression of truth, the propagation of falsehood, the artificial creation of opinion, and the boycott of inconvenient doctrine have reached in the great capitalist press for some time past in england, is at least dangerously high. there is no one in public life but could give dozens of examples from his own experience of perfectly sensible letters to the press, citing irrefutable testimony upon matters of the first importance, being refused publicity. within the guild of the journalists, there is not a man who could not give you a hundred examples of deliberate suppression and deliberate falsehood by his employers both as regards news important to the nation and as regards great bodies of opinion. equally significant with the mere vast numerical accumulation of such instances is their quality. let me give a few examples. no straightforward, common-sense, _real_ description of any professional politician--his manners, capacities, way of speaking, intelligence--ever appears to-day in any of the great papers. we never have anything within a thousand miles of what men who meet them _say_. we are, indeed, long past the time when the professional politicians were treated as revered beings of whom an inept ritual description had to be given. but the substitute has only been a putting of them into the limelight in another and more grotesque fashion, far less dignified, and quite equally false. we cannot even say that the professional politicians are still made to "fill the stage." that metaphor is false, because upon a stage the audience knows that it is all play-acting, and actually _sees_ the figures. let any man of reasonable competence soberly and simply describe the scene in the house of commons when some one of the ordinary professional politicians is speaking. it would not be an exciting description. the truth here would not be a violent or dangerous truth. let him but write soberly and with truth. let him write it as private letters are daily written in dozens about such folk, or as private conversation runs among those who know them, and who have no reason to exaggerate their importance, but see them as they are. such a description would never be printed! the few owners of the press will not turn off the limelight and make a brief, accurate statement about these mediocrities, because their power to govern depends upon keeping in the limelight the men whom they control. once let the public know what sort of mediocrities the politicians are and they lose power. once let them lose power and their hidden masters lose power. take a larger instance: the middle and upper classes are never allowed by any chance to hear in time the dispute which leads to a strike or a lock-out. here is an example of news which is of the utmost possible importance to the commonwealth, and to each of us individually. to understand _why_ a vast domestic dispute has arisen is the very first necessity for a sound civic judgment. but we never get it. the event always comes upon us with violence and is always completely misunderstood--because the press has boycotted the men's claims. i talked to dozens of people in my own station of life--that is, of the professional middle classes--about the great building lock-out which coincided with the outbreak of the war. _i did not find a single one who knew that it was a lock-out at all!_ the few who did at least know the difference between a strike and a lock-out, _all_ thought it was a strike! let no one say that the disgusting falsehoods spread by the press in this respect were of no effect the men themselves gave in, and their perfectly just demands were defeated, mainly because middle-class opinion _and a great deal of proletarian opinion as well_ had been led to believe that the builders' cessation of labour was a _strike_ due to their own initiative against existing conditions, and thought the operation of such an initiative immoral in time of war. they did not know the plain truth that the provocation was the masters', and that the men were turned out of employment, that is deprived of access to the capitalist stores of food and all other necessaries, wantonly and avariciously by the masters. the press would not print that enormous truth. i will give another general example. the whole of england was concerned during the second year of the war with the first rise in the price of food. there was no man so rich but he had noticed it in his household books, and for nine families out of ten it was the one pre-occupation of the moment. i do not say the great newspapers did not deal with it, but _how_ did they deal with it? with a mass advocacy in favour of this professional politician or that; with a mass of unco-ordinated advices; and, above all, with a mass of nonsense about the immense earnings of the proletariat. the whole thing was really and deliberately side-tracked for months until, by the mere force of things, it compelled attention. each of us is a witness to this. we have all seen it. every single reader of these lines knows that my indictment is true. not a journalist of the hundreds who were writing the falsehood or the rubbish at the dictation of his employer but had felt the strain upon the little weekly cheque which was his _own_ wage. yet this enormous national thing was at first not dealt with at all in the press, and, when dealt with, was falsified out of recognition. i could give any number of other, and, perhaps, minor instances as the times go (but still enormous instances as older morals went) of the same thing. they have shown the incapacity and falsehood of the great capitalist newspapers during these few months of white-hot crisis in the fate of england. this is not a querulous complaint against evils that are human and necessary, and therefore always present. i detest such waste of energy, and i agree with all my heart in the statement recently made by the editor of "the new age" that in moments such as these, when any waste is inexcusable, sterile complaint is the _worst_ of waste. but my complaint here is not sterile. it is fruitful. this capitalist press has come at last to warp all judgment. the tiny oligarchy which controls it is irresponsible and feels itself immune. it has come to believe that it can suppress any truth and suggest any falsehood. it governs, and governs abominably: and it is governing thus in the midst of a war for life. ix i say that the few newspaper controllers govern; and govern abominably. i am right. but they only do so, as do all new powers, by at once alliance with, and treason against, the old: witness harmsworth and the politicians. the new governing press is an oligarchy which still works "in with" the just-less-new parliamentary oligarchy. this connection has developed in the great capitalist papers a certain character which can be best described by the term "official." under certain forms of arbitrary government in continental europe ministers once made use of picked and rare newspapers to express their views, and these newspapers came to be called "the official press." it was a crude method, and has been long abandoned even by the simpler despotic forms of government. nothing of that kind exists now, of course, in the deeper corruption of modern europe--least of all in england. what has grown up here is a press organization of support and favour to the system of professional politics which colours the whole of our great capitalist papers to-day in england. this gives them so distinct a character, of parliamentary falsehood, and that falsehood is so clearly dictated by their connection with executive power that they merit the title "official." the regime under which we are now living is that of a plutocracy which has gradually replaced the old aristocratic tradition of england. this plutocracy--a few wealthy interests--in part controls, in part is expressed by, is in part identical with the professional politicians, and it has in the existing capitalist press an ally similar to that "official press" which continental nations knew in the past. but there is this great difference, that the "official press" of continental experiments never consisted in more than a few chosen organs the character of which was well known, and the attitude of which contrasted sharply with the rest. but _our_ "official press" (for it is no less) covers the whole field. it has in the region of the great newspapers no competitor; indeed, it has no competitors at all, save that small free press, of which i shall speak in a moment, and which is its sole antagonist. if any one doubts that this adjective "official" can properly be applied to our capitalist press to-day, let him ask himself first what the forces are which govern the nation, and next, whether those forces--that government or regime--could be better served even under a system of permanent censorship than it is in the great dailies of london and the principal provincial capitals. is not everything which the regime desires to be suppressed, suppressed? is not everything which it desires suggested, suggested? and is there any public question which would weaken the regime, and the discussion of which is ever allowed to appear in the great capitalist journals? there has not been such a case for at least twenty years. the current simulacrum of criticism apparently attacking some portion of the regime, never deals with matters vital to its prestige. on the contrary, it deliberately side-tracks any vital discussion that sincere conviction may have forced upon the public, and spoils the scent with false issues. one paper, not a little while ago, was clamouring against the excess of lawyers in government. its remedy was an opposition to be headed by a lawyer. another was very serious upon secret trading with the enemy. it suppressed for months all reference to the astounding instance of that misdemeanour by the connections of a very prominent professional politician early in the war, and refused to comment on the single reference made to this crime in the house of commons! another clamours for the elimination of enemy financial power in the affairs of this country, and yet says not a word upon the auditing of the secret party funds! i say that the big daily papers have now not only those other qualities dangerous to the state which i have described, but that they have become essentially "official," that is, insincere and corrupt in their interested support of that plutocratic complex which, in the decay of aristocracy, governs england. they are as official in this sense as were ever the court organs of ephemeral continental experiments. all the vices, all the unreality, and all the peril that goes with the existence of an official press is stamped upon the great dailies of our time. they are not independent where power is concerned. they do not really criticize. they serve a clique whom they should expose, and denounce and betray the generality--that is the state--for whose sake the salaried public servants should be perpetually watched with suspicion and sharply kept in control. the result is that the mass of englishmen have ceased to obtain, or even to expect, information upon the way they are governed. they are beginning to feel a certain uneasiness. they know that their old power of observation over public servants has slipped from them. they suspect that the known gross corruption of public life, and particularly of the house of commons, is entrenched behind a conspiracy of silence on the part of those very few who have the power to inform them. but, as yet, they have not passed the stage of such suspicion. they have not advanced nearly as far as the discovery of the great newspaper owners and their system. they are still, for the most part, duped. this transitional state of affairs (for i hope to show that it is only transitional) is a very great evil. it warps and depletes public information. it prevents the just criticism of public servants. above all, it gives immense and _irresponsible_ power to a handful of wealthy men--and especially to the one most wealthy and unscrupulous among them--whose wealth is an accident of speculation, whose origins are repulsive, and whose characters have, as a rule, the weakness and baseness developed by this sort of adventures. there are, among such gutter-snipes, thousands whose luck ends in the native gutter, half a dozen whose luck lands them into millions, one or two at most who, on the top of such a career go crazy with the ambition of the parvenu and propose to direct the state. even when gambling adventurers of this sort are known and responsible (as they are in professional politics) their power is a grave danger. possessing as the newspaper owners do every power of concealment and, at the same time, no shred of responsibility to any organ of the state, they are a deadly peril. the chief of these men are more powerful to-day than any minister. nay, they do, as i have said (and it is now notorious), make and unmake ministers, and they may yet in our worst hour decide the national fate. * * * * * now to every human evil of a political sort that has appeared in history (to every evil, that is, affecting the state, and proceeding from the will of man--not from ungovernable natural forces outside man) there comes a term and a reaction. here i touch the core of my matter. side by side with what i have called "the official press" in our top-heavy plutocracy there has arisen a certain force for which i have a difficulty in finding a name, but which i will call for lack of a better name "the free press." i might call it the "independent" press were it not that such a word would connote as yet a little too much power, though i do believe its power to be rising, and though i am confident that it will in the near future change our affairs. i am not acquainted with any other modern language than french and english, but i read this free press french and english, colonial and american regularly and it seems to me the chief intellectual phenomenon of our time. in france and in england, and for all i know elsewhere, there has arisen in protest against the complete corruption and falsehood of the great capitalist papers a crop of new organs which _are_ in the strictest sense of the word "organs of opinion." i need not detain english readers with the effect of this upon the continent. it is already sufficiently noteworthy in england alone, and we shall do well to note it carefully. "the new age" was, i think, the pioneer in the matter. it still maintains a pre-eminent position. i myself founded the "eye-witness" in the same chapter of ideas (by which i do not mean at all with similar objects of propaganda). ireland has produced more than one organ of the sort, scotland one or two. their number will increase. with this i pass from the just denunciation of evil to the exposition of what is good. i propose to examine the nature of that movement which i call "the free press," to analyse the disabilities under which it suffers, and to conclude with my conviction that it is, in spite of its disabilities, not only a growing force, but a salutary one, and, in a certain measure, a conquering one. it is to this argument that i shall now ask my readers to direct themselves. x the rise of what i have called "the free press" was due to a reaction against what i have called "the official press." but this reaction was not single in motive. three distinct moral motives lay behind it and converged upon it. we shall do well to separate and recognize each, because each has had it's effect upon the free press as a whole, and that free press bears the marks of all three most strongly to-day. the first motive apparent, coming much earlier than either of the other two, was the motive of (a) _propaganda_. the second motive was (b) _indignation against the concealment of truth_, and the third motive was (c) _indignation against irresponsible power_: the sense of oppression which an immoral irresponsibility in power breeds among those who are unhappily subject to it. let us take each of these in their order. xi a the motive of propaganda (which began to work much the earliest of the three) concerned religions, and also certain racial enthusiasms or political doctrines which, by their sincerity and readiness for sacrifice, had half the force of religions. men found that the great papers (in their final phase) refused to talk about anything really important in religion. they dared do nothing but repeat very discreetly the vaguest ethical platitudes. they hardly dared do even that. they took for granted a sort of invertebrate common opinion. they consented to be slightly coloured by the dominating religion of the country in which each paper happened to be printed--and there was an end of it. great bodies of men who cared intensely for a definite creed found that expression for it was lacking, even if this creed (as in france) were that of a very large majority in the state. the "organs of opinion" professed a genteel ignorance of that idea which was most widespread, most intense, and most formative. nor could it be otherwise with a capitalist enterprise whose directing motive was not conversion or even expression, but mere gain. there was nothing to distinguish a large daily paper owned by a jew from one owned by an agnostic or a catholic. necessity of expression compelled the creation of a free press in connection with this one motive of religion. men came across very little of this in england, because england was for long virtually homogeneous in religion, and that religion was not enthusiastic during the years in which the free press arose. but such a free press in defence of religion (the pioneer of all the free press) arose in ireland and in france and elsewhere. it had at first no quarrel with the big official capitalist press. it took for granted the anodyne and meaningless remarks on religion which appeared in the sawdust in the official press, but it asserted the necessity of specially emphasizing its particular point of view in its own columns: for religion affects all life. this same motive of propaganda later launched other papers in defence of enthusiasms other than strictly religious enthusiasms, and the most important of these was the enthusiasm for collectivism--socialism. a generation ago and more, great numbers of men were persuaded that a solution for the whole complex of social injustice was to be found in what they called "nationalizing the means of production, distribution, and exchange." that is, of course, in plain english, putting land, houses, and machinery, and stores of food and clothing into the hands of the politicians for control in use and for distribution in consumption. this creed was held with passionate conviction by men of the highest ability in every country of europe; and a socialist press began to arise, which was everywhere free, and soon in active opposition to the official press. again (of a religious temper in their segregation, conviction and enthusiasm) there began to appear (when the oppressor was mild), the small papers defending the rights of oppressed nationalities. religion, then, and cognate enthusiasms were the first breeders of the free press. it is exceedingly important to recognize this, because it has stamped the whole movement with a particular character to which i shall later refer when i come to its disabilities. the motive of propaganda, i repeat, was not at first conscious of anything iniquitous in the great press or official press side by side with which it existed. veuillot, in founding his splendidly fighting newspaper, which had so prodigious an effect in france, felt no particular animosity against the "debats," for instance; his particular catholic enthusiasm recognized itself as exceptional, and was content to accept the humble or, at any rate, inferior position, which admitted eccentricity connotes. "later," these founders of the free press seemed to say, "we may convert the mass to our views, but, for the moment, we are admittedly a clique: an exceptional body with the penalties attaching to such." they said this although the whole life of france is at least as catholic as the life of great britain is plutocratic, or the life of switzerland democratic. and they said it because they arose _after_ the capitalist press (neutral in religion as in every vital thing) had captured the whole field. the first propagandists, then, did not stand up to the official press as equals. they crept in as inferiors, or rather as open ex-centrics. for victorian england and third empire france falsely proclaimed the "representative" quality of the official press. to the honour of the socialist movement the socialist free press was the first to stand up as an equal against the giants. i remember how in my boyhood i was shocked and a little dazed to see references in socialist sheets such as "justice" to papers like the "daily telegraph," or the "times," with the epithet "capitalist" put after them in brackets. i thought, then, it was the giving of an abnormal epithet to a normal thing; but i now know that these small socialist free papers were talking the plainest common sense when they specifically emphasized as _capitalist_ the falsehoods and suppressions of their great contemporaries. from the socialist point of view the leading fact about the insincerity of the great official papers is that this insincerity is capitalist; just as from a catholic point of view the leading fact about it was, and is, that it is anti-catholic. though, however, certain of the socialist free papers thus boldly took up a standpoint of moral equality with the others, their attitude was exceptional. most editors or owners of, most writers upon, the free press, in its first beginnings, took the then almost universal point of view that the great papers were innocuous enough and fairly represented general opinion, and were, therefore, not things to be specifically combated. the great dailies were thought grey; not wicked--only general and vague. the free press in its beginnings did not attack as an enemy. it only timidly claimed to be heard. it _regarded itself_ as a "speciality." it was humble. and there went with it a mass of ex-centric stuff. if one passes in review all the free press journals which owed their existence in england and france alone to this motive of propaganda, one finds many "side shows," as it were, beside the main motives of local or race patriotism, religion, or socialist conviction. you have, for instance, up and down europe, the very powerful and exceedingly well-written anti-semitic papers, of which drumont's "libre parole" was long the chief. you have the single-tax papers. you have the teetotal papers--and, really, it is a wonder that you have not yet also had the iconoclasts and the diabolists producing papers. the rationalist and the atheist propaganda i reckon among the religious. we may take it, then, that propaganda was, in order of time, the first motive of the free press and the first cause of its production. now from this fact arises a consideration of great importance to our subject. this propagandist origin of the free press stamped it from its outset with a character it still bears, and will continue to bear, until it has had that effect in correcting, and, perhaps, destroying, the official press, to which i shall later turn. i mean that the free press has had stamped upon it the character of _disparate particularism_. wherever i go, my first object, if i wish to find out the truth, is to get hold of the free press in france as in england, and even in america. but i know that wherever i get hold of such an organ it will be very strongly coloured with the opinion, or even fanaticism, of some minority. the free press, as a whole, if you add it all up and cancel out one exaggerated statement against another, does give you a true view of the state of society in which you live. the official press to-day gives you an absurdly false one everywhere. what a caricature--and what a base, empty caricature--of england or france or italy you get in the "times," or the "manchester guardian," the "matin," or the "tribune"! no one of them is in any sense general--or really national. the free press gives you the truth; but only in disjointed sections, for it is _disparate_ and it is _particularist_: it is marked with isolation--and it is so marked because its origin lay in various and most diverse _propaganda_: because it came later than the official press of capitalism, and was, in its origins, but a reaction against it. b the second motive, that of indignation against _falsehood_, came to work much later than the motive of propaganda. men gradually came to notice that one thing after another of great public interest, sometimes of vital public interest, was deliberately suppressed in the principal great official papers, and that positive falsehoods were increasingly suggested, or stated. there was more than this. for long the _owner_ of a newspaper had for the most part been content to regard it as a revenue-producing thing. the _editor_ was supreme in matters of culture and opinion. true, the editor, being revocable and poor, could not pretend to full political power. but it was a sort of dual arrangement which yet modified the power of the vulgar owner. i myself remember that state of affairs: the editor who was a gentleman and dined out, the proprietor who was a lord and nervous when he met a gentleman. it changed in the nineties of the last century or the late eighties. it had disappeared by the 's. the editor became (and now is) a mere mouthpiece of the proprietor. editors succeed each other rapidly. of great papers to-day the editor's name of the moment is hardly known--but not a cabinet minister that could not pass an examination in the life, vices, vulnerability, fortune, investments and favours of the owner. the change was rapidly admitted. it came quickly but thoroughly. at last--like most rapid developments--it exceeded itself. men owning the chief newspapers could be heard boasting of their power in public, as an admitted thing; and as this power was recognized, and as it grew with time and experiment, it bred a reaction. why should this or that vulgarian (men began to say) exercise (and boast of!) the power to keep the people ignorant upon matters vital to us all? to distort, to lie? the sheer necessity of getting certain truths told, which these powerful but hidden fellows refused to tell, was a force working at high potential and almost compelling the production of free papers side by side with the big official ones. that is why you nearly always find the free press directed by men of intelligence and cultivation--of exceptional intelligence and cultivation. and that is where it contrasts most with its opponents. c but only a little later than this second motive of indignation against falsehood and acting with equal force (though upon fewer men) was the third motive of _freedom_: of indignation against _arbitrary power_. for men who knew the way in which we are governed, and who recognized, especially during the last twenty years, that the great newspaper was coming to be more powerful than the open and responsible (though corrupt) executive of the country, the position was intolerable. it is bad enough to be governed by an aristocracy or a monarch whose executive power is dependent upon legend in the mass of the people; it is humiliating enough to be thus governed through a sort of play-acting instead of enjoying the self-government of free men. it is worse far to be governed by a clique of professional politicians bamboozling the multitude with a pretence of "democracy." but it is intolerable that similar power should reside in the hands of obscure nobodies about whom no illusion could possibly exist, whose tyranny is not admitted or public at all, who do not even take the risk of exposing their features, and to whom no responsibility whatever attaches. the knowledge that this was so provided the third, and, perhaps, the most powerful motive for the creation of a free press. unfortunately, it could affect only very few men. with the mass even of well-educated and observant men the feeling created by the novel power of the great papers was little more than a vague ill ease. they had a general conception that the owner of a widely circulated popular newspaper could, and did, blackmail the professional politician: make or unmake the professional politician by granting or refusing him the limelight; dispose of cabinets; nominate absurd ministers. but the particular, vivid, concrete instances that specially move men to action were hidden from them. only a small number of people were acquainted with such particular truths. but that small number knew very well that we were thus in reality governed by men responsible to no one, and hidden from public blame. the determination to be rid of such a secret monopoly of power compelled a reaction: and that reaction was the free press. xii such being the motive powers of the free press in all countries, but particularly in france and england, where the evils of the capitalist (or official) press were at their worst, let us next consider the disabilities under which this reaction--the free press--suffered. i think these disabilities lie under four groups. ( ) in the first place, the free journals suffered from the difficulty which all true reformers have, that they have to begin by going against the stream. ( ) in the second place they suffered from that character of particularism or "crankiness," which was a necessary result of their propagandist character. ( ) in the third place--and this is most important--they suffered economically. they were unable to present to their readers all that their readers expected at the price. this was because they were refused advertisement subsidy and were boycotted. ( ) in the fourth place, for reasons that will be apparent in a moment, they suffered from lack of information. to these four main disabilities the free papers in _this_ country added a fifth peculiarly our own; they stood in peril from the arbitrary power of the political lawyers. let us consider first the main four points. when we have examined them all we shall see against what forces, and in spite of what negative factors, the free press has established itself to-day. i say that in the first place the free press, being a reformer, suffered from what all reformers suffer from, to wit, that in their origins they must, by definition, go against the stream. the official capitalist press round about them had already become a habit when the free papers appeared. men had for some time made it a normal thing to read their daily paper; to believe what it told them to be facts, and even in a great measure to accept its opinion. a new voice criticizing by implication, or directly blaming or ridiculing a habit so formed, was necessarily an unpopular voice with the mass of readers, or, if it was not unpopular, that was only because it was negligible. this first disability, however, under which the free press suffered, and still suffers, would not naturally have been of long duration. the remaining three were far graver. for the mere inertia or counter current against which any reformer struggles is soon turned if the reformer (as was the case here) represented a real reaction, and was doing or saying things which the people, had they been as well informed as himself, would have agreed with. with the further disabilities of ( ) particularism, ( ) poverty, ( ) insufficiency (to which i add, in this country, restraint by the political lawyers), it was otherwise. the particularism of the free papers was a grave and permanent weakness which still endures. any instructed man to-day who really wants to find out what is going on reads the free press; but he is compelled, as i have said, to read the whole of it and piece together the sections if he wishes to discover his true whereabouts. each particular organ gives him an individual impression, which is ex-centric, often highly ex-centric, to the general impression. when i want to know, for instance, what is happening in france, i read the jewish socialist paper, the "humanité"; the most violent french revolutionary papers i can get, such as "la guerre sociale"; the royalist "action française"; the anti-semitic "libre parole," and so forth. if i want to find out what is really happening with regard to ireland, i not only buy the various small irish free papers (and they are numerous), but also "the new age" and the "new witness": and so on, all through the questions that are of real and vital interest. but i only get my picture as a composite. the very same truth will be emphasized by different free papers for totally different motives. take the marconi case. the big official papers first boycotted it for months, and then told a pack of silly lies in support of the politicians. the free press gave one the truth but its various organs gave the truth for very different reasons and with very different impressions. to some of the irish papers marconi was a comic episode, "just what one expects of westminster"; others dreaded it for fear it should lower the value of the irish-owned marconi shares. "the new age" looked at it from quite another point of view than that of the "new witness," and the specifically socialist free press pointed it out as no more than an example of what happens under capitalist government. a mahommedan paper would no doubt have called it a result of the nazarene religion, and a thug paper an awful example of what happens when your politicians are not thugs. my point is, then, that the free press thus starting from so many different particular standpoints has not yet produced a general organ; by which i mean that it has not produced an organ such as would command the agreement of a very great body of men, should that very great body of men be instructed on the real way in which we are governed. drumont was very useful for telling one innumerable particular fragments of truth, which the official press refuse to mention--such as the way in which the rothschilds cheated the french government over the death duties in paris some years ago. indeed, he alone ultimately compelled those wealthy men to disgorge, and it was a fine piece of work. but when he went on to argue that cheating the revenue was a purely jewish vice he could never get the mass of people to agree with him, for it was nonsense. charles maurras is one of the most powerful writers living, and when he points out in the "action française" that the french supreme court committed an illegal action at the close of the dreyfus case, he is doing useful work, for he is telling the truth on a matter of vital public importance. but when he goes on to say that such a thing would not have occurred under a nominal monarchy, he is talking nonsense. any one with the slightest experience of what the courts of law can be under a nominal monarchy shrugs his shoulders and says that maurras's action may have excellent results, but that his proposed remedy of setting up one of these modern kingships in. france in the place of the very corrupt parliament is not convincing. the "new republic" in new york vigorously defends brandeis because brandeis is a jew, and the "new republic" (which i read regularly, and which is invaluable to-day as an independent instructor on a small rich minority of american opinion) is jewish in tone. the defence of brandeis interests me and instructs me. but when the "new republic" prints pacifist propaganda by brailsford, or applauds lane under the alias of "norman angell," it is--in my view--eccentric and even contemptible. "new ireland" helps me to understand the quarrel of the younger men in ireland with the irish parliamentary party--but i must, and do, read the "freeman" as well. in a word, the free press all over the world, as far as i can read it, suffers from this note of particularity, and, therefore, of isolation and strain. it is not of general appeal. in connection with this disability you get the fact that the free press has come to depend upon individuals, and thus fails to be as yet an institution. it is difficult, to see how any of the papers i have named would long survive a loss of their present editorship. there might possibly be one successor; there certainly would not be two; and the result is that the effect of these organs is sporadic and irregular. in the same connection you have the disability of a restricted audience. there are some men (and i count myself one) who will read anything, however much they differ from its tone and standpoint, in order to obtain more knowledge. i am not sure that it is a healthy habit. at any rate it is an unusual one. most men will only read that which, while informing them, takes for granted a philosophy more or less sympathetic with their own. the free press, therefore, so long as it springs from many and varied minorities, not only suffers everywhere from an audience restricted in the case of each organ, but from preaching to the converted. it does get hold of a certain outside public which increases slowly, but it captures no great area of public attention at any one time. the third group of disabilities, as i have said, attaches to the economic weakness of the free press. the free press is rigorously boycotted by the great advertisers, partly, perhaps, because its small circulation renders them contemptuous (because nearly all of them are of the true wooden-headed "business" type that go in herds and never see for themselves where their goods will find the best market); but much more from frank enmity against the existence of any free press at all. stupidity, for instance, would account for the great advertisers not advertising articles of luxury in a paper with only a three thousand a week circulation, even if that paper were read from cover to cover by all the rich people in england; but it would not account for absence _in the free press alone_ of advertisements appearing in every other kind of paper, and in many organs of far smaller circulation than the free press papers have. the boycott is deliberate, and is persistently maintained. the effect is that the free press cannot give in space and quality of paper, excellence of distribution, and the rest, what the official press can give; for it lacks advertisement subsidy. this is a very grave economic handicap indeed. in part the free press is indirectly supported by a subsidy from its own writers. men whose writing commands high payment will contribute to the free press sometimes for small fees, usually for nothing; but, at any rate, always well below their market prices. but contribution of that kind is always precarious, and, if i may use the word, jerky. meanwhile, it does not fill a paper. it is true that the level of writing in the free press is very much higher than in the official press. to compare the notes in "the new age," for instance, with the notes in the "spectator" is to discern a contrast like that between one's chosen conversation with equals, and one's forced conversation with commercial travellers in a rail-way carriage. to read shaw or wells or gilbert or cecil chesterton or quiller couch or any one of twenty others in the "new witness" is to be in another world from the sludge and grind of the official weekly. but the boycott is rigid and therefore the supply is intermittent. it is not only a boycott of advertisement: it is a boycott of quotation. most of the governing class know the free press. the vast lower middle class does not yet know that it exists. the occasional articles in the free press have the same mark of high value, but it is not regular: and, meanwhile, hardly one of the free papers pays its way. the difficulty of distribution, which i have mentioned, comes under the same heading, and is another grave handicap. if a man finds a difficulty in getting some paper to which he is not a regular subscriber, but which he desires to purchase more or less regularly, it drops out of his habits. i myself, who am an assiduous reader of all such matter, have sometimes lost touch with one free paper or another for months, on account of a couple of weeks' difficulty in getting my copy, i believe this impediment of habit to apply to most of the free papers. fourthly, but also partly economic, there is the impediment the free press suffers of imperfect information. it will print truths which the great papers studiously conceal, but daily and widespread information on general matters it has great difficulty in obtaining. information is obtained either at great expense through private agents, or else by favour through official channels, that is, from the professional politicians. the official press makes and unmakes the politicians. therefore, the politician is careful to keep it informed of truths that are valuable to him, as well as to make it the organ of falsehoods equally valuable. most of the official papers, for instance, were informed of the indian silver scandal by the culprits themselves in a fashion which forestalled attack. those who led the attack groped in the dark. for we must remember that the professional politicians all stand in together when a financial swindle is being carried out. there is no "opposition" in these things. since it is the very business of the free press to expose the falsehood or inanity of the official capitalist press, one may truly say that a great part of the energies of the free press is wasted in this "groping in the dark" to which it is condemned. at the same time, the economic difficulty prevents the free press from paying for information difficult to be obtained, and under these twin disabilities it remains heavily handicapped. the political lawyers we must consider separately, for it is not universal but peculiar to our own society, the heavy disability under which the free press suffers in this country from the now unchecked power of the political lawyers. i have no need to emphasize the power of a guild when it is once formed, and has behind it strong corporate traditions. it is the principal thesis of "the new age," in which this essay first appeared, that national guilds, applied to the whole field of society, would be the saving of it through their inherent strength and vitality. such guilds as we still have among us (possessed of a charter giving them a monopoly, and, therefore, making them in "the new age" phrase "black-leg proof") are confined, of course, to the privileged wealthier classes. the two great ones with which we are all familiar are those of the doctors and of the lawyers. what their power is we saw in the sentencing to one of the most terrible punishments known to all civilized europe--twelve months hard labour--of a man who had exercised his supposed right to give medical advice to a patient who had freely consulted him. the patient happened to die, as she might have died in the hands of a regular guild doctor. it has been known for patients to die under the hands of regular guild doctors. but the mishap taking place in the hands of some one who was _not_ of the guild, although the advice had been freely sought and honestly given, the person who infringed the monopoly of the guild suffered this savage piece of revenge. but even the guild of the doctors is not so powerful as that of the lawyers, _qua_ guild alone. its administrative power makes it far more powerful. the well-to-do are not compelled to employ a doctor, but all are compelled to employ a lawyer at every turn, and that at a cost quite unknown anywhere else in europe. but this power of the legal guild, _qua_ guild, in modern england is supplemented by further administrative and arbitrary powers attached to a selected number of its members. now the lawyers' guild has latterly become (to its own hurt as it will find) hardly distinguishable from the complex of professional politics. one need not be in parliament many days to discover that most laws are made and all revised by members of this guild. parliament is, as a drafting body, virtually a committee of lawyers who are indifferent to the figment of representation which still clings to the house of commons. it should be added that this part of their work is honestly done, that the greatest labour is devoted to it, and that it is only consciously tyrannical or fraudulent when the legal guild feels _itself_ to be in danger. but far more important than the legislative power of the legal guild (which is now the chief framer of statutory law as it has long been the _salutary_ source of common law) is its executive or governing power. whether after exposing a political scandal you shall or shall not be subject to the risk of ruin or loss of liberty, and all the exceptionally cruel scheme of modern imprisonment, depends negatively upon the legal guild. that is, so long as the lawyers support the politicians you have no redress, and only in case of independent action by the lawyers against the politicians, with whom they have come to be so closely identified, have you any opportunity for discussion and free trial. the old idea of the lawyer on the bench protecting the subject against the arbitrary power of the executive, of the judge independent of the government, has nearly disappeared. you may, of course, commit any crime with impunity if the professional politicians among the lawyers refuse to prosecute. but that is only a negative evil. more serious is the positive side of the affair: that you may conversely be put at the _risk_ of any penalty if they desire to put you at that risk; for the modern secret police being ubiquitous and privileged, their opponent can be decoyed into peril at the will of those who govern, even where the politicians dare not prosecute him for exposing corruption. once the citizen has been put at this peril--that is, brought into court before the lawyers--whether it shall lead to his actual ruin or no is again in the hands of members of the legal guild; the judge _may_ (it has happened), withstand the politicians (by whom he was made, to whom he often belongs, and upon whom his general position to-day depends). he _may_ stand out, or--as nearly always now--he will identify himself with the political system and act as its mouthpiece. it is the prevalence of this last attitude which so powerfully affects the position of the free press in this country. when the judge lends himself to the politicians we all know what follows. the instrument used is that of an accusation of libel, and, in cases where it is desired to establish terror, of criminal libel. the defence of the man so accused must either be undertaken by a member of the legal guild--in which case the advocate's own future depends upon his supporting the interests of the politicians and so betraying his client--or, if some eccentric undertakes his own defence, the whole power of the guild will be turned against him under forms of liberty which are no longer even hypocritical. a special juryman, for instance, that should stand out against the political verdict desired would be a marked man. but the point is not worth making, for, as a fact, no juryman ever has stood out lately when a political verdict was ordered. even in the case of so glaring an abuse, with which the whole country is now familiar, we must not exaggerate. it would still be impossible for the politicians, for instance, to get a verdict during war in favour of an overt act of treason. but after all, argument of this sort applies to any tyranny, and the power the politicians have and exercise of refusing to prosecute, however clear an act of treason or other grossly unpopular act might be, is equivalent to a power of acquittal. the lawyers decide in the last resort on the freedom of speech and writing among their fellow-citizens, and as their guild is now unhappily intertwined with the whole machinery of executive government, we have in modern england an executive controlling the expression of opinion. it is absolute in a degree unknown, i think, in past society. now, it is evident that, of all forms of civic activity, writing upon the free press most directly challenges this arbitrary power. there is not an editor responsible for the management of any free paper who will not tell you that a thousand times he has had to consider whether it were possible to tell a particular truth, however important that truth might be to the commonwealth. and the fear which restrains him is the fear of destruction which the combination of the professional politician, and lawyer holds in its hand. there is not one such editor who could not bear witness to the numerous occasions on which he had, however courageous he might be, to forgo the telling of a truth which was of vital value, because its publication would involve the destruction of the paper he precariously controlled. there is no need to labour all this. the loss of freedom we have gradually suffered is quite familiar to all of us, and it is among the worst of all the mortal symptoms with which our society is affected. xiii why do i say, then, that in spite of such formidable obstacles, both in its own character and in the resistance it must overcome, the free press will probably increase in power, and may, in the long run, transform public opinion? it is with the argument in favour of this judgment that i will conclude. my reasons for forming this judgment are based not only upon the observation of others but upon my own experience. i started the "eye-witness" (succeeded by the "new witness" under the editorship of mr. cecil chesterton, who took it over from me some years ago, and now under the editorship of his brother, mr. gilbert chesterton) with the special object of providing a new organ of free expression. i knew from intimate personal experience exactly how formidable all these obstacles were. i knew how my own paper could not but appear particular and personal, and could not but suffer from that eccentricity to general opinion of which i have spoken. i had a half-tragic and half-comic experience of the economic difficulty; of the difficulty of obtaining information; of the difficulty in distribution, and all the rest of it. the editor of "the new age" could provide an exactly similar record. i had experience, and after me mr. cecil chesterton had experience, of the threats levelled by the professional politicians and their modern lawyers against the free expression of truth, and i have no doubt that the editor of "the new age" could provide similar testimony. as for the free press in ireland, we all know how _that_ is dealt with. it is simply suppressed at the will of the police. in the face of such experience, and in spite of it, i am yet of the deliberate opinion that the free press will succeed. now let me give my reasons for this audacious conclusion. xiv the first thing to note is that the free press is not read perfunctorily, but with close attention. the audience it has, if small, is an audience which never misses its pronouncements whether it agrees or disagrees with them, and which is absorbed in its opinions, its statement of fact and its arguments. look narrowly at history and you will find that all great _reforms_ have started thus: not through a widespread control acting downwards, but through spontaneous energy, local and intensive, acting upwards. you cannot say this of the official press, for the simple reason that the official press is only of real political interest on rare and brief occasions. it is read of course, by a thousand times more people than those who read the free press. but its readers are not gripped by it. they are not, save upon the rare occasions of a particular "scoop" or "boom," _informed_ by it, in the old sense of that pregnant word, _informed_:--they are not possessed, filled, changed, moulded to new action. one of the proofs of this--a curious, a comic, but a most conclusive proof--is the dependence of the great daily papers on the headline. ninety-nine people out of a hundred retain this and nothing more, because the matter below is but a flaccid expansion of the headline. now the headline suggests, of course, a fact (or falsehood) with momentary power. so does the poster. but the mere fact of dependence on such methods is a proof of the inherent weakness underlying it. you have, then, at the outset a difference of _quality_ in the reading and in the effect of the reading which it is of capital importance to my argument that the reader should note. the free press is really read and digested. the official press is not. its scream is heard, but it provides no food for the mind. one does not contrast the exiguity of a pint of nitric acid in an engraver's studio with the hundreds of gallons of water in the cisterns of his house. no amount of water would bite into the copper. only the acid does that: and a little of the acid is enough. xv next let it be noted that the free press powerfully affects, even when they disagree with it, and most of all when they hate it, the small class through whom in the modern world ideas spread. there never was a time in european history when the mass of people thought so little for themselves, and depended so much (for the ultimate form of their society) upon the conclusions and vocabulary of a restricted leisured body. that is a diseased state of affairs. it gives all their power to tiny cliques of well-to-do people. but incidentally it helps the free press. it is a restricted leisured body to which the free press appeals. so strict has been the boycott--and still is, though a little weakening--that the editors of, and writers upon, the free papers probably underestimate their own effect even now. they are never mentioned in the great daily journals. it is a point of honour with the official press to turn a phrase upside down, or, if they must quote, to quote in the most roundabout fashion, rather than print in plain black and white the three words "the new age" or "the new witness." but there are a number of tests which show how deeply the effect of a free paper of limited circulation bites in. here is one apparently superficial test, but a test to which i attach great importance because it is a revelation of how minds work. certain phrases peculiar to the free journals find their way into the writing of all the rest. i could give a number of instances. i will give one: the word "profiteer." it was first used in the columns of "the new age," if i am not mistaken. it has gained ground everywhere. this does not mean that the mass of the employees upon daily papers understand what they are talking about when they use the word "profiteer," any more than they understand what they are talking about when they use the words "servile state." they commonly debase the word "profiteer" to mean some one who gets an exceptional profit, just as they use my own "eye-witness" phrase, "the servile state," to mean strict regulation of all civic life--an idea twenty miles away from the proper signification of the term. but my point is that the free press must have had already a profound effect for its mere vocabulary to have sunk in thus, and to have spread so widely in the face of the rigid boycott to which it is subjected. xvi much more important than this clearly applicable test of vocabulary is the more general and less measurable test of programmes and news. the programme of national guilds, for instance--"guild socialism" as "the new age," its advocate in this country, has called it--is followed everywhere, and is everywhere considered. journalists employed by harmsworth, for instance, use the idea for all it is worth, and they use it more and more, although it is as much as their place is worth to mention "the new age" in connection with it--as yet. and it is the same, i think, with all the efforts the free press has made in the past. the propaganda of socialism (which, as an idea, was so enormously successful until a few years ago) was, on its journalistic side, almost entirely conducted by free papers, most of them of small circulation, and all of them boycotted, even as to their names, by the official press. the same is true of my own effort and mr. chesterton's on the "new witness." the paper was rigidly boycotted and never quoted. but every one to-day talks, as i have just said, of "the servile state," of the "professional politician," of the "secret party funds," of the aliases under which men hide, of the purchase of honours, policies and places in the government, etc., etc. more than this: one gets to hear of significant manoeuvres, conducted secretly, of course, but showing vividly the weight and effect of the free press. one hears of orders given by a politician which prove his fear of the free press: of approaches made by this or that capitalist to obtain control of a free journal: sometimes of a policy initiated, an official document drawn up, a memorandum filed, which proceeded directly from the advice, suggestion, or argument of a free paper which no one but its own readers is allowed to hear of, and of whose very existence the suburbs would be sceptical. latterly i have noticed something still more significant. the action of the free press takes effect sometimes _at once_. it was obvious in the case of the spanish jew vigo, the german agent. on account of his financial connections all the official press had orders to call him french under a false name. one paragraph in the "new witness" broke down that lie before the week was out. xvii next consider this powerful factor in the business. _the truth confirms itself._ half a million people read of a professional politician, for instance, that his oratory has an "electric effect," or that he is "full of personal magnetism," or that he "can sway an audience to tears or laughter at will." a free paper telling the truth about him says that he is a dull speaker, full of commonplaces, elderly, smelling strongly of the chapel, and giving the impression that he is tired out; flogging up sham enthusiasm with stale phrases which the reporters have already learnt to put into shorthand with one conventional outline years ago.[ ] well, the false, the ludicrously false picture designed to put this politician in the limelight (as against favours to be rendered), no doubt remains the general impression with most of those , people. the simple and rather tawdry truth may be but doubtfully accepted by a few hundreds only. but sooner or later a certain small proportion of the , actually _hear_ the politician in question. they hear him speak. they receive a primary and true impression. if they had not read anything suggesting the truth, it is quite upon the cards that the false suggestion would still have weight with them, in spite of the evidence of their senses. men are so built that uncontradicted falsehood sufficiently repeated does have that curious power of illusion. a man having heard the speech delivered by the old gentleman, if there were nothing but the official press to inform opinion, might go away saying to himself: "i was not very much impressed, but no doubt that was due to my own weariness. i cannot but believe that the general reputation he bears is well founded. he must be a great orator, for i have always heard him called one." but a man who has even once seen it stated that this politician was _exactly what he was_ will vividly remember that description (which at first hearing he probably thought false); physical experience has confirmed the true statement and made it live. these statements of truth, even when they are quite unimportant, more, of course, when they illuminate matters of great civic moment, have a cumulative effect. i am confident, for instance, that at the present time the mass of middle-class people are not only acquainted with, but convinced of, the truth, that, long before the war, the house of commons had become a fraud; that its debates did not turn upon matters which really divided opinion, and that even its paltry debating points, the pretence of a true opposition was a falsehood. this salutary truth had been arrived at, of course, by many other channels. the scandalous arrangement between the front benches which forced the insurance act down our throats was an eye-opener for the great masses of the people. so was the cynical action of the politicians in the matter of chinese labour after the election of . so was the puerile stage play indulged in over things like the welsh disestablishment bill and the education bills. but among the forces which opened people's eyes about the house of commons, the free press played a very great part, though it was never mentioned in the big official papers, and though not one man in many hundreds of the public ever heard of it. the few who read it were startled into acceptance by the exact correspondence between its statement and observed fact. the man who tells the truth when his colleagues around him are lying, always enjoys a certain restricted power of prophecy. if there were a general conspiracy to maintain the falsehood that all peers were over six foot high, a man desiring to correct this falsehood would be perfectly safe if he were to say: "i do not know whether the _next_ peer you meet will be over six foot or not, but i am pretty safe in prophesying that you will find, among the next dozen three or four peers less than six foot high." if there were a general conspiracy to pretend that people with incomes above the income-tax level never cheated one in a bargain, one could not say "on such-and-such a day you will be cheated in a bargain by such-and-such a person, whose income will be above the income-tax level," but one could say; "note the people who swindle you in the next five years, and i will prophesy that some of the number will be people paying income-tax." this power of prophecy, which is an adjunct of truth telling, i have noticed to affect people very profoundly. a worthy provincial might have been shocked ten years ago to hear that places in the upper house of parliament were regularly bought and sold. he might have indignantly denied it the free press said: "in some short while you will have a glaring instance of a man who is incompetent and obscure but very rich, appearing as a legislator with permanent hereditary power, transferable to his son after his death. i don't know which the next one will be, but there is bound to be a case of the sort quite soon for the thing goes on continually. you will be puzzled to explain it. the explanation is that the rich man has given a large sum of money to the needy professional politician, selah." our worthy provincial may have heard but an echo of this truth, for it would have had, ten years ago, but few readers. he may not have seen a syllable of it in his daily paper. but things happen. he sees first a great soldier, then a well-advertised politician, not a rich man, but very widely talked about, made peers. the events are normal in each case, and he is not moved. but sooner or later there comes a case in which he has local knowledge. he says to himself: "why on earth is so-and-so made a peer (or a front bench man, or what not)? why, in the name of goodness, is this very rich but unknown, and to my knowledge incompetent, man suddenly put into such a position?" then he remembers what he was told, begins to ask questions, and finds out, of course, that money passed; perhaps, if he is lucky, he finds out which professional politician pouched the money--and even how much he took! footnotes: [ ] a friend of mine in the press gallery used to represent "i have yet to learn that the government" by a little twirl, and "what did the right honourable gentleman do, mr. speaker? he had the audacity" by two spiral dots. xviii the effect of the free press from all these causes may be compared to the cumulative effect of one of the great offensives of the present war. each individual blow is neither dramatic nor extensive in effect; there is little movement or none. the map is disappointing. but each blow tells, and _when the end comes_ every one will see suddenly what the cumulative effect was. there is not a single thing which the free papers have earnestly said during the last few years which has not been borne out by events--and sometimes borne out with astonishing rapidity and identity of detail. it would, perhaps, be superstitious to believe that strong and courageous truth-telling calls down from heaven, new, unexpected, and vivid examples to support it. but, really, the events of the last few years would almost incline one to that superstition. the free press has hardly to point out some political truth which the official press has refused to publish, when the stars in their courses seem to fight for that truth. it is thrust into the public gaze by some abnormal accident immediately after! hardly had mr. chesterton and i begun to publish articles on the state of affairs at westminster when the marconi men very kindly obliged us. xix. but there is a last factor in this progressive advance of the free press towards success which i think the most important of all. it is the factor of time in the process of human generations. it is an old tag that the paradox of one age is the commonplace of the next, and that tag is true. it is true, because young men are doubly formed. first, by the reality and freshness of their own experience, and next, by the authority of their elders. you see the thing in the reputation of poets. for instance, when a is , b , and c , a new poet appears, and is, perhaps, thought an eccentric. "a" cannot help recognizing the new note and admiring it, but he is a little ashamed of what may turn out to be an immature opinion, and he holds his tongue, "b" is too busy in middle life and already too hardened to feel the force of the new note and the authority he has over "a" renders "a" still more doubtful of his own judgment. "c" is frankly contemptuous of the new note. he has sunk into the groove of old age. now let twenty years pass, and things will have changed in this fashion. "c" is dead. "b" has grown old, and is of less effect as an authority. "a" is himself in middle age, and is sure of his own taste and not prepared to take that of elders. he has already long expressed his admiration for the new poet, who is, indeed, not a "new poet" any longer, but, perhaps, already an established classic. we are all witnesses to this phenomenon in the realm of literature. i believe that the same thing goes on with even more force in the realm of political ideas. can any one conceive the men who were just leaving the university five or six years ago returning from the war and still taking the house of commons seriously? i cannot conceive it. as undergraduates they would already have heard of its breakdown; as young men they knew that the expression of this truth was annoying to their elders, and they always felt when they expressed it--perhaps they enjoyed feeling--that there was something impertinent and odd, and possibly exaggerated in their attitude. but when they are men between and they will take so simple a truth for granted. there will be no elders for them to fear, and they will be in no doubt upon judgments maturely formed. unless something like a revolution occurs in the habits and personal constitution of the house of commons it will by that time be a joke and let us hope already a partly innocuous joke. with this increasing and cumulative effect of truth-telling, even when that truth is marred or distorted by enthusiasm, all the disabilities under which it has suffered will coincidently weaken. the strongest force of all against people's hearing the truth--the arbitrary power still used by the political lawyers to suppress free writing--will, i think, weaken. the courts, after all, depend largely upon the mass of opinion. twenty years ago, for instance, an accusation of bribery brought against some professional politician would have been thought a monstrosity, and, however true, would nearly always have given the political lawyers, his colleagues, occasion for violent repression. to-day the thing has become so much a commonplace that all appeals to the old illusion would fall flat. the presiding lawyer could not put on an air of shocked incredulity at hearing that such-and-such a minister had been mixed up in such-and-such a financial scandal. we take such things for granted nowadays. xx what i do doubt in the approaching and already apparent success of the free press is its power to effect democratic reform. it will succeed at last in getting the truth told pretty openly and pretty thoroughly. it will break down the barrier between the little governing clique in which the truth is cynically admitted and the bulk of educated men and women who cannot get the truth by word of mouth but depend upon the printed word. we shall, i believe, even within the lifetime of those who have taken part in the struggle; have all the great problems of our time, particularly the economic problems, honestly debated. but what i do not see is the avenue whereby the great mass of the people can now be restored to an interest in the way in which they are governed, or even in the re-establishment of their own economic independence. so far as i can gather from the life around me, the popular appetite for freedom and even for criticism has disappeared. the wage-earner demands sufficient and regular subsistence, including a system of pensions, and, as part of his definition of subsistence and sufficiency, a due portion of leisure. that he demands a property in the means of production, i can see no sign whatever. it may come; but all the evidence is the other way. and as for a general public indignation against corrupt government, there is (below the few in the know who either share the swag or shrug their shoulders) no sign that it will be strong enough to have any effect. all we can hope to do is, for the moment, negative: in my view, at least. we can undermine the power of the capitalist press. we can expose it as we have exposed the politicians. it is very powerful but very vulnerable--as are all human things that repose on a lie. we may expect, in a delay perhaps as brief as that which was required to pillory, and, therefore, to hamstring the miserable falsehood and ineptitude called the party system (that is, in some ten years or less), to reduce the official press to the same plight. in some ways the danger of failure is less, for our opponent is certainly less well-organized. but beyond that--beyond these limits--we shall not attain. we shall enlighten, and by enlightening, destroy. we shall not provoke public action, for the methods and instincts of corporate civic action have disappeared. such a conclusion might seem to imply that the deliberate and continued labour of truth-telling without reward, and always in some peril, is useless; and that those who have for now so many years given their best work freely for the establishment of a free press have toiled in vain, i intend no such implication: i intend its very opposite. i shall myself continue in the future, as i have in the past, to write and publish in that press without regard to the boycott in publicity and in advertisement subsidy which is intended to destroy it and to make all our effort of no effect. i shall continue to do so, although i know that in "the new age" or the "new witness" i have but one reader, where in the "weekly dispatch" or the "times" i should have a thousand. i shall do so, and the others who continue in like service will do so, _first_, because, though the work is so far negative only, there is (and we all instinctively feel it), a _vis medicatrix naturæ_: merely in weakening an evil you may soon be, you ultimately will surely be, creating a good: _secondly_, because self-respect and honour demand it. no man who has the truth to tell and the power to tell it can long remain hiding it from fear or even from despair without ignominy. to release the truth against whatever odds, even if so doing can no longer help the commonwealth, is a necessity for the soul. we have also this last consolation, that those who leave us and attach themselves from fear or greed to the stronger party of dissemblers gradually lose thereby their chance of fame in letters. sound writing cannot survive in the air of mechanical hypocrisy. they with their enormous modern audiences are the hacks doomed to oblivion. we, under the modern silence, are the inheritors of those who built up the political greatness of england upon a foundation of free speech, and of the prose which it begets. those who prefer to sell themselves or to be cowed gain, as a rule, not even that ephemeral security for which they betrayed their fellows; meanwhile, they leave to us the only solid and permanent form of political power, which is the gift of mastery through persuasion. _printed in great britain by_ unwin brothers, limited, the gresham press, woking and london _by the same author_ the path to rome popular edition, with all the original illustrations, / net. "quite the most sumptuous embodiment of universal gaiety and erratic wisdom that has been written for many years past."--the world. "rioting, full-bodied words; in sentences that buck and jump and sprawl, that roar with laughter and good temper; that, on occasion, drop into sentiment and pity, and take on the mystery of things."--the academy. "if the flush and beauty of health in this volume are not speedily propagated among the race, books are not worth reading."--daily chronicle. london: george allen & unwin ltd. authority, liberty and function in the light of the war by ramiro de maeztu _crown vo. s. d. net postage d._ "one of the most stimulating and interesting essays in political science that the war has produced."--_land and water._ practical pacifism and its adversaries: "is it peace, jehu?" by dr. severin nordentoft with an introduction by g.k. chesterton _crown vo. s. d. net. postage d._ "a striking indictment of german rule by representatives of oppressed peoples."--_the times._ after-war problems by the late earl of cromer, viscount haldane, the bishop of exeter, prof. alfred marshall, and others edited by william harbutt dawson _demy vo._ second impression. _ s. d. net. postage d._ "valuable, clear, sober, and judicial."--_the times._ "will be very helpful to thoughtful persons."--_morning post._ "a book of real national importance, and of which the value may very well prove to be incalculable."--_daily telegraph._ the menace of peace by george d. herron _crown vo. s. d. net. postage d._ "he says some magnificent things magnificently"--_new witness._ democracy after the war _crown vo._ by j.a. hobson _ s. d. net._ it is the writer's object to indicate the nature of the struggle which will confront the public of this country for the achievement of political and industrial democracy when the war is over. the economic roots of militarism and of the confederacy of reactionary influences which are found supporting it--imperialism, protectionism, conservatism, bureaucracy, capitalism--are subjected to a critical analysis. the safeguarding and furtherance of the interests of improperty and profiteering are exhibited as the directing and moulding influences; of domestic and foreign policy, and their exploitation of other more disinterested motives is traced in the conduct of parties, church, press, and various educational and other social institutions. the latter portion of the book discusses the policy by which these hostile forces may be overcome and democracy may be achieved, and contains a vigorous plea for a new free policy of popular education. towards industrial freedom by edward carpenter _crown vo. paper, s. d. net. cloth, s. d. net._ this new work by mr. edward carpenter, consisting of a series of papers on the subject of the new organizations and new principles which will, it is hoped, be established in the world of industry after the war, will be eagerly welcomed by all thoughtful people. * * * * london: george allen & unwin limited mightier than the sword _by the same author_ crown vo, cloth, /- the sacrifice. (also a sixpenny edition.) eve's apple. henry in search of a wife. uncle polperro. london: t. fisher unwin mightier than the sword by alphonse courlander [illustration] london t. fisher unwin adelphi terrace _first edition_ _may _ _second impression_ _july _ _third impression_ _october _ [_all rights reserved_] contents part i easterham part ii lilian part iii elizabeth part iv paris part i easterham mightier than the sword i if you had been standing on a certain cold night in january opposite the great building where _the day_ is jewelled in electric lights across the dark sky, you would have seen a little, stout man run down the steps of the entrance at the side, three at a time, land on the pavement as if he were preparing to leap the roadway, with the sheer impetus of the flight of steps behind him, and had suddenly thought better of it, glance hurriedly at the big, lighted clock whose hands, formed of the letters _t-h-e d-a-y_, in red and green electric lights, showed that it was nearly half-past twelve, and suddenly start off in a terrible hurry towards chancery lane, as though pursued by some awful thing. considering the bulkiness of the little man, he ran remarkably well. he dodged a light newspaper van that was coming recklessly round fetter lane, for there was none of the crowded traffic of daylight to be negotiated, and then, he turned the corner of chancery lane--and there you would have seen the last of him. he would have vanished from your life, a stumpy little man, with an umbrella popped under one arm, a bundle of papers grasped in his hand, a hat jammed down on his head, and the ends of a striped muffler floating in the breeze of his own making. the sight of a man running, even in these days when life itself goes with a rush, is sufficient to awaken comment in the mind of the onlooker. it suggests pursuit, the recklessness of other days; it impels, instinctively, the cry of "stop, thief," for no man runs unless he is hunted by a powerful motive. therefore it may be assumed that since i have sent a man bolting hard out of your sight up the lamp-lit avenue of chancery lane, you are wondering why the devil he's in such a hurry. well, he was hurrying because the last train to shepherd's bush goes at . , and, as he had been away from home since ten o'clock that morning, he was rather anxious to get back. he could not afford a cab fare, though only a few hours ago he had been eating oysters, bisque soup, turbot, pheasant, asparagus out of season and pêche melba at the savoy hotel with eighteenpence in his pocket--and the odd pence had gone to the waiter and the cloakroom man. so that by the time he had reached the top of chancery lane, dashed across the road and through the door of the station, where a porter would have slammed the grille in another second, and bought his ticket with an explosive, panting "bush," he had just tenpence left. the lift-man knew him, nodded affably and said: "just in time, mr pride." "a hard run," said mr pride; and then with a cheery smile, "never mind; good for the liver." there were only a few people in the lift--four men and a woman to be precise. he knew the men as casual acquaintances of the last tube train. there was denning, a sporting sub-editor on _the lantern_; another was a proof-reader on one of the afternoon papers, who finished work in the evening but never went home before the last tube; then there was harlem, the librarian of _the day_, an amazing man who spoke all the european languages, and some of the asiatic ones after his fifth glass of beer; the fourth was a friend of harlem, a moody young man who wore his hair long, smoked an evil-looking pipe, and seemed to be a little unsteady on his feet. as for the woman, pride knew her well by sight. she had hair that was of an unreal yellow, and a latch-key dangled from her little finger as though it were a new kind of ring. she always got out at tottenham court road. as the lift went down, its high complaining noise falling to a low buzzing sound seemed like the tired murmur of a weary human being glad that rest had come at last. the sound of the approaching train came rolling through the tunnel. they all rushed desperately down the short flight of steps that led to the platform, as the train came in with a rattle of doors opening and slamming, and scrambled for seats, while the uniformed men, who appeared to be the only thoroughly wide-awake people in the neighbourhood, said in the most contradictory fashion: "stand clear of the gates," "hurry on, please," and "passengers off first." pride found himself in the smoking carriage, opposite harlem, with his young friend at his side. it never occurred to him that there was anything exceptional in his dash for the last train. he did it four nights out of the week, as a matter of course. he was fifty years old, though he pretended he was ten years younger, and shaved his face clean to keep up the illusion. he used to explain to his friends that he came of a family famous for baldness in early years. "been busy?" asked harlem, filling his pipe. "nothing to speak of," said pride. "turned up at the office at eleven, but there was nothing doing until after lunch. then i had to go and see sir william darton--they're going to start the thames steamboats again. he wasn't at home, and he wasn't in his office, but i found him at six o'clock in the constitutional. got back and found they'd sent home for my dress clothes, and left a nice little envelope with the ticket of the canadian dinner.... that's why i'm so late to-night...." pride filled his own pipe, and sighed. "the old days are over!" he said. "they used to post our assignments overnight--'dear mr pride, kindly do a quarter of a column of the enclosed meeting.' why, _the sentinel_ used to allow us five shillings every time we put on evening dress." "well, _the sentinel_ was a pretty dull paper before the kelmscotts bought it and turned it into a halfpenny," said harlem. "look at it now, a nice, bright paper--oh, by the way, do you know cannock," he jerked his head to the man at his side. "he's _the sentinel's_ latest acquisition. this is tommy pride, one of the ancient bulwarks of _the sentinel_, until they fired him. now he's learning to be a halfpenny journalist." pride looked at the young man. "i don't know about being the latest acquisition," cannock said. "as a matter of fact, they've fired _me_ to-day." "it's a hobby of theirs now," harlem remarked. "you'll get a job on _the day_ if you ask for one. there's always room with us, ain't there, tommy?" pride looked wistfully at the clouds of blue smoke that rose from his lips.... yes, he thought, there was always room on _the day_--at any moment they might decide to make alterations in the staff. the fact of cannock's being sacked mattered nothing; he was a young man, and for young men, knocking at the door of fleet street, there was always an open pathway. think of the papers there were left to work for--the evenings and the dailies, and even when they were exhausted, perhaps a job on a weekly paper, or the editorship of one of the scores of penny and sixpenny magazines. and, after that, the provinces and the suburbs had their papers. pride knew: in his long experience he had wandered from one paper to another, two years here, three years here, until the halfpenny papers had brought a new type of journalist into the street. "married?" asked pride. "not me!" replied cannock, with a slight hiccough. "well, you're all right. you can free-lance if you want to." "oh, it's no good to me," cannock said. "it's a dog's life anyhow, and i've only had two months of it. i'm going back to my guv'nor's business." "ah," said pride, "there's no use wasting sympathy on you. why did you ever leave it? what's his business?" "that," cannock laughed gaily and pointed to a poster as the train stopped at tottenham court road station. it was a great picture of barrels and barrels of beer, piled one above the other, reaching away into the far distance. thousands of barrels under a vaulted roof. and in the foreground were little figures of men in white aprons with red jersey caps on their heads, rolling in more barrels, with their arms bared to the elbows. across the picture in large letters pride could read: "cannock brothers, holloway. cannock's entire." "why, your people are worth millions!" pride said. "what on earth are you doing in journalism." "i know they are. that's what i was thinking of yesterday. i wondered how on earth they got anybody to do the work." "well, you won't mind me, i'm sure," pride said, leaning over to cannock. "i'm older than you, and i belong to what they call the old school of journalism. this isn't the lovely life some people think it must be, and it's going to get worse each year. we've got to fight for our jobs every day of our life. 'making good,' they call it. i'm used to it," he said defiantly, looking at harlem, "i like it.... i couldn't do anything else. i'm not fit for anything else. it has its lazy moments, too, and its moments of excitement and thrills. no, my son, you go back to the brewery, there's more money in it for you and all the glory you want with your name plastered over every bottle and on all the walls. ask five hundred men in the street if they've ever heard of tommy pride. they've been reading things i've written every day, but they don't know who's written them. ask 'em who's cannock? why, they'll turn mechanically into the nearest public-house and call for a bottle of you." "i used to think it would be jolly to be on a newspaper," cannock said. "my guv'nor got me the job. he's something to do with the kelmscotts." "so it is if you're meant to be on a newspaper. that's the trouble of fellows like you. you come out of nowhere, or from the 'varsity, and get plunked right down in the heart of a london newspaper office--probably someone's fired to make room for you. you're friends of the editor and you think you're great men, until you find you're expected to take your turn with the rest. then you grouse, because you're not meant for it. you've got appointments to keep at dinner-time, and you must get your meals regularly. or you want to write fine stuff and be great star descriptive men at once, or go to persia and timbuctoo, and live on flam and signed articles. but, if you were meant to be a reporter, you'd hang round the news editor's room for any job that came along, you'd take any old thing that was given you, and do it without a murmur, and when you've done that for thirty years you might meet success, and stay on until they shoved you out of the office." he saw that cannock was smiling, and seemed to read his thoughts. "me?" he said. "oh, you mustn't judge by me. i belong to the old school, you know. i'm the son of my father--he was a gallery man, and died worth three hundred pounds, and that's more than i am. i'm one of the products of the last generation, and all i want is £ a week and a cottage in the country." the little man relit his pipe, and puffed contentedly. "lord! i should like that!" he said. "you're always frightened of being fired, tommy," said harlem. "you know well enough you're what we call a thoroughly reliable and experienced man, and ferrol wouldn't have you sacked." "there's always that bogy," pride answered with a laugh. "you never know what may happen. the only thing is to join the newspaper press fund and trust in the lord. none of the youngsters do either of these things to-day." cannock and harlem prepared to leave as the train slowed down before marble arch. "it's a rotten game," said cannock. "i'm glad i'm out of it. good-bye." pride took his hand. "good-bye." he saw them pass the window, and wave to him as they went under the lighted "way out" sign, and then he turned to his papers with a sigh. but somehow or other he did not read. he always carried papers about with him, through sheer force of habit, much as the under side of a tailor's coat lapel is bristling with pins. he had been with news all day; he had written some of it; he had read the same things in the different editions of the newspapers; he had left the street when they were printing more news; and the first thing he would do on waking up in the morning would be to reach out for a copy of _the day_ which was brought with the morning tea. he did not read news as the average man does--he regarded it objectively, reading it without emotion. the march of the world, the daily happenings moved him as much as a packet of loose diamonds moves the jeweller who handles them daily, and weighs them to see their worth. he was thinking of cannock, with his future all clear before him: cannock, with beer woven into the fibre of his being, as news was in his. it must be rather fine to be independent like that.... idly, he wondered what cannock's guv'nor was like: did he admire these pictures of the vast hall crowded with beer barrels, enough to last london for a whole saturday night, and ready to be filled up again for all the nights in the week.... he looked round the carriage at the faces of those who were travelling with him. five boisterous young people were making themselves a noisy nuisance at one end of the carriage. opposite him, in the seat lately occupied by harlem, a working man was staring ahead of him with an empty wide stare as if, in a moment of absent-mindedness, his actual self had slipped away, and left a hulk of shabbily-clothed body, without a spark of intelligence. others were nodding, half asleep, and there was one man, with closed eyes, and parted lips, breathing stertorously, whose head bobbled from side to side with the rocking of the train.... he woke up, suddenly, as the train stopped with a jerk, and the conductor called out "'perd's bush." tommy pride always gave his papers to the lift-man. they waited for the last passenger, who came lurching round the corner with his head still bobbling and his eyes half lost below the drooping eyelids. he steadied himself against the wall--and his hand spread over another of those glorious posters. what a picture for cannock!... somehow, pride rejoiced to think that he was not cannock. he went past the green to one of the small houses in a turning off the uxbridge road. the moon shone out of the wintry sky, white and placid, above his home. he let himself in, and turned out the flicker of gas in the hall. he walked on tiptoe into the sitting-room, and having taken off his boots went to the fireplace. here on a trivet he found a cup of cocoa, and his slippers warming before the fire. there were three slices of thin bread and butter on the table. he never went to bed without his bread and butter. during his meal he saw a copy of _the day_ on a chair, and he read bits of it mechanically, for he had read it all before. the clock struck one, and he bolted the front door and went softly upstairs. as he turned on the light his wife stirred uneasily, and he came to the bedside. she opened her eyes at his kiss, and smiled tenderly at him. "is it very late, dear?" she asked. "one o'clock." "poor sweetheart!" she murmured. "did you have your cocoa?" "yes," he said. "tired?" he laughed. "not very. i'm a bit cheerful, to tell you the truth. tell you about it in the morning. ferrol spoke to me to-day. he's a fine chap." ii that was the magic of it! ferrol had spoken to him. the conversation had been quite ordinary. "well, pride, i hope things are going all right?" and ferrol had nodded cheerfully and smiled as he passed into his room. perhaps, he had asked pride to come and see him.... it was not what ferrol said that mattered: it was the idea behind it--that ferrol knew and remembered his men individually. out of the insensate tangle of machines and lives, high above the thunderous clamour of the printing-presses, the rolling of heavy vans stacked high with cylinders of paper, the ringing of telephone bells, the ticking and clicking and buzzing, floor above floor, of the great grey building in which they all lived, ferrol rises with his masterful personality and calm voice, carving the chaos of it all into discipline and order. he looms, in the imagination, powerful and omnipresent, making his desires felt in the far corners of the continents. ferrol whispered, and berlin, vienna or san francisco gave him his needs. he was the brain and the heart of the body he had created, and his nerves and his arteries were spread over the earth. he placed his fingers on the pulse of mankind, and knew what was ailing--knew what it wanted, and found the specialist to attend to it. his influence lay over the narrow street of tall buildings, urging men onwards and upwards with the gospel of great endeavour. some men, as their pagan ancestors worshipped the sun as the god of light, placed him on a pedestal in their hearts, and bowed down to him as the god of success, for the energy of his spirit was everywhere. if you searched behind the ponderous double octuple machines, rattling and thudding, and driving the work of their world forward, you would have found it there--the motive power of the whole. it lurked in the tap-tap of the telegraph transmitter, in the quick click of the type in the slots of the linotype machines as the aproned operators touched the keyboard; it was in the heart of the reporter groping through the day for facts, and writing them with the shadow of ferrol falling across the paper. the clerks in the counting-house, the advertising men, the grimy printers' boys in the basement, the type-setters and the block-makers on the top floors near the skylights, messengers, typists--they were all bricks in the edifice which was built up for the men who wrote the paper--the edifice of which ferrol was the keystone. his enemies distorted the vision of him; they saw him, an inhuman, incredible monster, with neither soul nor heart, grimly eager for one end--the making of money. they wrote of him as an evil thing, brooding over sensationalism.... one must see him as tommy pride and all those who worked for him on _the day_ saw him, eager, keen, and large-hearted, a wonderful blend of sentiment and business, torn, sometimes, between expediency and the hidden desires of his heart. one must see him reckless and, since he was only human, making mistakes, creating, destroying, living only for what the day brought forth.... the spirit of fleet street, itself. * * * * * like a silver thread woven into the texture of his character, in which good and evil were patterned as they are in most men, a streak of the sentimental was there, shining untarnished, a survival of his days of young romance. very few people knew of this trait; ferrol hugged it to himself secretly, as though it were a weakness of which he was ashamed. it came upon him at odd, unexpected moments when he was hemmed in by the gross materialism of every day, this passionate, sudden yearning for poetry and ideals. he would try to lift the latch of the door that had locked the world of beauty and art from him. swift desires would seize him to be carried away in his motor-car, as if it were a magic carpet, to some arcadia of dreaming shadows, with the sunlight splashing through the green roofs of the forests. the sentimental in him would, at such times, find expression in many ways. he made extravagant gifts to people; he would take a sudden interest in the career of one man, and bring all that man's longings to realization by lifting him up and making his name. how glorious that power was to ferrol! the power of singling men out, finding the spark of genius that he could raise to a steady flame, fanning it with opportunity; he could make a man suddenly rich with a stroke of his pen; pack him off to arabia or south america and bid him write his best. sometimes they failed, because it was not in them to succeed, and ferrol was as merciless to failures as he was generous to those who won through. the men he made!... sometimes, when the waves of sentiment swept over him, he would try and materialize his ideals for a time. he would commission a great poet to contribute to _the day_; he would open his columns to the cult of the beautiful, and then a grisly murder or a railway disaster would happen, crushing ferrol's sentiment. away with the ideal, for, after all, the world does not want it! three columns of the murder or the railway disaster, with photographs, leaders, special articles, all turning round the news itself. that was how it was done. and now the fit was on ferrol as he sat in his room with the crimson carpet and the dark red walls, hung with contents bills of _the day_. he had been going over the morning letters with his secretary, listening to the applications for employment. he made a point of hearing them, now and again. there was one letter there that suddenly awoke his interest; the name touched a chord in his memory, a chord that responded with a low, tender note.... and, his mind marched back through the corridors of the past, until he came out upon the old, quiet, cathedral town of the days of his youth. he saw himself, a slight, eager young man, long, long before his dreams of greatness came to pass, yet feeling in his heart that the plans he was making would be followed. a young ferrol plotting within himself to wrest spoils from the world, longing intolerably for power and the wealth that could give it. well did he know, even in those far-off days, that destiny was holding out her hands, laden with roses and prizes for him.... those were the days of the young heart; the days of nineteen and twenty, and the first love, scarce understood, that comes to us, mysterious and beautiful. he saw a very different ferrol then. the lip unshaven, that was now hidden with a bushy moustache turning grey; the hair, now also grey under the touch of time, silky and black. he saw this boy walking the lanes that led out of easterham town, in the spring-time, with a girl at his side. over the abyss of the years the boy beckoned to him, and ferrol looked back on a yesterday of thirty years. her name was margaret, and she was for him the beginning of things. from her he learned much of the tenderness of life, and the love of nature that had remained with him. he was a clerk in an auctioneer's office then, with most of his dreams still undreamt. he and margaret had been children together. they were children now, laughing, and walking over the fields with the spire of the cathedral, pointing like a finger to the skies, in the distant haze of the afternoon. there was more purity in that first romance of his than in anything he had found in after years. oh! wonderful days of young unsullied hearts, and the white innocence of life. the memory of evenings came to him, of kisses in the starlight, when incomprehensible emotions surged through him, vague imaginings of what life must really be, and the torture of unrest, of something that he did not understand. her eyes were tearful, and yet she smiled, and at her smile they both laughed. and so the spell was broken, and they trudged, side by side, homeward in the silent night. she inspired him, and in that, perhaps, she fulfilled her destiny. she sowed the seeds of ambition in his soul: he would dare anything for her, yea, reach his hand upwards, and pluck the very stars from heaven to lay at her feet. and, very gradually, a dreadful nausea of easterham came over him. his desk was by the window that looked upon the high street: he almost remembered, now, the day when it first dawned on him that the place was no longer tolerable. it was mid-day and the heat quivered above the cobble-stones: two dogs were fighting with jarring yelps that could be heard all down the street; the baker's cart went by with an empty rattle, and miss martin of willow hall drove in as usual to the bank next door. an old man was herding a flock of sheep towards the market-place, and the sheep-dog ran this way and that way, barking as he ran. three sandwich-men, grotesquely hidden in boards, slouched past in frayed clothes and battered hats, with pipes in their mouths. he read their boards mechanically.... "sale at wilcox's.... ladies' undergarments.... ribbons." he had read the same thing every day in the week; he had looked out upon the same scene, every day, it seemed; the dogs had been quarrelling eternally, the shepherd passed and repassed like a never-ending silent dream; grocer, and baker, and banker, and hargrave, the farmer ... there he was again touching his hat to miss martin as she stepped from her trap.... o god! the heavy monotony of it all fell like a weight on his heart. the nostalgia grew. the chimes of the cathedral lost their music, the stillness of the town became more unbearable than the turmoil and clatter of cities. there was something to be wrought for and fought for in the world outside. this was not life; this was a mausoleum! the arguments with his father--his mother was dead--and the long time it took to persuade him.... the parting with margaret, and the whispered vows and promises, spoken breathlessly from their earnest young hearts. it seemed they could never be broken. he came to london. it was in the late seventies, at the beginning of the spread of education that has resulted in the amazing flood of periodicals: it was a flood that led ferrol on to fortune. his scope widened; he grew in his outlook, and saw that here was a way to power indeed. he shone like a new star over london, gathering lesser lights around him, developing that marvellous power of organization, that astonishing personality that drew men to him, until he seized his opportunity and bought the moribund _day_ when it was a penny paper on its last legs. in ten years' time he had become wealthy and powerful, and since then he had gone on and on until no triumph was denied him. and margaret...? the years passed, and with the passing of time, they both developed. that young love, once so irrefrangible, grew warped and misshapen, until it finally snapped. there was no quarrel; neither could reproach the other; they simply grew out of their love, as so many young people do. there was a correspondence for a time, but it slackened and presently ceased altogether. she must have felt her hold loosening on ferrol, as with a thousand new interests he came upon the wide horizon of life. she must have noticed this in his letters, and instead of seeking to bind him to her against his will, she just let him go. and ferrol must have weighed the impossibility of asking her to marry him at this point of his career, when he was striving and struggling upwards; not all men travel the fastest when they travel alone, but ferrol was one of those who could run no risk of being delayed. they had none of the pang of parting ... but years afterwards, when ferrol was a childless widower (for he married when he was thirty-five, and walked behind his wife's coffin two years afterwards), he wondered what had become of margaret, and always he cherished that memory of his one romance that had tapered away out of his life. he could never forget the sweet simplicity of margaret's face, the tears on her eyelashes, and the yielding softness of her youth when he pressed her to his heart and lips with wonderful thoughts quivering through his soul. he remembered one day in his life, a few years after the death of his wife, when a wild desire had seized him to handle his past again, as an antiquarian turns over his treasures and rejoices in some ancient relic. it was a day in summer, when the heat was heavy over london, and the city smelt of hot asphalt and tar: without a word to anybody he had left his work and taken the train, back to easterham and his youth. the old familiar landmarks rose up before him, bringing a strange feeling of age to him. so much had happened in the interval that it seemed that year upon year had piled up a wall before him, separating him for evermore from this old world that had been. the ivy still clung to the castellated walls of the cathedral close; the clock chimed as he went by, just as he had heard it chime in the long days that were gone. the very rooks seemed unchanged as they clamoured huskily in the old beeches. and yet, with it all, there was something different, and he knew that the difference lay not so much with the place as with himself. his entire perception had altered. he saw things through eyes that had grown older. the high street, with its brooding air of stillness, that had once seemed so stale and intolerable to him, now appealed to him with its wondrous peace, a magical spot far away from the turmoil of things. there were the same names over the grocers' and the drapers' and the ironmongers' shops, but old matthew bethell's quaint bookshop had gone, and in its place there stood a large green, flat-fronted establishment, with an open window stacked high with magazines and newspapers, and a great poster above it, thus: the day. one halfpenny howard slander case. full report. the sentimental in him winced, but the material business man glowed with pride as he saw the great poster, proclaiming _the day_ paramount over its rivals. there was always a conflict between the two men that made up that complex personality known as ferrol. he went to the house where he had once lived; his father was dead now, and as he looked up at the open window and saw a strange woman doing some needle-work, it seemed to him as if the people that were living there had laid sacrilegious hands upon the holy fragrance of the past; as if their prying eyes had peered into all the hidden secrets that belonged to him. he turned away resentfully towards the old inn, the red lion, whose proprietor, old hamblin, remembered him from other days when he revealed himself, and was inclined to be overcome with the importance of the visit, until ferrol put him at his ease. they chatted together, the old man, with his back to the fireplace, coat-tails lifted from habit, for the grate was empty on this hot day, ferrol sitting astride a chair, watching the blue stream of smoke that came from hamblin's lips as he puffed at his long white churchwarden.... hamblin must have stood like that during all the years that ferrol had been in london. the only change that came to the people of easterham was death. they talked of people they had known, and so the talk came naturally to margaret. he listened unmoved to the news of her marriage, and found that nothing more than conventional phrases came from his lips when hamblin told him of her death. somehow, it seemed to him so natural. he had been away seventeen years, and easterham had lost its hold upon him now. the death of his father ... the new face at the window of their house.... the death of margaret seemed to come as a natural sequence to things. hamblin went on talking about people. "she married mr quain, one of the college schoolmasters.... i expect he was after your time ... a good deal older than you, mr ferrol.... they had one child, a boy ... living with his aunt now. all her people left easterham years ago...." and so on. it was in the afternoon that ferrol came back to london, feeling that he had been prodding at wet moss-grown stones in some old decayed ruin, turning them over to see what he could find, and having them crumble apart in his hands. he never went back again. * * * * * that was thirteen years ago. ferrol's memories ended abruptly. he touched a button, and a young man, with a shiny, pink face and fair hair parted in the middle, came in with a notebook and pencil in his hand. he looked as if he spent every moment of his spare time in washing his face. there was a quiet, nervous air about him--the air of one who is never certain of what is going to happen next. ferrol's abrupt sentences always unnerved him. "trinder," he said, "there was a letter among the lot to-day. quain. written on _easterham gazette_ notepaper. asking for editorial employment." "yes, sir." trinder had long ceased to marvel at ferrol's memory for details. "write to him the usual letter asking him to call. wednesday at twelve." trinder made a note and withdrew. ferrol wondered what margaret's boy was like. iii at the age of twenty humphrey quain found himself on the threshold of a world of promise. it seemed to him that if, out of all the years of time, he could have chosen the period in which he would live, he would have picked out the dawn of this twentieth century of grace. england was just then in the throes of casting from herself the burden of old traditions. the closing years of the nineties had been years of preparation and development--years of broadening minds and new ideas, until quite suddenly, it seemed, the century turned the corner, and yesterday became old-fashioned in a day, and all eyes were fixed on the glorious sunrise of the twentieth century--the wonderful century. people, you remember, played with the fantasy of beginning a brand-new century as if it were a new toy. nobody who was living could remember the birth of the last century. it was a new emotion for everyone. there was the oddity of writing dates, discarding for ever the -- and beginning with --; old phrases, such as _fin-de-siècle_, became suddenly obsolete; new phrases were coined, among which "twencent" (an abbreviation for twentieth century, and a tribute to the snap and hustle with which the world was now expected to go) survived the longest; songs were sung at music-halls; there was a burst of cartoons on the subject; people referred jokingly to the last century, parodying the recollections of boresome centenarians; while the unhappy _nineteenth century_, as though the calendar had taken a mean advantage of its mid-victorian dignity, determined never again to risk being so hopelessly out of date, and added to its title the words "and after," thereby enabling future centuries to go for ever without ruffling its title. in the midst of this change, when the death of queen victoria seemed to snap the present from the past irrevocably, and the novelty of a king came to england again; when the first of the tubes that now honeycomb london was a twopenny wonder, and people were talking of shepherd's bush, and notting hill gate, and marvelling curiously why they had never talked of them before; when socialism was burrowing and gnawing like a rat at the old, worn fabric of society, urging the working-man to stand equal in parliament with the noblest lords in the land. in the midst of all this there arose suddenly, born with the twentieth century, the young man. he had already come, answering the call of the country in the dark disillusioning days of the boer war. people had seen the young clerks and workmen of england marching shoulder to shoulder down the streets of london, like the train-bands of elizabethan days. when the country was in peril the flower and the youth of england came to its aid, and the older men could do nothing but stay at home and look on. the young man, scorned by his elders in all the periods of the nineteenth century except those last years of development, found himself suddenly caught up on the high wave that was sweeping away the rubbish and the sentiment and the lumber of the old customs, and borne above them all. he was set on a pinnacle, as the new type; the future of the world was said to be in the hands of the young men; the old men--even forty was too old, you remember--had had their day. they were now like so much old furniture, shabby and undesirable, second-hand goods, better replaced by strong, well-made, up-to-date things. it really was a wonderful time for the young man. in the old days it had been customary for him to show respect to his elders, to call them "sir," to stand up when they came into a room, or raise his hat if they met in the streets, to offer his seat to them if there was none vacant, and generally to treat them as old ladies, with polite reverence mingled with awe. the worship of age had become a fetish; it was improper to criticize the opinions of a man older than yourself; it was heresy to think that you were as capable as the old men; youth had to wait and grow old for its chances in life; youth was ridiculed, snubbed and held in the leash. and then, quite suddenly it seemed, though ibsen had heard it knocking at the door long before, the younger generation burst upon us with an astonishing vigour, taking possession of the new century, trampling down the false gods of age and bringing in its train, like boys trooping from a nursery, hosts of new toys and new ideas in everything. it was, i think, _the day_ that finally discovered the young man. ferrol had known the bitter opposition which he had fought in his own twenties and thirties, and he shone as the apostle of youth. the young man, from a neglected embryo, became a national asset; all hands were uplifted to him in the dawn of the new century. he was enthroned in the seats from which his elders were deposed. people seeking for a symbol of the new life that was beginning, looked westwards and found a whole nation that typified the young man who was to be their salvation. they found america, eager, with strident voice, forceful and straining its muscles to the game of life--a whole nation of young men. it became the fashion to take america as a model. there was an invasion of boots and bicycles and cameras. "look," every one cried, "see how they do things better than we do. look at their magazines--how wonderful they are." phonographs, kinetoscopes, the first jumpy cinematographs, photo-buttons, chewing-gum, they came to the country, and were hailed gladly as from the land of young men. presently the young men themselves came. they came with their hair parted in the middle, and keen, clean-shaven faces with very predominant chins. they were mere boys, and they had a bounce and a boisterous assurance that took one's breath away. with them came loudly-striped shirts, multi-coloured socks, felt hats and lounge suits in city offices, and, later, soft-fronted shirts and black silk bows for evening wear. they opened london offices for new york firms, and showed us card-indexing systems, roll-top desks, dictaphones and loose-leaf ledgers. all letters were typewritten, and the firm who sent out a letter in the crabbed handwriting of its senior clerk was accounted disgracefully behind the times. the young man set the pace with a vengeance, and it was a panting business to keep abreast of him. cock-tails and quick-lunch restaurants appeared next; griddle-cakes, clam-chowder and club sandwiches were shown to us; and finally, as though having absorbed their nutriment, we had assimilated their habits, a fierce desire to speak with a nasal accent took hold of us. the man who wanted to get a job spoke with as much american accent as he could muster up; he looked american, and he affected american ways; his affirmative was "sure," and he wore his hair long and sleek, divided evenly in the middle. he was the young man, cocksure, enthusiastic and determined--the most remarkable product of his time. ferrol found him, a year or so before he arrived, with that instinct of his, almost second-sight, which never failed. he boomed him as a type; he glorified him, and gave him high posts in the office of _the day_. with the exception of neckinger, the editor, who came straight from new york, he was the native product, and ferrol was always on the look-out for more of him. and so, in the midst of all this, when the cry for the young man was at its hungriest, when "hustle" and "strenuous" were added to the vocabulary, we see humphrey quain, waiting on the outskirts, watching his opportunity, and meanwhile bending over the counter of the _easterham gazette_ office, coat off and shirt sleeves turned back to the elbow, folding up copies of the _easterham gazette_ as they came damp, with the ink wet on them, from the printing-press in the basement. * * * * * the _easterham gazette_ was, unhesitatingly, the worst paper in easterham. it was an eight-page weekly journal, with a staff of one editor, one reporter and humphrey quain. when things were slack in the reporting line, the reporter (an extraordinarily shaggy person called beaver, whose thumbs were always covered with ink) was expected to "fill up time at case"--which means that he was to assist in setting up the paper in type. the editor, whose name was worthing, walked about in a knickerbocker suit and a soft grey hat, and it was part of his business to obtain advertisements for the _gazette_. the leading articles he wrote were always composed with one eye on the advertiser. in praising the laudable action of councillor bilson in opposing the introduction of trams into the town, there was a pleasant parenthesis, something in this manner: "it needs no words of ours to echo the praise bestowed on that gallant champion of our town, our much-respected councillor bilson (in whose windows, by the way, there is a remarkable exhibit of oriental coffee-making) ..." and so on. it was beaver's duty to make the "calls" during the week. how he managed them all, i don't know; but in the intervals of attending the police-court, the council meetings, and all the meetings of local organizations, he would call at the hospital, at the mayor's parlour, on the town clerk, on the churches and cathedrals, snapping up unconsidered trifles in the shape of accidents, civic news, church services, and all the other activities of easterham life. sometimes during the week beaver would swing himself astride a bicycle, as frayed and as shabby as himself, and pedal to wimberly, or pooleham, or further afield to great huxton for local meetings, all of which were of vast interest to the _easterham gazette_, since its copies went weekly--or were supposed to go--over the whole of the county, and it had annexed to its title the names of all the best villages. its full title, by the way, was: _easterham gazette, and wimberly, pooleham, great huxton, middle huxton and little huxton chronicle; coomber, melsdom and upper thornton journal_, largest circulation in any district, weekly one penny. it was nigh upon sixty years of age, and therefore its tottering infirmity may be excused. humphrey quain came into the office ostensibly as a clerk. in the beginning he thought it was a fascinating game seeing the things that one wrote in print. therefore, all unconsciously, he started to write. he began with "cycle notes" and "theatre notes," and presently he found himself with sufficient interest to fill a whole column, which dealt mainly with local gossip, and was called "the easterham letter." it was addressed always to the editor and was signed "p and q." when he was not writing, he was addressing wrappers or making out the weekly bills for the newsagents; and every friday evening he stood by the counter, folding up the papers as they came to him, and handing them to grubby little children who were sent by the newsagents, or sold the papers for themselves in the streets. it really was a remarkable paper for the twentieth century. its advertisement space was one shilling an inch, or less if you promised not to tell any one; three men, of course, could not fill the whole of these eight great sheets, and therefore the carrier's wagon delivered every thursday to the _easterham gazette_ office, mysterious thin brown parcels the size of a column, and rather heavy. simultaneously, all over the country, like parcels were being delivered, and, if by chance you compared an issue of the _easterham gazette_ with any thirty local papers in the north, south, or east of england, you would have been amazed at the remarkable similarity of their contents. they had the same serial story of thrilling adventure, the same "cookery notes and kitchen recipes," the same "home hints to household happiness," word for word, and the same column of jokes. for these long parcels that arrived every thursday at the _easterham gazette_ office were columns of type cast from moulds, sent down from a london agency which has made a mighty business of supplying general matter, from foreign intelligence to fashion notes, ready for the printing-press, at so much a column. they call it "stereo." humphrey quain had been in the office for three years. his aunt was a friend of mr worthing, the editor, and his father thought it would be a good thing for the boy to have some association with the world of letters, however distant. shortly afterwards, quain senior had taken a master's appointment in a private boarding-school at southsea, and humphrey remained with his aunt. a year later his father died. he parted with his father with a straining heart, for daniel quain was a tremendous success as a father, though he was a failure as a man. of course this was only humphrey's point of view: what more could a boy want than a father who could fashion any kind of toy, from whistles to steamboats, out of a block of wood; who knew enough of elementary science to make a pin sail on water, by letting it rest on a cigarette paper which soaked and sank away, leaving the pin afloat; who could blow a halfpenny from one wine-glass to another, and produce whooing sounds from a hollow tube by placing it over a gas flame. wonderful father! it was daniel who fostered in humphrey's heart the love of reading: those early books were adventure stories by fenimore cooper, kingston and ballantyne. he read harrison ainsworth, too, and henty, and took in the _boy's own paper_, and, in short, did everything in the way of reading that a normal, happy, healthy-minded boy should do. "keep clear of philosophy until you are thirty," daniel said one day, as he was showing him how three matches can be made to stand upright; "then you won't understand enough of life to be miserable." later, he came to the dickens and thackeray stage, but he was pained to find he could not enjoy scott. he confided his distaste to his father, as though it were a guilty failing of which to be ashamed. "form your own likes and dislikes in reading as in everything else," said daniel. "don't be a literary snob, and pretend you enjoy the acquaintance of books merely because they belong so to speak to the 'upper ten' of the book-world." when his father died, humphrey was first brought face to face with the stern things of life. it was a chance remark of his aunt that gave him the first glimpse. "you'll have to do something for yourself, humphrey," she said one day. "that father of yours did nothing for you." she always spoke bitterly of his father. humphrey had never thought of it before. it had seemed to him that things came naturally to people from father to son: that, in some mysterious, unthought-of way, when he was about twenty or so, he would find himself with an income of sorts, or some settled employment. "you must get on," said his aunt, looking at him through her spectacles. "young men get on quickly to-day. you must grasp your opportunities." so here came a new and delightful interest into humphrey's existence. he perceived something fine in it all. from that day he had one creed in life: the creed of getting on. this determination swamped every other interest in life. it was as if his aunt had suddenly touched upon some internal button that had started off a driving-wheel within him, and set all the machinery of energy into movement. how did one "get on" in the world? he began to take an enormous interest in everything, to follow the doings of men and cities outside easterham; his knowledge widened slowly, for he had no brothers and was singularly innocent in the everyday sense of the word. and all the time, during those easterham days, he was beginning to understand things. he saw that beaver and worthing, with their small salaries and narrow capacities, had not "got on"--would never "get on." he realized too, that his father, well through life, had been little better than a man in the beginning of it. on the other hand, bilson, with his large, shining shop, might be said to have "got on," and just when he was half deciding that bilson held the secret, bilson suddenly went bankrupt, owing to the failure of some coffee plantations in ceylon. it seemed a perplexing business, this getting on. easier to talk about than to do. and, after all, the getting on-ness of bilson had been circumscribed by the narrow area of easterham. the real success meant power, and the ability to use it: wide power over the affairs of other people. these were not the thoughts of a moment: they were lingering thoughts that spread over three years, from seventeen to twenty, those three years when he was at the _easterham gazette_ office, with only beaver and worthing for his models in life. they were thoughts in the intervals of writing "notes" on local subjects--indeed, the notes were the outcome of the thoughts--of reading, and of cycling, and going to the theatre. and then one day a most amazing thing happened. beaver got on! yes, it was really incredible, but the fact was there indisputable and glaring. beaver, shaggy and unkempt, who seemed to have settled down for ever to the meetings and the calls and the police-courts ("harriet higgins, , no fixed abode, charged with being drunk and disorderly, etc."), broke through the cobwebs that had settled on him, in an unexpected and definite manner. he came to humphrey one day and remarked quite casually, "i've given old worthing the push." humphrey looked at him: he wore a norfolk jacket, with old trousers, and a tweed hat of no shape at all. beaver took his pipe out of his mouth, and humphrey noticed the short nails on his stumpy, fat fingers. beaver always bit his nails. "i've given old worthing the push," said beaver. "look at this." he showed a letter to humphrey, who saw that it was from the "special news agency" of london, employing beaver in their service at £ , s. a week. "how did you get it?" humphrey asked. "wrote in," said beaver, gnawing a finger-tip. "been writing in on the quiet for the last year. fed up with old worthing and filling up time at case." "i thought you had to know how to write well if you wanted to work in london," humphrey said. there were no illusions about beaver's style. "oh! the agency doesn't want writing--it wants a man who can take down shorthand verbatim.... i'm off next week," said beaver. humphrey looked longingly at him and his letter, and then round at the whitewashed walls of the office, with its calendars and local directories for years past on the shelf, and the pile of _gazettes_ on the corner of the counter. mr worthing passed through the office, stopped, and scowled at beaver. "kindly remove your head-gear in the front office," he said, and beaver, with the unmurmuring discipline of years which nothing could break, took off the crumpled tweed thing he called a hat. "nice pig, isn't he?" beaver said to humphrey, as worthing went out. "we had an awful row. said i ought to have given him a month's notice. a week would have been good enough for me if he was doing the sacking. pig in knickers, that's what he is," said beaver, defiantly. "this is a hole." "oh, beaver!" cried humphrey, hopelessly. "it is a hole. he _is_ a pig.... but what's going to happen to me?" "you'll do my work," beaver remarked. "i can't write shorthand. besides, i don't want to. how old are you, beaver?" "just turned thirty. why?" "thirty!" thought humphrey; fancy beaver having wasted all these years in doing nothing but local reporting. would he have to work ten years more and still achieve nothing further than beaver. there must be some way out of it. beaver had found it, and surely he could. "it's fine for you," humphrey said, admiringly now, for, in the blankness of beaver leaving the office where they had worked, he had forgotten to congratulate him. "the special news agency is the biggest in london, isn't it." "rather," said beaver, comfortably. "it's a life job." that was his ambition. "look here, young quain, i think you're too good for easterham, too. those notes of yours, you know.... i used to read 'em every week. not at all bad.... you take my tip, and do a turn at reporting for a while, and then when you've got the hang of things write in. write in to all the london papers. say you've had good provincial experience--'provincial' sounds better than local. you'll see. you're bound to get replies. say you're a good all-round man. enclose a stamped envelope." beaver sauntered to and fro, nibbling at a nail between excited sentences. "oh, and don't you forget it. write on _easterham gazette_ notepaper." and when, a week later, beaver left, worthing asked humphrey to try his hand at the police-court, humphrey accepted the inevitable, and tried to improve on the style of the police reports. worthing swore at him and rewrote them all, and told him to model his style on that of the late mr beaver. whereupon humphrey, seeing that he would never get on if he were to live in the shadow of beaver, sat down, and "wrote in." he wrote to _the day_, because he bought the paper every morning, and thought it was wonderful. the day that ferrol's reply arrived was a day of triumph for humphrey. the letter came to him with unbelievable promptness, asking him to call at the office.... never again did humphrey recapture the fine emotion that thrilled him as he read and re-read the letter. looking back on it, he saw that those moments were among the most glorious in his life; he stood on the threshold of a world of promise and enchantment, suddenly revealed to him by this scrap of paper with _the day_ in embossed blue letters, surrounded by telephone numbers and telegraphic addresses of the great newspaper. when he showed the letter to his aunt, she sighed in a tired way, and said unexpectedly: "i'm afraid you will never get on, humphrey. you are too restless. i'm sure you would do better to remain with mr worthing. however...." she very rarely finished her sentences. humphrey smiled. he saw himself marching to fortune; he was twenty, and it never occurred to him that he could fail. iv you may call fleet street what you like, but the secret of it eludes you always. it has as many moods as a woman: it is the street of laughter and of tears, of adventure and dullness, of romance and reality, of promise and lost hopes, of conquest and broken men. into its narrow neck are crammed all the hurrying life, the passions, the eager, beating hearts, the happiness and the sorrow of the broad streets east and west that lead to it. there is something in this thin, crooked street, holding in its body the essence of the world, that clutches at the imagination, something in the very atmosphere surrounding it which makes it different from all the other streets that are walked by men. the stones and the old timber of some of its buildings are like the yellow parchment of some ancient manuscript, scribbled with faded history. there are chop-houses, and taverns, where the wigged and knee-breeched puffs sat writing their tit-bits of scandal for the fashionable intelligence of the day; where addison and steele tapped their snuff-boxes and planned their letters to mr spectator; or, further back in the years, shakespeare himself went strandwards from blackfriars up the narrow street where the gabled houses leaned to one another. look, you can almost see the ghosts of fleet street pacing out of the little courts and alleys that lie athwart the street: you know that massive bulk of a man, walking ponderously, in drab-coloured coat and knee-breeches, and rather untidy stockings above his heavy, buckled shoes. he is in the street of a million words; other ghosts jostle him, and in the gallant company one sees charles dickens, dropping his manuscript stealthily into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court; and all the dead men who have given their lives to the street, some of them foolishly wanton in wine--dead men shot in the wars, or burnt with fever, or wrecked with the struggle, come back ... come back to fleet street, to look wistfully at the lit windows, and listen to the throbbing music of the presses. it lures you like a siren, coaxing with soft promises of prizes to be wrested from it: you shall be the favoured of the gods, and you become sisyphus, rolling his stone eternally, day after day. here are the things of life that you covet, they shall be yours, says the street: and you are tantalus, reaching out everlastingly, and grasping nothing, until your heart is parched within you. you shall be strong and mighty, it says, sapping your strength like delilah, until you pull down the pillars of hope, and fall buried beneath the reckless ruins of your career. once you have answered the voice of the siren, you are taken in the magic spell. beat your breast, and exclaim in agony, but nothing will avail, for if you leave the street, the quiet world will seem void for ever, and, as the ghosts burn backwards through space, so shall you return to the old agitations and longings. * * * * * this was the street to which young humphrey quain came on a january morning, riding triumphantly on the top of an omnibus. as he passed the fantastic griffin, with its open jaws and monstrous scaly wings, like a warder guarding those who would escape, fleet street seemed to be the street of conquest. it was a rare, crisp day, with a touch of frost in the air, and the sun clear and high in the heavens, above the tangle of wires and cables that almost roofed the street. the traffic was beating up and down, with frequent blocks, here and there, as a heavy hooded van staggered up from whitefriars or bouverie street. it was nearly mid-day, and the light two-wheeled carts were pouring out of shoe lane, or coming from salisbury square with the early editions of the afternoon papers. newsboys on bicycles, with sacks of papers swung over their backs, seemed to be risking their lives every moment as they flashed into the thick of the traffic, clinging to hansoms, and sliding between drays and omnibuses, out of the press, until they could get through the narrow neck of fleet street towards the west. humphrey breathed deeply as he looked about him: the names of the newspapers were blazoned everywhere. heavens! what a world of paper and ink this was, to be sure. the doors, the windows and the letter-boxes bore the titles of newspapers--all the newspapers that were. every room, on every floor, was inhabited by the representatives of some paper or other: on the musty top windows he could read the titles of journals in canada and australia; great golden letters bulged across the buildings telling of familiar newspapers. the houses were an odd mixture of modernity and antiquity, they jostled each other in their cramped space; narrow buildings squeezed between high, red offices with plate-glass windows, and over and above the irregular roofs the wires spread thin threads against the sky, wires that gave and received news from the uttermost ends of the earth. the letters in white enamel or gold on the windows told of paris and berlin, of rotterdam and vienna; here they marked the home of a religious paper, there the office of a trade paper, and hard by it _the sportsman_, with its windows full of prize-fighters' photographs and a massive silver belt in a plush case, for the possession of which porky smith and jewey brown were coming to blows. every branch of human activity, all the intricate complexities of modern life seemed to be represented either by a room or the fifth part of a room in fleet street. and, rising out of the riot of narrow buildings, huddled closely to each other, the great homes of the daily papers stood up as landmarks. here were the london offices of the important provincial papers, which spoke nightly with birmingham, manchester, sheffield and liverpool--plate-glass windows and large letters gave them a handsome enough appearance, but they looked comparatively insignificant beside the tall red building of _the sentinel_, and the new green-glazed establishment of _the wire_, while the grey, enormous offices of _the day_ dwarfed them all. there was something solid about _the day_ as it stood four-square firmly in the street, with its great letters sprawled across the front, golden by day, and golden with electric light in the night-time. it seemed almost as if _the day_ had nudged the other great papers out of fleet street, for in the side streets, in bouverie street, and whitefriars street, and in shoe lane, the remainder of the london papers found their homes, with the exception of the high-toned _morning courier_, which found itself at the western end of the street past the law courts. but _the day_, with its arrogant dome-tower (lit up at nights), its swinging glass doors and braided commissionaires, was the most typical of the modern newspaper world. it was just such a place as humphrey quain had dreamed. the swing doors were always on the move; the people were coming and going quickly--here was action, and all the movement and the business of life. for a few moments humphrey hesitated a little nervously. he was a minute or two in advance of the time appointed for the interview, and he stood there, irresolute, filled with a wondrous sense of expectancy, among the crowd that hurried to and fro. he noticed on the other side of the road a bearded man, in a silk hat and a frayed overcoat, sitting on a doorstep at the top of whitefriars street. the man had a keen, intelligent face with blue eyes. it was the shiny silk hat that leapt to humphrey's notice, it seemed so out of keeping with the rest of the man's clothes. besides, why should a man in a silk hat sit on a doorstep.... years later the man was still there, every day, sitting sphinx-like, surveying those who passed him ... he must have marked their faces grow older. the commissionaire regarded humphrey critically. it was the business of the commissionaire in _the day_ office, especially, to be a judge of character. he divided callers into two main classes--those who wanted to see the editor, and those whom the editor wanted to see. the two classes were quite distinct, and there were few who, like humphrey quain, belonged to both. "yes, by appointment," said humphrey, a little proudly, to the commissionaire's cold question that rose like a wall to so many callers. he was shown into a little room, and made to fill up a form--name, address and business. the next minute a boy in a green uniform led him up a flight of stairs, through the ante-room where the pink-cheeked trinder sat typewriting diligently, and so to ferrol's room. humphrey had a confused impression of a broad, high room, of a man sitting at a desk miles away at the farther end of the room by the half-curtained window; of red walls hung with files of newspapers, and the contents bills of that day; of a louis xvi. clock, all scrolls and cupids, bringing a queer touch of drawing-room leisure with it; and of telephones and buttons that surrounded the man at the desk. the buttons fascinated him: he saw that thin slips of ivory labelled them with the names of the different departments--editor, news-editor, reporters, sub-editors, advertisement manager, business manager, literary editor, sporting editor, city editor, foreign editor--the whole of the building, with all its workers, seemed to be within the reach of ferrol's fingers. he was like the captain of a great ship, navigating the paper from this room, steering daily through the perilous journey. humphrey remembered afterwards how he was possessed with an odd longing; he wanted to see ferrol press all the buttons at once, to hear the bones of the paper, the framework on which it was built up each day, come clattering and rattling into the room. ferrol looked up from his papers, pushed back his round, upholstered chair that tipped slightly on its axis, and the room with its red walls and carpet suddenly faded from humphrey, and he became aware only of a face that looked at him ... a masterful, powerful face, strong in every feature, from the thick, closely-knit eyebrows below the broad forehead, to the round, large chin. there was something insistent in this face of ferrol, with its steel-coloured eyes, that hardened or softened with his moods, and its black moustache, that bulged heavily over his upper lip and gave him an appearance of rugged ferocity. humphrey felt as if he were a squirming thing under the microscope.... that was the way of ferrol--everything depended on the first impression that he received; all his being was tautened to receive that first impression. it was a narrow system of judging character, but he made few mistakes.... they were quickly corrected. he never forgave those who deceived him by wearing a mask over their true selves. there is not the slightest doubt that humphrey felt a little nervous--who would not, with ferrol's eyes boring through one?--but he knew that great issues were at stake. he carried his head high, and his eyes met ferrol's without a quiver. thus he stood by the table for five seconds, though it seemed as many minutes to him, until ferrol told him to sit down. "so you want to come on _the day_," was the way ferrol began. they were eye to eye all the while. "yes, sir," said humphrey, briskly. somehow or other, with the sound of ferrol's voice all his nervousness departed. it was the silence that had made him feel awkward. "let's see.... ah! yes; you've been on an easterham paper, haven't you?" "three years," humphrey replied. "that all the experience you've had?" humphrey smiled faintly. "that's all," he said. "what do you want to do?" here was an amazing question for which he was totally unprepared. it had never occurred to him that he would be asked to make his choice. his eyes wandered to the buttons.... what _did_ he want to do? he made an answer that sounded futile and foolish to him. "i want to get on," he stammered, hesitatingly, with a picture of his aunt rising mentally before him. ferrol's eyes twinkled. it was a magic answer if humphrey had but known. most of the others he saw wanted to do descriptive writing, they had literary kinks in them, or wanted to have roving commissions abroad.... none of them wanted to start at the bottom. "well, this is the place for young men who want to get on, you know," said ferrol. "it's hard work...." he turned away and consulted some papers. "i think i'll give you a chance," he said. the clock struck twelve, and it sounded to humphrey that a chime of joy-bells had flooded the room with triumphant music. "when can you start?" ferrol asked. "next week," humphrey said. "you can start at three pounds a week." ferrol pressed a button. trinder appeared. "ask mr rivers if he can come," said ferrol. humphrey thought only of three pounds a week ... three pounds! "i'll put you on the reporting staff," ferrol remarked. then he smiled. "we'll see how you get on...." there was a pause. (three pounds a week! three pounds a week!) he looked up as the door opened and saw an extraordinarily virile-looking person come into the room--a man with the face of a refined pugilist, with large square-shaped hands and an expression of impish perkiness in his eyes. "come in, rivers," said ferrol. "this is mr quain." mr rivers shook his hand with an air of polite restraint. "mr rivers is our news editor," explained ferrol, and then to rivers, "i have engaged mr quain for a trial month, rivers." rivers smiled whimsically. "you're not a genius, i hope," he said to humphrey. the spirit of humour that flashed across rivers's face, twinkling his eyes and the corners of his mouth and dimpling his cheeks, made humphrey laugh a negative reply. "that's all right," said rivers, his face so creased in smiles until his beady eyes threatened to disappear altogether. "the last genius we had," he said, with a nod to ferrol, "let us down horribly on the bermondsey murder story." the telephone bell rang. "i'll see him now," said ferrol through the telephone, and humphrey took that as a signal that the interview was ended. ferrol shook hands with him, and once more he felt himself the target of those steel-grey eyes that held in them the stern remorselessness of strength. * * * * * "good-looking young man," said rivers, as the door closed behind humphrey. "hope he'll shape all right." "i hope so," ferrol echoed.... and he was glad that rivers had praised humphrey, for he was pleased with the upright, manly bearing of the lad, the quick intelligence of the face, and he had noticed the frank eyes, the smooth skin and the dark hair that had belonged in the lost years to margaret. v humphrey came downstairs and out into the street again walking like one in a dream. his interview with ferrol had lasted barely five minutes, and in those few minutes the whole course of his future life had been determined. his mind was whirling with the suddenness of it all; whirling and whirling round one thought, the thought of three pounds a week. round this pivot, as a catharine-wheel spins round its pin, the thing of the greatest import revolved brilliantly, shedding its luminous light far into the dark recesses of the future ... he was on _the day_. fleet street was at his feet. in that moment a new humphrey quain was born, different from the youth who had walked a little timorously into ferrol's room; he was no longer a lost cipher in the world, he was a unit in the army that marched forwards, with progress and to-morrow for their watchwords. he felt, suddenly, a great man--humphrey quain of _the day_, cocksure, self-confident, with ambitions that appalled him when he thought of them in after years. what would beaver say? what would old worthing say...? and there was his aunt, too. that man in the silk hat, with the shabby overcoat, was still sitting on the doorstep. as humphrey passed him, his lips twisted in a haunting ironical smile. perhaps he knew of humphrey's thoughts. he went back to easterham. after all, worthing took it very well, and his aunt agreed that three pounds a week certainly showed that he was getting on, and beaver, to whom he wrote the glad news, recommended him rooms in guilford street, in the house where he was living. and there followed days of tremendous dreams. vi a week later a four-wheeler brought up outside no. a guilford street, and there, on the doorstep, was beaver, with his thumbs inkier than ever, waiting to welcome humphrey to london. the cabman, one of those red-faced, truculent individuals whom a petrol-driven nemesis has now overtaken and rendered humble, demanded two shillings more than his fare, firstly, because it was obvious that humphrey came from the country, and secondly, because he had gone by mistake to a, which was at the far end of the street. "why didn't you speak the number plainly," he growled. they compromised with an extra sixpence, on the condition that the cabman should assist in carrying humphrey's two trunks into the house, as far as the second-floor landing. "there are your rooms," beaver said, throwing open the door; "you've got a sitting-room, with a little bed-room at the side. twelve shillings a week," he said, anxiously. "not too much, i hope. breakfasts, one shilling a day." he lowered his voice mysteriously. "take my tip, quain, and open the eggs and the window at the same time." humphrey laughed. it was jolly to have beaver in the loneliness of london. this was quite another beaver, a better-groomed beaver, with a clean collar, and only one day's stubble on his chin. he made swift calculations--twelve and seven--nineteen, and coals--what of coals? coals were a shilling a scuttle. beaver confided to him that he had a regular system for checking the coal supply. it seems he made an inventory of every lump of coal in every fresh scuttleful. he kept a kind of day-book and ledger system of coal, debiting against the credit supply the lumps that he put on the fire, and balancing his books at night. in this way mrs wayzgoose, the landlady, found no opportunity for making extra capital out of the coal business. "you're better off than i am," beaver said. "i've only got the top room at eight shillings a week--a bed-sitting room. but then, i send ten shillings a week to my sister. it doesn't leave@ very much by the time i've had my meals and paid the rent." humphrey begged him to consider the sitting-room as his own, so long as he lived in the house. they began to unpack together, beaver making exclamations of surprise at the turn of things. "fancy you being on _the day_!" he said, pausing with a volume in each hand. "it all happened so quickly. i took your advice. ferrol seems a wonderful chap." "oh! i daresay ferrol's all right ... but _the day's_ got an awful reputation. they're always sacking somebody.... i'd rather be where i am. they've got to keep firing, you know. new blood, and new ideas. that's what they want." humphrey laughed. "i'm not afraid," he said. "once i get my teeth into the place, they won't shake me off." all the same, it must be confessed that beaver's words awoke a slight feeling of alarm in his heart. a king might arise who knew not humphrey, and he might go down with the rest. "we'll put the books on the mantelpiece; i'll have to get a book-shelf to-morrow." humphrey had brought up a few of his favourites--an odd collection: _the fifth form at st dominic's_; _the time machine_; _an easy outline of evolution_; _gulliver's travels_, and _captain singleton_; the poems of browning and robert buchanan, and carlyle's _french revolution_. the pictures they agreed to hang to-morrow. they were only heliogravure prints of the kind that were sold in shilling parts. watts' "hope" and "life and death," and other popular pictures, together with photographic reproductions of authors, ancient and modern, from _the bookman_. when they had finished, humphrey surveyed his new home. it looked comfortable enough in the fire-light, with the green curtains drawn over the windows. the furniture was of the heavy mahogany, mid-victorian fashion, blended with a horsehair sofa and bent-wood arm-chair, that struck a jarring note of ultra-modernity. there was a flat-topped desk in one corner by the fireplace. the mantelpiece was hideous with pink and blue vases that held dried grass and clipped bulrushes. looking round more carefully, he saw that moses himself could not have had more bulrushes to screen him than mrs wayzgoose had put for the delight of her lodgers. there were bulrushes in the mirror over the sideboard, bulrushes in a gaily-decorated stand whose paint hid its drain-pipe pedigree, bulrushes in another bloated vase on a fretted ebony stand by the window. who shall explain this extraordinary passion for bulrushes that still holds in its thrall the respectable landladies of england? "i must have them cleared away," said humphrey. beaver smiled. "you just try!" he said meaningly. "anyhow, you're better off than i am, mine's paper fans." he rang the bell, and a stout, placid-faced woman appeared at the door. she wore at her neck a large topaz-coloured stone, as large as a saucer, set in a circle of filigree gold, and heavy-looking lumps of gold dangled from her ears. her hands, with their fingers interlocked, rested on the ends of the shawl that made her appear even more ample than she was. "this is mr quain, mrs wayzgoose," said beaver. mrs wayzgoose's face fell apart in her welcoming smile--the smile that her lodgers saw only once. it was a wonderful, carefully-studied smile, beginning with the gradual creasing of the mouth, extending earwards, joyfully, and finally spreading until the nose and the eyes were brought into the scheme. "i hope you find everything you want, mr quain," she said. "everything's very comfortable," humphrey answered. "do you take tea or coffee with your breakfasts, mr quain?" humphrey was about to reply coffee, when the guardian beaver winked enormously at him, and shook his head in a manner that was quite perplexing. he had not a notion of what beaver was trying to convey--there was evidently something to beware of in the question. then, he had an inspiration. "what do i take, beaver?" he asked. "oh, tea--undoubtedly tea," beaver answered hastily. "very good." mrs wayzgoose turned to go. "oh! by the way, mrs wayzgoose," humphrey said. "these ... these bulrushes...." "_bulrushes!_" echoed mrs wayzgoose, losing her placidity all of a sudden. there was an icy silence. beaver seemed to be enjoying it. "pray, what of my bulrushes?" demanded the masterful mrs wayzgoose. "don't you think ... i mean ... wouldn't the room be lighter without them?" "without them?" the way she echoed his words, her voice rising in its scale, reminded him of the wolf's replies to red riding hood before making a meal of her. "are you aware, mr quain, that those bulrushes have been there for the last thirty years." "i was not aware of it, but i am not surprised to hear it," humphrey answered politely. "and that never a complaint has been made about them." "i _am_ surprised to hear that," he murmured. "the last gentleman who had these rooms," continued mrs wayzgoose, "he _was_ a gentleman, in spite of being coffee-coloured, was a law student. mr hilfi abbas. he took the rooms _because_ of the bulrushes. said they reminded him of the nile. i could let these rooms over and over again to egyptian gentlemen while these bulrushes are there...." and with that she flounced out of the room in a whirl of skirts, with her ear-rings rocking to the headshakes which punctuated her remarks. "there you are," said beaver, as the door closed behind her. "what did i tell you?" humphrey laughed, and shook his fist at the offending bulrushes. "they'll go somehow, you see." when all the unpacking was finished, the pipes put in the pipe-rack, the tobacco-jar on the table, and the photographs of his mother, his father and his aunt placed on the mantelpiece, the question of food came uppermost in his mind. beaver told him that he had accepted an invitation to supper. "i met a chap on a job whom i knew years ago. we were both reporters together in hull, on a weekly there. i didn't know you'd be coming up this evening or i wouldn't have arranged to go there." "well, it doesn't matter," said humphrey. "i can manage for myself. don't let me upset your arrangements." "look here," beaver said suddenly. "why shouldn't you come with me. it's only cold supper and they won't mind a bit. i'll explain things. besides," he added, as he noticed humphrey was hesitating, "tommy pride will be one of your new colleagues. he's on _the day_. you might be able to pick up a few tips from him." so humphrey agreed, and they went up into holborn. it was sunday evening and every shop was shut, except an isolated restaurant and a tobacconist here and there. the public-houses alone were wholly open, and their windows radiated brilliance into the night. the east had invaded the west for its sunday parade, and the streets were a restless procession of young people; sex called to sex without anything more evil in intention than a walk through the streets, a hand-clasp and, perhaps, a kiss in some by-way, and then to part with the memory of a gay adventure that would linger during the dull routine of the week to come, to be forgotten and replaced by another. beaver was for taking the "tube" to shepherd's bush--it was a new luxury for london then, making people wonder how they could have borne so long with the sulphurous smoke and gloom of the old underground railway--but the movement of the streets fascinated humphrey, and, though the journey took much longer, they went out by omnibus. ah! that ride.... the first ride through london, when humphrey felt the great buildings all around him, and above him, rising enormously in a long chain that seemed to stretch for miles and miles, below the sky that was copper-tinted with the glare of thousands of lamps. what did london mean to him, then? he found his mind groping forwards and backwards, and this way and that way, puzzling for the secret of the real london that was hidden in the stones of it. he was a little afraid of it all, it seemed so vast and complicated. in easterham, one knew every one, and to walk the streets was like walking the rooms of one's house--but here no man noticed another, one felt strange and outcast at first, intensely lonely, and minutely insignificant. idly, as he looked down from this omnibus, at the people as they strolled up and down, he wondered of what they were thinking. did they ever think at all, these people of the streets--did they ever have moments of meditation when they pondered the why and the wherefore of anything? it seemed so odd to humphrey, as he thought of it--here was the centre of a great civilization, here were men and women, well and decently dressed, here was london broad and mighty, and yet the minds of those who walked below him were, he felt, narrow and pinched. they might have been living in easterham for all their lives. and, now, he felt afraid for the first time, knowing that he could never conquer these people by the path he had chosen. what mattered anything to them, except that it touched the root of their lives? they cared nothing, he knew, for the greatness of things. they talked vaguely of the greatness of empire, but they never thought about it, nor understood it. they lived in a world of names--the world itself was nothing but a string of names which they had been taught. the very stars above them were just "stars," and the word meant no more to them: if you had talked to them of infinite worlds beyond worlds, of other planets with suns and moons and stars of their own, they would have winked an eye ... and how, when they could not be conquered with the mightiness of everything about them, could humphrey quain hope to conquer them. for he had nothing beyond the desire to conquer them--a desire so strong, smouldering somewhere within him, that it had burnt up almost every other interest; he could think perhaps more deeply than they could, but for the rest, he was limited by lack of great knowledge, lack of everything, except an innate gift of shrewd observation and a power of intuitive reasoning. out of the mists of his thoughts, beaver's voice came to him. "there's the marble arch," said beaver. "what have you been dreaming about? you haven't said a word all the time." humphrey laughed. "i was looking at the people," he said. "i always like looking at people." they went past hyde park, with its naked trees showing like skeletons in the moonlight. the night seemed to deepen the spaciousness of the park, with its shadows and silence; it held all the mystery and beauty of a forest. and later they passed the blue, far-reaching depths of kensington gardens, with the scent of trees and the smell of earth after rain coming to them. it was all new to humphrey, new and delightful. he promised himself glorious days and nights probing this city to its heart, and listening to the beat of its pulses. already, for so was he fashioned, he began to note his emotions, and to watch his inner self, and the impressions he was receiving, so that he could write about them. this was the journalist's sense--a sixth sense--which urges its possessor to set down everything he observes, and adds an infinite zest to life, since every experience, every thought, every new feeling, means something to write about. nor did he think of the things he saw, in the way of the average man. he thought in phrases. it did not content him to feel that a street lamp was merely a lamp. he would ask himself, almost unconsciously, "what does it look like?" and search for a simile. his thoughts ran in metaphors and symbols. they swung into notting hill high street, and here the streets were almost as crowded as those at holborn, and the lights of the public-houses flared, oases of brilliance in the desert of dark, shuttered shops. and so down the hill to shepherd's bush, with its lamps twinkling round the green, and its throng of people--more men and women thinking of nothing at all, and going up and down in herds, like cattle. vii the memory of that evening at the prides remained with humphrey. it was his first glimpse into the social life, and he saw a home that was wholly delightful. beaver had not under-estimated the hospitality of the prides. they gave him a hearty welcome that made him feel at home at once. tommy pride met them in the passage, and after the first introductions he led the way to the sitting-room, where mrs pride was waiting. she was a woman of forty, buxom and charming. he saw, within a very few minutes, that her admiration of tommy pride knew no bounds, that she thought him splendid and flawless--that much he read from the way her brown eyes lit up when she gazed upon him, and the fond smile that marked her lips when she spoke to him. the sitting-room was not a very large apartment, but it was furnished with unusual taste. there were books set in white enamelled bookcases--books that are permanent on the shelf, and not novels of a moment. there was chintz on the arm-chairs and green curtains hung over the window, and a few original black-and-white drawings and water-colours on the walls, papered in dark blue. the impression that the room gave to the visitor was one of peace and rest. humphrey was frankly disappointed in tommy pride. he had had a vague notion that everybody connected with a london newspaper was, of necessity, a person of fame. he knew the names of those who signed the articles in _the day_, and he imagined he would find himself in the company of the great immortals. somehow or other it had never crossed his mind that there were patient, toiling men--hundreds of them--who put out their best work day after day, year after year, without any hope of glory or fame, but simply for the necessities of life, as a bricklayer lays bricks--hundreds of men quite unknown outside the bounds of fleet street and the inner newspaper world. "well," mrs pride said to him; "so you're going to try your luck in london, mr quain?" humphrey nodded, and the conversation went into the channels of small talk. beaver and he amused the prides with recollections of easterham and mr worthing, and tommy pride capped their recollections with some of his own. "when i was on a little local paper once, we had a fellow named smee, who thought he could write," said tommy. "the editor was a hard, cruel sort of chap, without any sympathy for the finer side of literature--at least that was what smee said. he used to sob all round the place, because he wanted to write great throbbing prose instead of borough-council meetings. one day smee got his chance. the editor was ill, and there was a prisoner to be hanged in the county jail. smee wrote the effort of his life. it went something in this way:-- "'last tuesday, under the blue vault of heaven, when the larks were singing their rhapsodies to the roseate dawn, at a.m., like a sudden harbinger of horror, the black flag fluttered above the prison walls, showing that alfred trollop, aged forty-two, labourer, had suffered the last penalty of the law--viz., death.'" "how's that for descriptive?" asked tommy, smacking his lips. "'viz., death.' a glorious touch, eh?" he leaned towards humphrey. "don't you bother about fine writing, quain, or you'll break your heart. we keep a stableful of fine writers, and turn 'em loose when we want any high falutin' done." "don't be so depressing, tommy," mrs pride said. "never mind what he says, mr quain--there's a chance for every one to do his best in fleet street." "dear optimistress," remarked tommy, linking an arm in hers, "let's see what we have for supper." they all went into the dining-room, and humphrey was given the place of honour next to mrs pride. beaver sat opposite, and tommy was at the head of the table carving the joint of cold roast beef. "i'm a little out of form," he said, whimsically. "this is the first meal i've had at home for a week." "i sometimes wish tommy were a sub-editor," mrs pride confided to humphrey; "then we should at least have the day to ourselves. but he says he could never sit down at a desk for eight hours a night." "not me," tommy interposed, with his mouth full of beef. "if they want to make you a sub-editor, quain, take several grains of cyanide of potassium rather than yield. you've got some freedom of thought and life as a reporter, but if you're a sub you're chained down with a string of rules. they make you wear a mental uniform." "i thought a sub-editor held a more important position than a reporter," humphrey said. "so he does, only the reporters don't think so. the paper couldn't get on without the sub-editors. i should love to see _the day_ printed for just one issue with everything that the reporters wrote untouched. it would have to be a forty-two page paper. because every reporter thinks his story is the best, and writes as much of it as he can.... i like the subs, they've saved my life over and over again. next to the agency men they're the most useful people in the world, eh, beaver?... have some beer, beaver. pass him the jug, quain." beaver laughed. "it strikes me you people on the regular staff of the papers take yourselves much too seriously. you've all got swelled heads. for the sake of fine phrases you'll lose half the facts. why don't you all understand that it's simply in the day's work to do your job and forget all about it." "lord knows," tommy replied, "but we don't. we get obsessed with our jobs, and dream them, and spend hours taking trouble over them, and we know all the time that when they come cold and chilly at night through the sub's hands, they're lopped about and cut up to fit a space. we may pretend we don't care what happens to our writing, so long as we draw our money, but i think we all do in our secret hearts. we're born that way. the moment a man really doesn't care whether his story is printed or cut to shreds, he's no good in a newspaper office. it means he's lost his enthusiasm." tommy's voice fell. he knew well enough that that was the state of affairs to which he had come. all the long, long years of work had left him emotionless. he had exhausted his enthusiasm, and the whole business seemed stale to him. he felt out of place in this new world of newspaperdom, peopled with energetic, hopeful young men who came out of nowhere, and captured at once the prizes which were so hardly won in his day. he felt himself being nudged out of it all, by the pushful enthusiastic army of young men who had marched down on fleet street. all round him he saw signs of the coming change--the old penny papers were talking of changing their price to a halfpenny; the older men in journalism were being pensioned off, or dismissed, or "put on space"--which means that they were not paid a regular salary but at so much a column for what they wrote. the spirit of change was working everywhere: some of the solid writers who found that they could not comply with the modern demands of journalism, migrated back to the provinces and became editors or leader-writers on papers in manchester, birmingham or sheffield. and, at the back of all this change, the figure of ferrol hovered.... ferrol sweeping irresistibly over the old traditions of fleet street.... ferrol threatening to acquire this paper and that paper, to start weeklies and monthlies, to extend his power even to the provinces, so that everywhere the shadow brooded. and they would want young men, keen, shrewd young men, and so the day would come when he would fade away from the life of fleet street. and then--"tommy and i are going to retire soon," mrs pride said, with a fond glance at her husband, "aren't we, tommy?" "she means to the workhouse, beaver," tommy remarked, with a grin. "we're going to have a cottage in the country, and tommy's going to write his book." "no," said beaver, incredulously. "do you write books, mr pride?" humphrey asked. "i? lord, no! not now. i once had an idea of writing books. i was just about your age. i believe i've even got the first chapter somewhere. but i've never written it. whenever the missis and i get very depressed, we cheer ourselves up by talking of that book, and writing it in the country. by the way, do you know that deep down in the heart of every newspaper man there's a longing to write one book, and to live on two pounds a week in the country?" "that'll do, tommy," mrs pride interposed. "i won't have you spoil mr quain's evening any more. you're making him quite depressed. don't pay any attention to him, mr quain, and have some cheese." after supper they went back to the sitting-room, and mrs pride played to them, and beaver sang in a shaky bass voice. humphrey had never heard beaver sing before. there was something grotesque about the singing. it took humphrey by surprise. beaver was the sort of man who, somehow or other, one imagined would sing in a high treble. he sang on and on, right through the portfolio of the "world's favourite songs," including "the anchor's weighed," "john peel," "the heart bowed down," and the rest of them. pride sat in the arm-chair by the fireside, smoking a pipe, and nodding to the old melodies, while humphrey gravitated to the book-shelves, and looked at some of the books. he seemed to have left easterham and his aunt far behind him in dim ages. a new feeling of responsibility came over him, as he sat there thinking of the morrow when his battle with fleet street was to begin. the future rested with him alone, and it gave him a delicious thrill of individuality to think of it. it was as if he had suddenly become merged with some one else within him, who was constantly saying to him: "you are humphrey quain.... you are humphrey quain. take charge of yourself now.... i have finished with you." he had an odd sense of not fully knowing this strange new self with which he was faced. he wondered, too, whether beaver or pride had ever passed through the same sensation that was passing through him now. this was the beginning of that introspection when the presence of his self became dominant in his mind, shaping as something to be looked at and examined and questioned, that was to lead to much bitterness and unhappiness in the years to come. the evening came to an end, but before they left pride took humphrey aside. "beaver said you might like a few hints," he said. "i don't think i can help you much. i think you know your way about. but there are two important things to remember: don't be a genius, and don't be a fool. i'll tell you more in the morning." on the way back to guilford street beaver eulogized pride. he was one of the best reporters in fleet street--one of the safest, beaver meant. never let his paper down. worth his salary on any paper. "i suppose he gets a pretty big salary?" humphrey asked. "who? pride--no! i don't think he gets very much. he's not a show man, you see. of course, dear old tommy hasn't got a cent to spare. he's got a girl of thirteen at boarding-school, and that takes a good bit of keeping up." "why was he so discouraging?" "oh! that's his way. he pretends he's a pessimist." humphrey went to bed that night full of thoughts of the morning. and in the tumult of his thoughts he wondered how he should avoid becoming as tommy pride, with all his thirty years of work as nothing, and all the high ambitions sacrificed to fleet street. was that to be his end too--a reporter for ever, and at the finish of it, nothing but the husks of enthusiasm. he thought of pride's wistful desire for a cottage in the country and two pounds a week. and he fell asleep while thinking how he was going to find a better end to his work than that. part ii lilian i humphrey quain came into the office of _the day_ with the greatest asset a journalist can possess--enthusiasm. there is no other profession in the world that calls so continually, day after day, for enthusiasm. the bank-clerk may have his slack moment in adding up his figures--indeed the work has become so mechanical to him that he can even think of other things while making his additions; the actor, even, has his lines by heart, and can sometimes go automatically through his part, without the audience noticing he is listless; the barrister may lose his case; the artist may paint one bad picture--it is forgotten in the gallery of good ones; but the reporter must be always alert, always eager, always ready to adapt himself to circumstances and persons, and fail at the peril of his career. in large things and small things it is all alike: the man who goes to report a meeting must do it as eagerly and with as much enthusiasm as the man who journeys to egypt to interview the khedive. and, as humphrey soon found, every day and every hour there are forces conspiring to kill this eagerness and enthusiasm at the root. before he had been a week on _the day_ he began to realize the forces that were up against him. it seemed that there was a deliberate league on the part of the world to stifle his ambitions, and to make things go awry with him. before he had been a week on _the day_ he felt that he was being checked and thwarted by people. he was turned from the doorsteps by the footmen and servants of those whom he went to see on some quite trivial matters; or he could never find the man he went forth to seek. he went from private house to office, from office to club, in search of a city magnate one day, and failed in his quest, and, after hours of searching, he came back to _the day_ empty-handed, and rivers said brusquely: "you'll have to try again at dinner-time. he's sure to be home at seven. we've got to have him to-night." and so he went again at seven to the man's house, only to find that he was dining out and would not be back until eleven. whereupon he waited about patiently, and, finally, when he did return home, the city magnate declined to venture any opinion on the subject in question to humphrey (it was about the russian loan), and, after all, he came back, late and tired, to the office, to find that, as far as selsey, the chief sub-editor, was concerned, nobody cared very much about his failure or not. and, in the morning, his struggles and troubles and the difficulty of yesterday was quite forgotten, and rivers never even mentioned the matter to him. but if _the sentinel_, or any other paper, had chanced to find the city magnate in a more relenting mood, and had squeezed an interview out of him...! he was given cuttings from other papers, pasted on slips of paper, and told to inquire into them. they led him nowhere. there would be, perhaps, an interview with some well-known person of european interest visiting london, but the printed interview never said where the well-known person was to be found. and so this meant a weary round of hotels, and endless telephone calls, until the hours passed, and humphrey discovered that the man had left london the night before. even though that was no fault of his own, he could not eliminate the sense of failure from his mind. and once, rivers had told him to go and see cartwright's, the coal-merchants, in mark lane, and get from them some facts about the rise in the price of coal. and he had been shown into the office, and cartwright had talked swiftly, hurling technical facts and figures at him, as though he had been in the coal business all his life. so that when the interview was ended, humphrey reeled out of the office, his mind and memory a tangle of half-understood facts, and wholly incapable of writing anything on the matter. fortunately, when he got back, he found that other reporters had been seeing coal-merchants, and all that was wanted was just three lines from each--an expression of opinion as to whether the high price would last--and humphrey rescued from the tangle of talk cartwright's firm belief that the rise was only temporary. another day he had been sent to interview a bishop--an authority on dogma, whose views were to be asked on a startling proposition (from america) of bringing the bible up-to-date. the bishop received humphrey coldly in the hall of his house, and humphrey noticed that the halls were hung with many texts reflecting christian sentiments of love and hope and brotherhood. and the bishop, unmoved by humphrey's rather forlorn appearance, for somehow he quailed before the austere gaitered personage, curtly told him that he could not discuss the matter. when humphrey came back it so happened that he met neckinger. "well, what are you doing to-day, quain?" asked neckinger with an indulgent smile. he was a short, thick-set man, with a pear-shaped face, and brown eyes that held a quizzical look in them. it was the second time humphrey had come into touch with neckinger, who was the editor of _the day_, and rarely ventured from his room when he came to the office. humphrey told him where he had been, and with what results. "wouldn't he talk?" asked neckinger. "no," humphrey answered. neckinger paused with his hand on the door knob. his eyes twinkled, and his fingers caressed his moustache. "why didn't you make him talk?" asked neckinger with a hint of disapproval in his voice. then, without waiting for a reply, he went into his room. humphrey felt that he was faced with a new problem in life. how did one _make_ people talk? it was not enough to hunt your quarry to his lair--that was the easiest part of the business--you had to compel him to disgorge words--any words--so be they made coherent sentences. you had to come back and say that he had spoken, and write down what he said at your discretion. and if he would not speak, you had, in some mysterious manner, to force the words from his mouth. that was what puzzled humphrey in the beginning. what was the magic key that the other reporters had to unlock the conversation of those whom they went to see? they very seldom failed. humphrey went home, perplexed, disturbed with this added burden on his shoulders. he saw his life as one long effort at making unwilling people talk for publication. and yet, on the whole, this first week of his in fleet street was one of glorious happiness. the romance of the place gripped him at once, and held him a willing captive. he loved the thrill of pride that came to him, whenever he passed through the swing doors in the morning, and the commissionaire, superior person of impregnable dignity, condescended to nod to him. he loved the reporters' room, with its fire and the grate, and the half circle of chairs drawn round it, where there were always two or three of the other men sitting, and talking wonderful things about the secrets of their work. in reality, the reporters' room was the most prosaic room in the whole building. it was a broad, bare room, excessively utilitarian in appearance. there was nothing superfluous or ornamental in it. everything within its four walls was set there for a distinct purpose. the large high windows were uncurtained so as to admit the full light of day. and when the full light of day shone, it showed an incredibly untidy room, with every desk littered with writing-paper, and newspapers, and even the floor thick with a slipshod carpet of printed matter. the desks were placed against the walls and round the room. humphrey had no desk of his own. he usually came in and sat at whichever desk was empty, and more often than not the rightful owner of the desk would arrive, and humphrey would mumble apologies, gather up his papers, and depart to the next desk. in this way he sometimes made a whole tour of the room, shifting from desk to desk. there were pegs near the door, and from one of them a disreputable umbrella dangled by its crook handle. it was pale-brown with dust, and its ribs were bent and broken, and rents showed in the covering--as an umbrella its use had long since gone, yet it still hung there. nobody knew to whom it belonged. nobody threw it away--it was a respected survival of some ancient day. it remained for ever, an umbrella that had once done good and faithful work, now useless and dusty, with its gaping holes and twisted framework--perhaps, as a symbol. a telephone, a bell that rang in the commissionaire's box and told him the reporter needed a messenger-boy, and a pot of paste completed the furniture of the reporters' room. they had all they needed, and if they wished for anything they could ring for it--that was the attitude of the managerial side who were responsible for office luxuries. the manager, by the way, had a room that was, by comparison, a temple of luxury, from its soft-shaded electric lights and green wall-paper (the reporters' walls were distempered) to its wondrous carpet, and mahogany desk. nobody seemed to care very much for the reporters, humphrey found, except when one of them--or all of them--saved the paper from being beaten by its rivals, or caused the paper to beat its rivals. but in the ordinary course of events, the manager ignored the reporters; the sub-editors, in their hearts, regarded them as loafers and pitied their grammar and inaccuracy for official titles and initials of leading men; neckinger never bothered much about them unless there was trouble in the air, while those distant people, the leader-writers, sometimes looked at them curiously, as one regards strange types. and yet, the reporters were the friendliest and most human of all those in the office. they came daily into contact with life in all its forms, and it knocked the rough edges off them. they were generous, large-hearted men, whose loyalty to their paper had no limits. they lived together, herded in their big bare room, chafing always against their slavery, and yet loving their bondage, unmoved at the strange phases of life that passed through their hands; surveying, as spectators regard a stage-play, the murders, the humours, the achievements, the tragedies, and the sorrow and laughter of nations. in those days the interior of the grey building was an unexplored mystery for humphrey. he passed along the corridors by half-opened doors which gave a tantalizing glimpse into the rooms beyond where men sat writing. there were the sporting rooms, where the sporting editor and his staff worked at things quite apart from the reporters. nothing seemed to matter to them: the greatest upheavals left their room undisturbed; football, cricket, racing, coursing and the giving of tips were their main interests, and though a king died or war was declared, they still held their own page, the full seven columns of it, so that they could chronicle the sport and the pleasure. the sporting men and the reporters seldom mingled in the office; sometimes lake, the sporting editor, nodded to those he knew coming up the stairs. he was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a heavy face, and the appearance of a clubman and a man of the world. close to the sporting room was a strange room lit with an extraordinarily luminous pale blue glare. humphrey satisfying his curiosity prowled about the building one evening, and ventured to the door. the men who were there did not question his presence. they just looked at him and went on with their work. one of them, in his shirt-sleeves and a black apron, was holding a black square of glass to the light, from which something shining was dripping. a pungent smell of iodoform filled humphrey's nostrils. he knew the smell; it was intimately associated with the recollections of his youth, when he had dabbled in photography with a low-priced camera, using the cistern-room at the top of the house as a dark-room. and he saw that another man was manipulating an enormous camera, that moved along a grooved base. this, he knew, was an enlarging apparatus, and he realized that here they were making the blocks for _the day_--transferring a drawing or a photograph to copper or zinc plates. there was something real and vital about this office where each day was active with a different activity from the day before; where each room was a mirror of life itself. next door to the room where the blue light vibrated and flared intensely, he found a smaller room, where two men sat, also in their shirt-sleeves, tap-tapping at telegraph transmitters. a cigarette dangled loosely from the lip of each man, and neither of them glanced at the work of his fingers. they looked always at the printed proof, or the written copy held in a clip before them. this was the provincial wire room. they were tapping a selection of the news, letter by letter, to birmingham, where _the day_ had an office of its own. humphrey noticed with a queer thrill that one of the men was sending through something that he himself had written. downstairs, in a long room, longer than the reporters' room, and just as utilitarian, the sub-editors sat at two broad tables forming the letter t. mr selsey, the chief sub-editor, sat in the very centre of the top of the t, surrounded by baskets, and proofs, and telephones, and, at about seven o'clock every evening, his dinner. he was a gentle-mannered man, whose face told the time as clearly as a clock. from six to eight it was cheerful; when he began to frown it was nine o'clock; when he grew restless and spoke brusquely it was eleven; and when his hair was dishevelled and his eyes became anxious it was eleven-thirty, and the struggle of pruning down and rejecting the masses of copy that passed through his hands was at its climax. at one o'clock he was normal again, and became gentle over a cup of cocoa. humphrey was never certain whether mr selsey approved of him or not. he had to go through the ordeal every evening of bringing that which he had written to him, and to stand by while it was read. it reminded him of his school-days, when he used to bring his exercise-book up to the schoolmaster. selsey seldom made any comment--he read it, marked it with a capital letter indicating whether its fate would be three lines, a paragraph, or its full length, and tossed it into a basket, whence it would be rescued by one of the sub-editors, who saw that the paragraphs, the punctuation and the sense of it were right, cut out whole sentences if it were necessary to compress it, and added a heading to it. then, it was taken back to selsey, who glanced at it quickly, and threw it into another basket, whence it was removed by a boy and shot through a pneumatic tube to the composing-room. the sub-editors' room was the heart of the organism of _the day_ between the hours of six in the evening and one the next morning. it throbbed with persistent business. the tape machines clicked out the news of the world in long strips, and boys stood by them, cutting up the slips into convenient sizes, and pasting them on paper. the telephone bells rang, and every night at nine-thirty, westgate, the leather-lunged sub-editor, disappeared into a telephone-box with a glass door. humphrey saw him one night when he happened to be in the room. he looked like a man about to be electrocuted, with a band over the top of his skull, ending in two receivers that fitted closely over his ears. his hands were free so that he could write, and through the glass humphrey watched his mouth working violently until his face was wet with perspiration. he was shouting through a mouthpiece, and his words were carried under the sea to paris, though no one in the sub-editors' room could hear them, since the telephone-box was padded and noise-proof. and humphrey could see his pencil moving swiftly over the paper, with an occasional pause, as his mouth opened widely to articulate a question, and again he felt that delightful and mighty sensation of being in touch with the bones of life, as he realized that somewhere, far away in paris, the correspondent of _the day_, invisible but audible, was hailing the sub-editors' room across space and time. he saw no longer the strained, taut face of westgate, his unkempt moustache bobbing up and down with the movement of his upper lip, the big vein down his forehead bulging like a thick piece of string with his perspiring exertions. he saw a miracle, and it filled his heart with a strange exultation. he wanted to say to selsey, "isn't that splendid!" six other men sat at the long table that ran at right angles to the top table, and selsey was flanked by westgate, who dealt with paris, and tothill, who did the police-court news,--the stub of a cigarette stuck on his lower lip as though it were some strange growth. these men, in the first few days of humphrey's life in the office of _the day_, were incomprehensible people to him. he could not understand why they should elect, out of all the work in the world, to sit down at a table from six until one; to leave their homes--he assumed that they were comfortable--their firesides and their wives. they did not meet life as the reporters did; they had none of the glamour and the adventure of it, the work seemed to him to be unutterably stale and destructive. one or two of them wore green shades over their eyes to protect them from the glare of white paper under electric light. and the green shades gave their faces an appearance of pallor. they looked at him curiously whenever he came into the room: he divined at once, rightly or wrongly, that their interests clashed with his. they were one of their forces which he knew he would have to fight. the remembrance of tommy pride's words echoed in his ears as he stood by selsey's table. yet this room held him spell-bound as none other did. it was the main artery through which the life-blood of _the day_ flowed. he saw the boys ripping open the russet-coloured envelopes that disgorged telegrams from islands and continents afar off; he saw them sorting out stacks of tissue paper covered with writing, "flimsy"--manifolded copy--from all the people who lived by recording the happenings of the moment--men like beaver, who were lost if people did not do things--the stories of people who brought law-suits, who were born, married, divorced; who went bankrupt; who died; who left wills; stories of actors who played parts; of books that were written; of men who made speeches; of banquets; of funerals--the little, grubby boys were handling the epitome of existence, and this great volume of throbbing life was merely paper with words scrawled over it to them.... it was only in after years that humphrey himself perceived the significance and the meaning of the emotions which swelled within him during those early days. at the time, as he glanced left and right, down the long table, where the sub-editors bent their heads to their work, and he saw this man dealing with the city news, making out lists of the prices of stocks and shares, and that man handling the doings of parliament, something moved him inwardly to smile with a great, unbounded pride. he was like a recruit who has been blooded. "i, too, am part of this," he thought. "and this is part of me." * * * * * yet another glimpse he had into the mysteries of the grey building, and then he marvelled, not that the small things he wrote were cut down, but that they ever got into print at all. it was one night when he had been sent out on a late inquiry. a "runner"--one of those tattered men, who run panting into newspaper offices at night with news of accidents or fires--had brought in some story of an omnibus wreck in whitehall. humphrey was given a crumpled piece of paper, with wretchedly scrawled details on it, and told to go forth and investigate. had he not been so new to the game, he would have known that it was wise to telephone to charing cross or westminster hospitals, for the deductive mind of a reporter used to such things would have told him that where there is an omnibus wreck, there must be injury to life and limb, and the nearest hospitals would be able to verify the bald fact of an accident. but there was nobody who had sufficient leisure or inclination to teach humphrey his business, and, perhaps it was all the better for him that he should buy his lessons with experience. for he found that "runners'" tales, though they must be investigated, seldom pay for the investigation. the "runner" exaggerates manfully for the sake of his half-crown. thus, when he arrived at whitehall, he found, by the simple expedient of asking the policeman on point duty, that there had been an accident--most decidedly there had been an accident; one wheel had come off an omnibus. when? "oh, about three hours ago, but nobody was hurt as i know on. you can go back and tell 'em there's nothing in it for the noosepaper." humphrey had never said that he was a reporter: how did the policeman know? he was a good-natured, red-faced man, and his attitude towards humphrey was one of easy-going familiarity and gentle tolerance. he spoke kindly as equal to equal; it might almost be said that, from his great height, he bent down, as it were, to meet humphrey, with the air of a patron conferring benefits. he was not like the easterham policemen who touched their hats to humphrey, and called him "sir," because they knew whenever anything happened, the _gazette_ would refer to the plucky action of p.c. coles, who was on point duty at the time. "nobody hurt at all!" humphrey repeated, looking vaguely round in the darkness, as though he expected to see the wooden streets of whitehall littered with bleeding corpses to give the constable the lie. "you go 'ome," said the policeman, kindly. "i should be the first to know of anything like that if it was serious. i'd have to put in my report. i ain't got no mention of no one injured seriously." he said it with an air of finality, as though he were taking upon himself the credit of having saved life and limb by not using his notebook. and with that, he eased the chin-strap of his helmet with his forefinger, nodded smilingly, repeated, "you go 'ome," and padded riverwards in his rubber-soled boots. when humphrey got back to the office and into the sub-editors' room to tell his news, he found that their work was slackening. two or three of them were hard at it, but the rest were having their supper. a tall, spidery-looking man, with neatly parted fair hair and a singularly high forehead, was tossing for pennies with westgate--and winning. it was midnight. one of the sub-editors said to humphrey: "you'd better tell selsey; he's in the composing-room." humphrey hesitated. "it's across the corridor," his informant added. he went across the corridor, and into a new world. the room was alive with noise; row upon row the aproned linotype operators sat before the key-boards translating the written words of the "copy" before them into leaden letters. their machines were almost human. they touched the keys, as if they were typewriting, and little brass letters slipped down into a line, and then mechanically an iron hand gripped the line, plunged it into a box of molten lead, and lifted it out again with a solid line of lead cast from the mould, while the little brass letters were hoisted upwards and distributed automatically into their places, and all the time the same business was being repeated again and again. the lines of type were set up in columns, seven of them to a page, and locked in an iron frame, and then they were taken to an inner room, where men pressed papier mâché over the pages of type, so that every letter was moulded clearly on this substance. then this "flong" was placed in a curved receptacle, and boiling lead was poured upon it, as on a mould, so that one had the page curved to fit the cylinder of the printing machine. the curved sheet went through various phases of trimming and making ready, until it was finally taken to the basement.... very many brains were working together that the words written by humphrey should be repeated hundreds and thousands of times. all these men were part of the mighty scheme. they had their homes and their separate lives outside the big building, but here they were all merged into one disciplined body, for so many hours at night, carrying on the work which the men on the other side did during the day. in one corner of the room selsey was busy with hargreave, the assistant night editor, and as humphrey went up he saw that they were still cutting out things from printed proofs, and altering headings. and on an iron-topped table great squares of type rested--the forms just as he had seen them in the _easterham gazette_ office--only they were bigger, and the "furniture"--the odd wedge-shaped pieces of wood which they used in easterham to lock the type firmly in between the frames, was abandoned for a simpler contrivance in iron. and there were selsey and hargreave peering at the first pages of _the day_ in solid type, reading it from right to left, as one reads hebrew, and suddenly hargreave would say: "well we'd better take out the last ten lines of that, and shift this half-way down the column, and put this reuter message at the top with a splash heading," or else, putting a finger on a square of type, "take that out altogether, that'll give us room." and he would glance up at the clock, with the anxiety of a man who knows there are trains to catch. no question of writing here.... no time for sentiment.... no time to think, "poor devil, those ten lines cost, perhaps, hours of work," or, "those ten lines were thought by their writer to be literature." literature be hanged! it was only cold type, leaden letters squeezed into square frames--leaden letters that will be melted down on the morrow--type, and the whole paper to be printed, and trains for the delivery carts to catch, if people would have papers before breakfast. and the aproned men brought other squares of type, and printed rough impressions of them, so that humphrey caught a glimpse of one of the pages at shortly after midnight of a paper that would be new to people at eight o'clock the next morning. he felt the pride of a privileged person. selsey caught sight of him. "hullo, quain ... what are you doing here?" "bus accident--" began humphrey. hargreave pounced upon him. "any good? is it worth a contents bill?" he asked, excitedly. "there hasn't been any accident worth speaking of. no one hurt, i mean." "all right. let it go," said selsey, calmly. hargreave went away to haggle with the foreman over something. nobody was relieved to hear that the accident had not been serious. humphrey lingered a little longer: he saw rooms leading out of the composing-room, where there was a noise of hammering on metal, and the smell of molten lead, ... and men running to and fro in aprons, taking surreptitious pinches of snuff, banging with mallets, carrying squares of type, proofs, battered tins of tea, ... running to and fro, terribly serious and earnest, just as scene-shifters in the theatre rush and bustle and carry things that the audience never sees, when the curtain hides the stage. "better get home," said selsey, noticing him again. humphrey went downstairs. the reporters' room was empty; the fire was low in the grate. he went downstairs, and as he reached the bottom step, the grey building shivered and trembled as if in agony, and there came up from the very roots of its being a deep roar, at first irregular, and menacing, but gradually settling down to a steady, rhythmical beat, like the throbbing of thousands of human hearts. ii the man whom humphrey feared most, in those early days, was rivers, the news-editor. his personality was a riddle. you were never certain when you were summoned to his room in the morning, whether good or ill would result from it. in his hands lay the ordering of your day. you had no more control over your liberty from the time you came into rivers' room than a prisoner serving his sentence,--no longer a man with a soul, but a reporter. you could be raised into the highest heaven or dropped down to the deepest hell by the wish of rivers. he could bid you go forth--and you would have to tramp wretchedly the streets of the most unlovely spots in outer london in an interminable search for some elusive news: or perhaps you would be given five pounds for expenses and told to catch the next train for a far county, and spend the day among the hedgerows of the country-side. he had power absolute, like the taskmasters of old. he sat in his room, with the map of england on the wall with its red flags marking the towns where _the day_ had correspondents, surrounded by telephones and cuttings from papers. he was in the office all day and night. at least that was how it appeared to humphrey, who met him often and at all times on the stairs. when he was not, by any chance, there, his place was taken by o'brien, an excitable irishman, whose tie worked itself gradually up his collar, marking the time when his excitement was at fever-heat like a barometer. rivers had a home, of course, and a wife and a family. he was domesticated somewhere out in herne hill, from the hours of eight until ten-thirty in the morning; and except once a week no more was seen of him at home. o'brien generally took the desk on sundays. but for the rest of his life rivers lived and breathed with _the day_ more than any one else. from the time the door closed on him after breakfast, to the time when it closed on him late at night, when he went home, worn-out and tired, he worked for _the day_. he was bought as surely as any slave was bought in the days of bondage. and his price was a magnificent one of four figures. he expected his men to do as he did, in the service of the paper. for his goodwill, nothing sufficed but the complete subservience of all other interests to the work of _the day_. not until you did that, were you worthy to be on the paper and serve him.... and many hearts were broken in that room, with its hopeless gospel of materialism, where ideals were withered and nothing spiritual could survive. rivers was one of the young men who had won himself to power by the brute force of his intellect. he knew his own business to the tips of his fingers, and, beyond that, nothing mattered. art and literature and the finer qualities of life could not enter into the practical range of his vision. they were not news. the great halfpenny public cared for nothing but news--a murder mystery, for choice; and the only chance art or literature had of awaking his interest was for the artist to commit suicide in extraordinary circumstances, or for the novelist to murder his publisher. ("by george!" i can hear rivers saying, "here's a ripping story.... here's an author murdered his publisher ... 'm ... 'm ... i suppose it's justifiable homicide.") but on news--red-hot news--he was splendid. he might be sitting in his chair, joking idly with anybody who happened to be in the room, and suddenly the boy would bring in a slip from the tape machine: a submarine wreck! immediately, the listless, joking man would become swiftly serious and grim. he would decide instantly on the choice of reporters--two should be sent to the scene. "boy, bring the a.b.c. no train. damn it, why didn't that kid bring the news in at once. he dawdled five minutes. we could have caught the . . well, look up the trains to southampton. four o'clock. o'brien, telephone up southampton and tell them to have a car to take _the day_ reporters on. boy, ask mr wratten and mr pride to come up. o'brien, send a wire to the local chaps--tell 'em to weigh in all they can. notify the post-office five thousand words from portsmouth. too late for photographs to-night--ring through to the artists, we'll have a diagram and a map. off southsea, eh? shove in a picture of southsea...." and in an hour it would all be over, and rivers, a new man with news stirring in the world, would playfully punch o'brien in the chest, and gather about him a reporter or two for company, and bestow wonderful largesse in the shape of steaks and champagne. that was the human thing about rivers. he was master absolute, and yet there was no sharp dividing line between him and the men under him. the discipline was there, but it was never obtruded. they drank, and joked, and scored off each other, and rivers, when things were slack, would tell them some of his early adventures, but whenever it came to the test, his authority in his sphere was supreme. he knew how to get the best work out of his men; and, i think, sometimes, he was sorry for the men who had not, and never would get, a salary of four figures. humphrey could not understand him. at times he would be brutally cruel, and morose, scarcely speaking a word to anybody except wratten, who was generally in his good books; at other times he would come to the office as light-hearted as a child, and urge them all into good-humour, and make them feel that there was no life in the world equal to theirs. since that day when humphrey had first met him in ferrol's room, and he had laughed and said, "you're not a genius, are you?" rivers had not taken any particular notice of him. when he came into rivers' room, halting and nervous, he envied the easy freedom of the other reporters who chanced to be there. wratten sitting on a table, dangling his legs, and tommy pride, with his hat on the back of his head, and a pipe in his mouth, while a third man might be looking over the diary of the day's events. "hullo, quain...." "good-morning, mr rivers." "o'brien, what have you got for quain. eh? nothing yet. go downstairs and wait." or else: "nothing doing this morning. you'd better do this lecture at seven o'clock. give him the ticket, o'brien." and, as humphrey left the room, he heard wratten say casually, "i'll do that guildhall luncheon to-day, rivers, eh?" and rivers replied, "right-o. we shall want a column." splendid wratten, he thought! how long would it be before he acquired such ease, such sure familiarity--how long before he should prove himself worthy to dangle his legs freely in the presence of rivers. within a few days something happened that made humphrey the celebrity of a day in the reporters' room. it was a fluke, a happy chance, as most of the good things in life are. a man had killed himself in a london street under most peculiar circumstances. he had dressed himself in woman's clothes, and only, after death, when they took him to the hospital, did they find that the dead body was that of a man. he was employed in a solicitor's office near charing cross road. his name was bellowes, and he was married, and lived at surbiton. these facts were published briefly in the afternoon papers. rivers, scenting a mystery, threw his interest into the story. there is nothing like a mystery for selling the paper. he sent for willoughby. humphrey had found willoughby one of the most astonishing individuals of the reporters' room. he was a tall, slim man, with a hollow-cheeked face and a forehead that was always frowning. his hair fell in disorder almost over his eyebrows, and whenever he wrote he pulled his hair about with his left hand, and mumbled the sentences as he wrote them. his speciality was crime: he knew more of the dark underside of human nature than any one humphrey had met. he knew the intimate byways of crime, and its motives; every detective in the criminal investigation department was his friend, and though by the rigid law of scotland yard they were forbidden to give information, he could chat with them, make his own deductions as well as any detective, and sometimes accompany them when an arrest was expected. he drew his information from unknown sources, and he was always bringing the exclusive news of some crime or other to _the day_. he was a bundle of nerves, for he lived always in a world of expectancy. at any moment, any hour, day and night, something would be brought to light. murder and sudden death and mystery formed the horizon of his thoughts. humphrey had found a friend in willoughby. in very contrast to the work in which he was engaged, he kept the room alive with merriment. he could relate stories as well as he could write them, and he spoke always with the set phrases of old-time journalism that had a ludicrous effect on his listeners. his character was a strange mixture of shrewdness, worldly-wisdom, and ingenuousness, and this was reflected in the books he carried always with him. in one pocket there would be an untranslatable french novel, and, in the other, by way of counterblast, a meredith or a stevenson. he and humphrey had often talked about books, and willoughby showed the temperament of a cultured scholar and a philosopher when he discussed literature. willoughby went up to rivers' room. "here you are, my son," said rivers, tossing him over the cuttings on the affair of the strange suicide. "get down to surbiton and see if you can nose out anything. i'll get some one else to look after the london end." the some one else chanced to be humphrey, for there was nobody but him left in the reporters' room. thus it came about that, a few minutes after willoughby had set out for surbiton, humphrey came out on fleet street with instructions to look after the "london end" of the tragedy. rivers' parting words were ringing in his ears. they had a sinister meaning in them. "... and don't you fall down, young man," he had said, using the vivid journalistic metaphor for failure. the busy people of the street surged about him, as he stood still for a moment trying to think where he should begin on the london end. he felt extraordinarily inexperienced and helpless.... he thought how wratten would have known at once where to go, or how easily tommy pride, with his years of training, could do the job. he did not dare ask rivers to teach him his business--he had enough common sense to know that, at any cost, his ignorance must be hidden under a mask of wisdom. the reporter thrust suddenly face to face with a mystery that must be unravelled in a few hours is a fit subject for tragedy. he is a social outlaw. he has not the authority of the detective, and none of the secret information of a department at his hand. he is a trespasser in private places, a peeping tom, with his eye to a chink in the shuttered lives of others. his inner self wrenches both ways; he loathes and loves his duty. the human man in him says, "this is a shocking tragedy!" the journalist subconsciously murmurs, "this will be a column at least." tears, and broken hearts, and the dismal tragedy of it all pass like a picture before him, and leave him unmoved. the public stones him for obeying their desires. he would gladly give up all this sorry business ... and perhaps his salvation lies in his own hand if he becomes sufficiently strong and bold to cry "enough!" and this is the tragedy of it--he is neither strong nor bold; and so we may appreciate the picture of humphrey quain faced for the first time with the crisis that comes into every journalist's life, when his work revolts his finer senses. he went blindly up the street, and newsboys ran towards him with raucous shouts, offering the latest news of the suicide. he bought a copy, and read through the story. it occurred to him that the best thing he could do was to go to the offices near charing cross road, where the dead man had worked. he took an omnibus. it was five o'clock in the evening, and most of the passengers were city men going home. lucky people--their work was finished, and his was not yet begun. when he came to the building he wanted, he paused outside. it was a ghastly business. what on earth should he say? what right had he to go and ask questions--there would be an inquest. surely the public could wait till then for the sordid story. it was ghoulish. he went into the office and asked the young man at the counter whether mr parfitt (the name of the partner) was in. the young man must have guessed his business in a moment. humphrey felt as if he had a placard hanging round his neck, "i am a newspaper man." "no," snapped the young man, curtly, "he's out." "when will he be back?" asked humphrey. "i don't know," the young man answered, obstinately. "who are you from?" that was a form of insult reserved for special occasions: it implied, you see, that the caller was obviously not of such appearance as to suggest that he was anything but a paid servant. humphrey said: "i wanted to talk about this sad tragedy of--" the young man looked him up and down, and said, "we've nothing to say." "but--" began humphrey. "we've nothing to say." the young man's lips closed tightly together with a grimace of absolute finality. humphrey hesitated: he knew that the whole mystery lay within the knowledge of this spiteful person, if only he could be overcome. "look here," said the young man, threateningly. "why don't you damn reporters mind your own business. you're the seventh we've 'ad up 'ere. we've nothing to say. see?" his voice rose to a shriller key. he was a very unpleasant young man, but fortunately he dropped his "h's," which modified, in some strange way, in humphrey's mind the effect of his onslaught. the young man who had at first seemed somebody of importance, faded away now merely to an underbred nonentity. humphrey laughed at him. "you might keep your h's if you can't keep your temper," he said. then he left the office, feeling sorry for himself. it was nearly six o'clock, and he was no further. a hall-porter sat reading a paper in front of the fireplace. humphrey tried diplomacy. he remarked on the tragedy: the hall-porter agreed it was very tragic. there had been seven other reporters before him (marvellous how policemen and hall-porters seemed to know him at once). humphrey felt in his pocket for half-a-crown and slipped it into the porter's hand. the porter thanked him with genuine gratitude. "well," said humphrey, "what sort of a chap was this mr bellowes?" "can't say as how i ever saw him," said the porter; "this is my first day here." "o lord!" groaned humphrey. he was in the street again, pondering what he should do. and suddenly that intuitive reasoning power of his began to work. a man who worked in the neighbourhood would conceivably be known to the shopkeepers round about. he visited the shops adjoining the building where the dead man worked, but none of them yielded any information, not even the pawnbrokers. the men whom he asked seemed quite willing to help, but they knew nothing. finally, he went into the green lion public-house which stands at the corner by a court. hitherto public-houses had not interested him very much: he went into them rarely, because in easterham, where every one's doings were noted, it was considered the first step downwards to be seen going into a public-house. thus, he had grown up without acquiring the habit of promiscuous drinking. there were a good many people in the bar, and the briskness of business was marked by the frequent pinging noise of the bell in the patent cash till, as a particularly plain-looking young woman pulled the drawer open to drop money in. humphrey asked for bottled beer. "cannock's?" the barmaid asked. "please." she gave him the drink. he said "thank you." she said "thank you." she gave him the change, and said "thank you" again. whereupon, in accordance with our polite custom, he murmured a final "'kyou." then she went away with an airy greeting to some fresh customer. presently she came back to where humphrey was standing. he plunged boldly. "sad business this of mr bellowes?" he ventured, taking a gulp at his beer. she raised her eyebrows in inquiry. "haven't you read about--" he held a crumpled evening paper in his hand. "the tragedy, i mean." "oh yes," she said. "very sad, isn't it?" a man came between them. "'ullo, polly, lovely weather, don't it?" he said, cheerfully, counting out six coppers, and making them into a neat pile on the table. "same as usual." "now then, mister smart!" said polly, facetiously, bringing him a glass of whisky. "all the soda." "up to the pretty, please," he said, adding "whoa-er" as the soda-water bubbled to the level of the fluted decorations round the glass. small talk followed, frequently interrupted by fresh arrivals. a quarter of an hour passed. the cheerful man had one more drink, and finally departed, with polly admonishing him to "be good," to which he replied, "i always am." humphrey ordered another cannock. "did he often come here?" "who?" asked polly. "mr jobling--the man who's gone out?" "no. i mean mr bellowes." "i'm sure i don't know," she said a little distantly. "those gentlemen over there"--nodding to a corner of the bar where two men stood in the shadows--"can tell you all about him. they were telling me something about him just before you came in. fourpence, please." humphrey took with him his glass of beer, and went to the two men. they were both drinking whisky, and they seemed to be in a good humour. they turned at humphrey's wavering "excuse me...." "eh?" said one of the men. "excuse me..." humphrey repeated. "i'm told you knew mr bellowes." "well," said the other man, a little truculently. "what if we did?" it seemed to humphrey that the most absolute frankness was desirable here. "look here," he said, "i wish you'd help me by telling me something about him. here's my card.... i'm on _the day_." the younger of the two men smiled, and winked. "you've got a nerve," he said. "why, you couldn't print it if we told you." "couldn't i? well, never mind. let's have a drink on it anyway." humphrey began his third cannock, and the others drank whisky. one of them, in drinking, spilt a good deal of the liquor over his coat lapel, and did not bother to wipe it off: he was slightly drunk. "it's bringing a bad reputation on the firm," said the elder man. "name in all the papers." humphrey was seized with an idea. he knew now that the whole secret of the mystery was within his grasp. one of the men, at least, was from the solicitor's office. the instinct of the journalist made him courageous: he would never leave the bar until he got the story. "i'll tell you what," he said, "i'll promise to keep the name of the firm out of _the day_; i'll just refer to it as a firm of solicitors!" "that's not a bad notion," said the younger man. he drew the elder man aside and they talked quietly for a few minutes. then more drinks were ordered. humphrey tackled his fourth cannock. his head was just beginning to ache. a tantalizing half-hour passed. the younger man seemed more friendly to humphrey--he had some friends in fleet street; did humphrey know them, and so on. the elder man was growing more drunk. he swayed a little now. humphrey's ears buzzed, and his vision was not so acute. the outlines of people were blurred and indistinct. "good lord," he murmured to himself, "i'm getting drunk too." he was pleasantly happy, and smiled into his sixth glass of beer. he confided to the elder man that he admired him for his constancy to the dead man, and they began to talk over the bad business as friends. the elder man even called him "ol' chap." they really were very affectionate. "but why did he do it?" said humphrey; "that's what beats me." "oh, well, you see he was in love with this girl ..." "which girl?" "why, miss sycamore ... you know the little girl that sings, 'come round and see me in the evening,' in the _pompadour girl_." "no. was he?" "was he not," said the elder man, with a hiccough. "why, he used to be talking to me all day about her.... and the letters. my word, you should see the letters ... he used to show them to me before he sent them off. full of high thinking and all that." and gradually the whole story came out, in scattered pieces, that humphrey saw he could put together into a real-life drama. never once did he think of the dead man, or the dead man's wife in surbiton (willoughby was probably doing his best there). he only saw the secret drama unfolding itself like a novelist's plot. the meetings, the letters, the double life of bellowes, a respectable churchwarden in surbiton; a libertine in london--and then she threw him over; declined to see him when he called at the stage door; he had dressed himself as a woman, hoping to pass the stage-door keeper. perhaps if he had got as far as the dressing-room, maddened by the breakage of his love, and the waste of his intrigue, there might have been a double tragedy. and so to the final grotesque death in the street. it was eight o'clock when humphrey had the whole story in his mind, and by that time, though he knew he had drunk far too much, he was not so drunk as the other two men. "there you are, old boy," said the elder man, affectionately. "you can print it all, and keep my name and the name of the firm out of the papers." "so long," said the younger man, as they parted at the door of the bar. "you won't have another." "i'd better get back now," humphrey replied. "thanks awfully. you've done me a good turn." he walked back to the office; the late evening papers still bore on their posters the word "mystery"--but he alone of all the people hurrying to and fro knew the key of the mystery. he had set forth a few hours ago--it seemed years--ignorant of everything, and, behold, he had put a finger into the tragedy of three lives. all that feeling of revolt and hatred of his business passed away from him, and left in its place nothing but a great joy that he had succeeded, where he never dreamt success was possible. after this he knew he must be a journalist for ever, a licensed meddler in the affairs of other people. and so, with his head throbbing, and his legs a little unsteady, he came back to the office of _the day_. it was nine o'clock; rivers had left the office for the night, and o'brien was out at dinner. he went to mr selsey, and told him briefly all he knew. "where did you get it from?" selsey asked. "from some friends of his; i promised i wouldn't mention the name of the firm of solicitors he worked in." "what about miss sycamore?" "miss sycamore?" echoed humphrey, blankly. "yes. haven't you got her? we must know what she says. it mayn't be true." humphrey's head swam. he was appalled at the idea of having to go out again, and face the woman in the sordid case. selsey looked at the clock. "i'll send somebody else up to see her--she's at the hilarity theatre, isn't she? you'd better get on with the main story. write all you can." he went to the reporters' room; nobody was there except wratten, just finishing his work. humphrey sat down at a desk, and began to write. his brain was whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled over one another, until he did not know how to tell them all. he started to write, and he found that he could not even begin the story. he tore up sheet after sheet in despair. the clock went past the quarter and humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank paper. wratten finished his work and dashed out with his copy to the sub-editor's room. "i'm drunk," he said to himself. "that's what's the matter." and later: "what a fool i was to drink so much." and then, as if in excuse: "but i shouldn't have got the story if i hadn't drunk with them." a boy came to him. "mr selsey says have you got the first sheets of your story." "tell him he'll have them in a few minutes," humphrey said. and when wratten came into the room he found humphrey with his head on his outstretched arms, and his shoulders shaken with his sobbing. "hullo! what's up, old man?" asked wratten, bending over him. "not well?" humphrey lifted a red-eyed face to wratten. "i'm drunk," he said. "my head's awful." "bosh!" wratten said cheerfully, "you're sober enough. selsey's delighted you've got your story. i suppose it was a hard story to get." humphrey groaned. "i can't write it.... i can't get even the beginning of it." "that happens to all of us. i have to begin my story half a dozen times before i get the right one. look here, let me help you. tell me as much as you can." he touched the bell, and a boy appeared. "go and get a cup of black coffee--a large cup, napoleon," he said jovially to the boy, giving him a sixpenny piece. by the time the coffee had arrived, humphrey had told wratten the story. "by george!" said wratten, "that's fine! now, let's do it between ourselves. don't bother about plans. start right in with the main facts and put them at the top. always begin with the fact, and tell the story in the first two paragraphs--then you've got the rest of the column to play about in." the coffee woke humphrey up. in a quarter of an hour, with wratten's help, the story was well advanced, and selsey's boy had gone away with the first slips. whenever he came to a dead stop, wratten told him how to continue. "wrap it up carefully," wratten said. "talk about the dead man's pure love for anything that was artistic: say that he was a slave to art, and that miss sycamore typified art for him. that'll please her. say that she never encouraged his attentions, and that realizing life was empty without her, he killed himself. make it the psychological tragedy of a man in love with an ideal that he could never attain. and don't gloat." the story was finished. "that's all right," wratten said. "look here--" humphrey began, but something choked his throat. he felt as if wratten had rescued him from the terror of failure: his glimpse of brotherhood overwhelmed him. "stow it!" said wratten, unconcernedly. "it's the paper i was thinking of. well, i'm off. don't say a word about it in the morning." * * * * * and there it was, in the morning, the whole story with glaring headlines, an exclusive story for _the day_. humphrey, riding down gray's inn road, saw the bills in the shop-windows, and two men in the omnibus were discussing it: his head was dull with the drink of last night, but he felt exhilarated when he thought of it all. he wanted to tell the two men in the omnibus that he had written the story in _the day_. he came to the office and the fellows in the reporters' room seemed as glad as he was. willoughby told him of his surbiton adventure, and how mrs bellowes declined to see anybody. and when he went into rivers' room, the great man smiled and said facetiously, "well, young man, i suppose you're pleased with yourself." he winked at wratten. "you'll be editor one day, eh?" "it's a jolly good story," said wratten, "the best _the day's_ had for a long time." humphrey smiled weakly. he would have told rivers just how it came to be such a jolly good story, if wratten had not frowned meaningly at him. and not until rivers said: "come off that desk, young man, and see what you can do with this--" handing him a job, did humphrey realize that he was at ease, dangling his legs with the great ones. iii not everything that humphrey did was difficult, nor undesirable. there were times when his card with _the day_ on it opened the doors of high places, magically: there were many people who welcomed him, actors and playwrights and people to whom publicity such as the reporter can give is necessary. he was received by countesses who were engaged in propaganda work, and by lordlings who were interested in schemes for the alleged welfare of the people: these people wanted to be interviewed, many of them even prepared their statements beforehand. but, in spite of the advantage they gained, they always treated him with that polite restraint which the english aristocracy adopt towards the inferior classes. he obtained wonderful peeps into grand houses, with huge staircases, and enormous rooms with panelled walls and candelabra and rare pictures; into government offices, too, when an inquiry was necessary, where permanent officials worked, heedless of the change of ministers that went on with each new government; and once he went into the dressing-room of sir wimborne johns, that very famous actor, who shook him by the hand, and treated humphrey as one of his best friends, and told him two funny stories while the dresser was adjusting his make-up for act ii. then there were the meetings--amazingly futile gatherings of people who met in the rooms of hotels, the caxton hall at westminster or the memorial hall in farringdon street. these meetings gave young humphrey an insight into the petty little vanities of life. they were hot-beds of mutual admiration. what was their business and what did they achieve? heaven only knows! they had been in existence for years; this was perhaps the seventh or eighth or twenty-sixth annual meeting of the anti-noise society, and the world was not yet silent. yet here were the old ladies and the old gentlemen and the secretary (in a frock coat) congratulating themselves on an excellent year's work, and passing votes of thanks to each other, as though they were giving lollipops to children. these meetings were all built on one scheme. they always began half an hour late, because there were so few people in the room. the reporters (and here humphrey sometimes met beaver) sat at a green baize-covered table near the speakers, and were given all sorts of printed matter--enough to fill the papers they represented, and, occasionally, men and women would sidle up to them, and give their visiting-cards, and say, "be sure and get the initials right," or, "would you like to interview me on slavery in cochin-china?" then the chairman (sir simon sloper) arrived, whiskered and florid-faced, and every one clapped their hands; and the secretary read letters and telegrams of regret which he passed to the reporters' table; and then they read the balance-sheet and the annual report, and miss heggie petty, with the clipped accent of forfarshire, gave her district report, and w. black-smith, esq. ("please don't forget the hyphen in _the day_"), delivered _his_ district report, and then the secretary spoke again, and the treasurer reminded them with a sternly humorous manner, that the annual subscriptions were overdue, and, finally, came the great event of the afternoon: sir simon sloper rose to address the meeting. everybody was hugely interested, except the reporters, to whom it was platitudinous and tediously stale: they had heard it all before, times without number, at all the silly little meetings of foolish people the sir simon slopers had their moments of adulation and their reward of a paragraph in the papers. nothing vital, nothing of great and lasting importance, was ever done at these meetings, yet every day six or seven of them were held. there were societies and counter societies: there was a society for the suppression of this, and a society for the encouragement of that; there was the society for sunday entertainment, and the society for sunday rest; every one seemed to be pulling in opposite directions, and every one imagined that his or her views were best for the people. humphrey found the reflection of all this in the advertisement columns of _the day_, where there were advertisements of lotions that grew hair on bald heads, or ointment that took away superfluous hair; medicines that made fat people thin, or pills that made thin people fat; tonics that toned down nervous, high-strung people, and phosphates that exhilarated those who were depressed. life was a terribly ailing thing viewed through the advertisement columns; one seemed to be living in an invalid world, suffering from lumbago and nervous debility. it was a nightmare of a world, where people were either too florid or too pale, too fat or too thin, too bald or too hairy, too tall or too short ... and yet the world went on unchangingly, just as it did after the meetings of all the little societies of men or women who met together to give moral medicine to the world. it is necessary that you should see these things from the same point of view as humphrey, to realize the effect of it all on the development of his character. for after a dose of such meetings, when the careful reports of speeches that seemed important enough at the time, were either cut down by the sub-editors to three lines, or left out of the paper altogether, he asked himself the question: why? why do all these people hold meetings? and the answer came to him with a shock: "they are doing it all for _me_. everything that is going on is being done for _me_." and as he realized that he was only an onlooker, a creature apart, something almost inhuman without a soul for pity or gladness, a dweller on the outskirts of life, a great longing came over him to join in it all himself. it seemed that this gigantic game of love and passion and sudden death and great achievement, was worth learning, and those who did not learn it, and only looked on while the tumult was whirling about them, were but shadows that faded away with the sunset of years. he wanted to join in. he saw, now, that he was drifting nowhere. he, too, wanted to share in the great game, playing a part that was not to be ignored, that was needful to the success of the game. alone he brooded on it. beaver chaffed him and asked him what was up. impossible to explain the perplexities of his inmost mind to beaver. "i don't know," he said, "i've got the hump." they were having breakfast in the common sitting-room. "haven't they printed your stuff?" "it isn't that," humphrey said. "well, what's up?" demanded the insistent beaver. "everything!" said humphrey, gloomily, looking round the room. the bulrushes were still there. "everything. this ... i feel as we used to feel at easterham!" "i know what's the matter with you," said beaver, folding his napkin, and pushing back his chair from the table. he regarded humphrey with tremendous wisdom, and bit his nails. "you've got the hump," he said smiling at his inspiration. "too many late hours." "i suppose so." "well, look here, don't you get brooding. you want company. i vote we have lunch together to-day. you come and call for me at the office, at one." "right you are, i will if i can," humphrey replied. all the morning he remained in the same mood, grappling with the new aspect of things that had come to him. alone he brooded on it: he heard rivers running through the programme of the day's events--the king going to windsor, a new battleship being launched, a murderer to be tried at the old bailey, a society scandal in the law courts--the usual panorama of every day, at which rivers told his men to look. and it was a great thing for the people of windsor that the king was coming; there would be flags and guards of honour, and the national anthem; and the reputation of a ship-building firm, and the anxiety of thousands rested on the successful launch of the battleship, and a weary woman in a squalid slum was waiting tremblingly for the issue of the murder trial; but all these things, of such great import to those who played in the game, were not shared by those who looked on. and as humphrey listened to rivers, he realized that though they all moved with life, they were not of it. he remembered a story that willoughby told of a salvation army meeting in the albert hall, when general booth had walked up and down the platform speaking of the glories of salvation, and, suddenly, he pointed a finger at the table below. "are you saved?" he asked, with his finger shaking at a man who was looking up at him. "me?" said the man, looking about him confusedly, and then, with a touch of indignation at being suddenly dragged into the game, "me? i'm a reporter!" he remembered that story now, and all that it expressed. at the time willoughby told it, he thought it was a good joke, but now he saw the cruel irony of it. and, in this frame of mind, as he was at grips with himself, he went to call for beaver. a light glimmered in the darkness of his mind, and the joy and spirit of life itself, playing, instead of the pipes of pan, the keys of a typewriter, smiled upon him, and gave him the vision of a girlish face in a halo of fair hair that seemed threaded with gold as the sunlight touched it. iv he went into the office of the special news agency and found himself in a room where half-a-dozen girls were typewriting. they were making manifold copies of the hundred and one events that the special news agency "covered" with its beavers, and supplied at a fixed annual rate to the newspapers. the special news agency were, so to speak, wholesale dealers in news. you bought the reports of ministers' speeches or out-of-the-way lawsuits by the column. it was the same principle that governed the _easterham gazette_ and its columns of stereo. no newspaper could afford a sufficiently large staff of reporters to cover everything. so the special news agency had its corps of verbatim shorthand writers, its representatives in every small village, and in every police-court. there was, of course, no room for the play of imagination or fantasy or style in these special news agency reports, and it was because of their rather stilted writing that the reporters on papers like _the day_ and _the sentinel_ and _the herald_ were sent sometimes over the same ground that the news agency men had covered, to see if they could infuse some fresh interest into the story, or at all events to rewrite it, so that instead of each paper being uniform, it would strike its individual note in the presentation of news. the special news agency did for london and england what reuter does for the world. there was among the cluster of girls working at their typewriters one who looked up at humphrey and smiled, as he waited for beaver. she was not a particularly pretty girl, but there was a quality in her hair and eyes and in the expression of her face that lifted it out of the commonplace. the mere fact that out of all the girls who were at work in the office, she alone left the memory of her face to humphrey, is sufficient tribute to her personality. she smiled--and humphrey remembered that smile, and the hair, that was dull brown in shadow and gleaming with golden threads in the sunlight, and the eyes, that were either grey or blue, and very large. and then, beaver came and took him to lunch. they went to a fleet street public-house, and lunched off steak and bubble-and-squeak for a shilling, and all through the lunch humphrey was thinking of other things--especially a smile. "well," said beaver, "got over your hump?" "i suppose so," humphrey answered. ("i wonder what her name is?") "life's not so bad when you get used to it?" beaver remarked, contemplating his inky thumbs. "the trouble is that just as you're getting used to it, it's time to die. eh?" humphrey's thoughts were wandering again. ("i believe those eyes were saying something to me?") beaver continued in his chatter, and occasionally humphrey, catching the sense of his last few words, agreed with a mechanical "yes," or a nod ("why did she smile at me?"), and at last he blurted out, "i say, beaver, what's the name of the girl that sits nearest the door in your office?" "o lord! i don't know their names," said beaver; "i've got other things to think about. what d'you want to know for?" "she's like some one i knew in easterham," humphrey replied, glibly. "i'll find out for you, if you like." "no--don't bother. it doesn't matter at all." the next day he was walking down fleet street when he perceived her looming through the crowd. he was conscious of a queer emotion that attacked him, a sudden dryness of the throat, and a quickening of all the pulses of his body. his whole being became swiftly taut: he almost stood still. and, as she bore down upon him, he saw that she was not so tall as he had imagined, but her face looked divinely attractive under the shadow of the spreading hat, and because the sun was shining her hair glittered like a halo. now, she was close to him, and he found himself praying to god that she would look at him, and smile again; and the next moment he felt that the ground would sink beneath him if she did so, and he longed to look the other way, but could not. the people passing to and fro knew nothing of the terrific disturbance that was going on in the mind of the young man walking down fleet street. now they were level--he raised his hat--it was over, and the memory of her smile had sunk yet deeper within him. yes, she had remembered him, and nodded to him, and that smile--what did it mean? it was not an enticing smile, it was an almost imperceptible movement of the closed lips, yet it held some magic in it. it seemed to him that though they had never spoken, she knew all about him; she came across his life, smiling in silence, and he was aware that something triumphant and fresh had come into his life, with her passing, just as he knew for a certainty that, before long, he would learn the secret of her smile, when he spoke to her. he went back to work, curiously elated and happy for no reason at all that he could understand. things were unaltered, and yet, somehow or other, they were different. he felt, suddenly, as if years had been added to his age; he felt that he had met something real in life at last, and, when he came to analyse it, it was nothing but an intangible smile, and the glance of two grey eyes. that night, as he was on his way home, he chanced to meet wratten. this tall man with the high forehead and curly hair was one of the puzzles of the office. he was a man who held aloof from his fellows, and because of that, they thought he was morose. humphrey had a tremendous admiration for him, since the night when wratten had helped him. he seemed so very splendid: he did daring things, and he never failed. the secret of his success was a brutality that stultified all his better feelings when he was on business. and he was a man who never left his quarry, though it meant waiting hours and hours for him. "hullo," said wratten, "where are you off to?" "home," said humphrey; "where are you?" "i'm going home too. i live at the hampden club at king's cross." they were near guilford street "won't you come up, wratten, and have a drink in my rooms--i live here, you know." "i don't take anything stronger than lemonade," said wratten. humphrey laughed, and unlocked the door. he felt it an honour to have wratten as a guest, if only for a few minutes. they went upstairs, and humphrey apologized for the bulrushes. wratten laughed: "why don't you suggest to rivers that you should write a story about the dangers of bulrushes in sitting-rooms: interview a doctor or two, and make 'em say that bulrushes accumulate dust. invent a new disease, 'bulrush throat.' that'll make your landlady nervous." "by george," humphrey said, "i will; that's a fine idea." doubtless, you remember the scare that was raised a few years ago when _the day_ discovered the terror that lurked in the sitting-room bulrush; you remember, perhaps, the correspondence, and the symposium of doctors' views that followed, and _the day's_ leading article on the mighty matter. humphrey quain set the ball rolling, and was careful to leave marked copies of _the day_ in places where mrs wayzgoose was certain to see them, and the bulrushes disappeared very soon afterwards. thus is history made. "i owe you a lot of thanks," humphrey said, "for the way you helped me the other night." it was the first time they had referred to the matter of the street suicide. "i didn't want you to be let down," said wratten. "the life's rough enough as it is, a little help goes a long way. but you steer clear of too much drink, quain. that's the ruin of so many good men...." "i couldn't help it." "of course you couldn't--most men are drunkards from habit and not from choice. but you can take it from me, there's no room in fleet street for a man who drinks too much. they used to think it was fine bohemianism in the old days, when a man wasn't a genius unless he was drunk half the time. don't you believe it. it's the sober men who do the work and win through." "it depends on what you mean by winning through." "well, there are many ways.... i suppose we've all got different ideas and ideals. i want to rear a family and keep a wife." "you aren't married then?" "not yet. i'm going to be married ... soon," said wratten, simply. "i think marriage is the best thing for us. we want something to humanize our lives. it is the only chance of happiness for most of us ... the knowledge that whatever happens, however hard the work may be, we come home ... and there's a wife waiting. i know plenty of journalists who would have gone under if it were not for the wives. splendid wives! they sit at home patiently, knowing all our troubles, comforting us, and keeping us cheerful. by god! quain, the journalists' wives are the most beautiful and loyal women in the world...." humphrey smiled--and this was the man they thought was morose! "i get maudlin and sentimental when i think of 'em. they know our weaknesses, and our mistakes, and they bear with us. they smooth our hair and touch our faces, and all the misery of the day goes away with the magic of their fingers. they make little dinners for us, that we never eat, and they never let us see how unhappy they are, too ... i know, i know ... i've seen so many journalists' homes, and they're all the same ... they're simply overgrown children who let themselves be mothered by their wives." humphrey thought of the girl he had passed that day in the street.... "i wish i were you," he said. "it must be rather fine to have some one pegging away at you always to do your best: it must be rather fine to have a smile waiting for you at the end of the long day's work." "fine!" said wratten, "it's the only thing that's left to us. we're robbed of everything else that matters. we haven't a soul to call our own, and we can't even rule our lives. time, that precious heritage of every one else, doesn't belong to us. we're supposed to have no hearts, we're just machines that have always to be working at top speed ... but, thank god, there's one woman who believes in us, and who is waiting for us always." "it's funny you should talk like this," humphrey said, "to-night, of all nights...." he was thinking again of himself and the girl who had crossed the path of his life. wratten knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and coughed with that little dry cough that was characteristic of him. "oh! i don't know," he said. "nothing funny when you come to think about it. i thought you might have heard it in the office. i'm being married to-morrow. by the way, i wish you'd come along and be best man: i haven't had time to fix up for one." v it was just an incident of almost less importance than the daily work, this business of getting married. but it was an incident that left a singular impression on humphrey. wratten's marriage was a prosaic affair, in a registry office, horribly formal, without the idealizing surroundings of a church and the grand solemnity of the marriage service. it took place at ten o'clock on a rather cold morning in june. wratten himself was extremely nervous, and it was his nervousness that made his manner almost brusque; he must have been a gloomy lover, and yet, as humphrey saw the dark-eyed bride he was wedding, and marked the pride in her eyes as she looked up to him, and the fluttering of her lips as she whispered things to him, he knew that somewhere in this rugged blunt nature of wratten there was a vein of golden tenderness and beauty. the marriage was oddly depressing: perhaps it was that the shadow of coming disaster hovered over them; perhaps humphrey heard wratten's words echoing in his ears, "they sit at home patiently ... knowing all our troubles, and they never let us see that they, too, are unhappy." humphrey did his duty as best man: there was a girl friend of the bride there, and he looked after them all, and cracked jokes, and made them sign their names in the right places, and wratten had half a dozen little commissions for him to carry out. he had been so busy yesterday, that there had not been time to clear up everything. when it was all over, and wratten stood on the threshold of a new life, with his wife at his side, and a glad, proud smile on his handsome face, they came out of the registry office, and the girl friend emptied a bag of confetti over them, as they stepped into the cab that was to take them to waterloo--they were going to weymouth for a honeymoon. some of the coloured pieces of paper fell on humphrey's coat collar. "good-bye, good luck," humphrey said. wratten clasped his hand very tightly. once again he smiled, and gave his little dry, nervous cough. "good-bye, old man," he said affectionately. "thanks awfully for coming. i think i'm going to be happy at last," and the cab drove away. humphrey saw the girl friend into an omnibus. "didn't maisie look splendid." he noticed that the girl friend wore an engagement-ring on her finger, and thenceforth he lost all interest in her. he went to the office as usual, but he did not tell any one that he had been to wratten's wedding. now, he could feel quite at home in the reporters' room, and he even had a desk which, by custom, had become his own. he was more sure of himself than he had been a few months ago, though, in his inmost heart, he was still a little afraid of rivers. it was ferrol who gave humphrey confidence in himself. he called him into his room, and asked him bluntly how he liked the work. "very much," humphrey replied, his eyes glistening brightly, and again ferrol was reminded of the long years that had passed, when romantic days were his. the boy was shaping well. that was fine, thought ferrol. he meant humphrey to have every chance; he wanted to see what stuff was in him. "that's good," said ferrol, stroking his moustache. "mr rivers gives a satisfactory account of you." the passion that ruled him, the passion for making men and reputations, was strong upon him just then. he saw humphrey as raw material, and he meant to mould him into a finished article after his own heart. he would make no mistakes, it should be done slowly, step by step; he would leave humphrey to fight his own battles, and only if he fell bloody and wounded, would he come forward and succour the boy. "i hope you'll keep it up," he said. "don't get into trouble, but come to me if you do." he smiled and still caressed that fierce moustache. "i suppose you've heard i'm an ogre--don't believe any tale you hear. just come straight to me when you are in any difficulty." humphrey came out of the room, exhilarated, and almost drunk with pride and happiness. it was ferrol's magic again: a few words from him were like drops of oil to creaking machinery--they instilled fresh energy and desire into men, and made their hearts ardent for conquest. it was worth working night and day to have smooth words of praise from ferrol himself, to know that he was watching you, powerful in his invisibility. * * * * * that afternoon, as he was returning from some engagement, he saw the girl with the smile coming towards him again. afar off, it seemed, he was aware of her coming. it was as if her presence sent silent messages to him, vibrating through the air. long before she appeared he had looked expectantly before him, knowing that she would approach him. something in his mind linked up this neat blue-clad figure with the episode of the morning, and the little registry office, and wratten saying, with that radiant smile of his, "i think i am going to be happy at last." and, quite on the impulse of the moment, he made up his mind. she passed him, and left him all a-quiver with excitement, and then he turned and overtook her. his heart was beating quickly in the rhapsody of it all. she stopped, noticing him at her side, hesitating, nervous. "i say...." "oh!" she smiled, and he saw her cheeks flush with colour, and at once he noted her wonderfully slender throat and the mysterious beauty of her breathing. he was tongue-tied for a moment. she had stopped and he was speaking to her, and he was lost in the miracle of those few seconds, when he realized that in all the loneliness of this vast london, they had met and spoken at last. they stood in a little island of their own making, while people coming and going broke in a hurried surge all about them. the newsboys ran up fleet street calling the hour of the latest race, and, above all, came the noise and restlessness of the traffic beating up and down the street. "i say..." humphrey began, "it's awfully rude of me to stop you like this...." she smiled again. "not at all," she said, in a gentle voice. "could you tell me if mr beaver happens to be in the office now?" he asked. "i don't think he is," she said. "why not come up and see?" "n--no--it doesn't really matter." humphrey laughed nervously. "i shall see him this evening. we dig together, you know." "then it doesn't matter...?" she said. "it doesn't matter," humphrey agreed. he waited forlornly: now she would pass away again, always elusive, just flitting in and out of his life like this, a disturbing factor. but still she waited, and humphrey was emboldened. "i say ..." he stammered. "won't you come and have a cup of tea?" she glanced upwards at the clock. "do come," he said, half turning to lead the way. "there's a lyons just near here." "oh, well ..." she laughed and followed him. * * * * * "my name's quain," he said, as they were drinking their cups of tea. "humphrey quain." he waited longingly, hoping that she would understand why he had told her his name. she drooped her eyes; everything she did was exaggerated in humphrey's imagination. she gave him her name as if she were yielding up part of herself to him. "mine is filmer." it was terribly unsatisfactory just to know that. "i suppose you'll think me rude ..." he began. "oh! you must guess...." "i never could. i should guess wrong." "try," she coaxed. "it begins with l." he guessed lily the second time, and she corrected him. "you're nearly right," she said, "it's lilian." "lilian," he echoed, admiringly. "it's a hateful name," she pouted. "it's a lovely name," he said. "do you really think so?" "rather!" "why?" she smiled again. what an absurd question to ask. why, because--but how could humphrey tell her, when they had hardly known each other for a quarter of an hour. "i hope you didn't think it rude of me stopping you like that," he ventured, after a pause. "oh no ... though i suppose you think it's dreadful of me to be sitting with you like this." to tell the truth, humphrey considered the whole thing was extraordinarily dashing--that he should be sitting facing her over a cup of tea; to have learnt her name--lilian filmer--lilian, beautiful name!--and to be carrying it off so calmly. "not at all," he said. her next words fell like a shower of cold water over him. "you're such a boy," she said, with her eyes smiling indulgently at him. he resented that, of course. "i'm twenty-one," he said loudly. "you're not more than twenty-one, i'm sure." "perhaps i'm not," she answered, taking a tiny watch from her bosom. she sighed. "i must go." "look here," said humphrey, "are we going to meet again?" "what do you want to see me again for?" "i just want to," humphrey said. "i'm all alone." "alone in london," she laughed. "tragic boy ... oh, how miserable you look. don't you like being called a boy?" "i don't mind what you call me, so long as you'll let me see you again. to-morrow's saturday...." "oh! i can't manage to-morrow." "well, on sunday, then." "i never go out on sundays." "on monday," said humphrey, desperately. she considered the matter. "i know i'm engaged on monday evening." "we'll have lunch together." "very well," she said. and, after that, they shook hands quite formally, and parted in fleet street. he had been in heaven for twenty minutes. there were three days to monday. lilian! vi out of this period of his career, humphrey rescued memories of moments of ineffable happiness. they came intermittently, between long blanks of doubt and painful uncertainty, when his mind was troubled with unsatisfied yearnings and half-understood desires. he was able one day to look back upon it all, with an air of detached interest, like a man looking at a cinematograph picture, and he saw meetings, and partings, and all the ferment of his wooing of lilian. there was something intimate and secret about their meetings that pleased his palate, hungry for adventure, and this was a part of life that belonged wholly to them; he was indeed taking a part in the great game. they met on the monday at the hour appointed, and it seemed extraordinarily unreal, like a dream within a dream, that she should be wonderfully alive and smiling by his side. fleet street, the office, rivers, and the long toil of the day were forgotten in a moment, such was the miracle of her being. it seemed impossible to him, on that day, that unhappiness and failure could darken his world. there was something eternal about her that moved him with strong, unquenchable desires for triumph and conquest. her voice vibrated through him like the throb of a war-march, urging him to great endeavour. so commonplace their greeting; so utterly inadequate to express the prodigious flutterings of his heart! they should have met alone in some solitary forest, when all the colours of the world were rushing to the clouds, in the hours of the sunset. he could have led her to a resting-place of moss and fern, and whispered to her all the thoughts that were in his mind.... but here in the world of everyday, what romance could survive the prosy clamour of it all. there was nothing to say but "good-morning," and halting, nervous things about the weather, and the theatre, and each other's work. anything of deeper import must be told by sighs and silences. and thus, they parted again, after their lunch in a dingy italian restaurant in the strand, he with all his longings unfulfilled, and with a deeper sense of something that had been lacking in his life. why could he not have told her all that he had felt? why was it necessary for him to mask and screen his emotions with absurd talk that only seemed to waste precious opportunities? she rose before him in his imagination, amazingly distinct and real, no longer a shadow, but a real person. he conjured her presence at will before him, and she appeared as he liked to see her best, with her eyes grey and thoughtful, and the sunlight gilding her hair where it swept up from her white brow. thus, when she was not there, he lived with her, and told her all the things he dared not say to her. and nobody knew of these exquisite moments but himself. to mention her to beaver, now, would be sacrilege. there was but one man who, he thought, would understand what was passing through him, and that was wratten, who was away on his honeymoon. they met several times during the next few weeks; it seemed to him that she would not consent to meet him if her heart did not echo his own. and yet, she gave no sign. there was always an air of chastened constraint about them both. he helped her adjust her fluffy feather boa once, and his hand brushed her cheek, and he remembered the feel of it, smooth and soft, like the touch of the downy skin of a peach. all the time, of course, in the intervals of these meetings, there was the same breathless round of work to be done. sometimes he would have to cancel their arrangements because he was given an assignment just at the very hour they had set apart for themselves--it was done by a hurried scrawl on office paper--"dear miss filmer, i'm so sorry," and so forth. once he had written "dearest," but he tore it up, fearing he might lose her for ever. he could not risk offending her. he knew that she was rigorously strict in certain conventions. "i say ... may i call you lilian?" he had asked one day, and she had glanced at him with a stricken look, and said, "oh--please, please don't, mr quain." she had even laid her hand upon his, with a persuasive gesture. it was a distinct pat--the sort of pat one bestows when a child is to be coaxed into goodness. she was very perplexing. her manner could alter in the most unexpected and unaccountable manner. one day she might be quite gay, and he would feel that now it was merely a question of moments before he could storm her heart and carry it: and the next time he saw her she would be strangely distant, as though she regretted the progress they had made. or else, she would be provokingly casual, and wound him deliberately in his weakest spot. she would call him a boy, with a little smile and play of the eyebrows. ah! that rankled more than anything she said or did, for the whole happiness of his life depended on his being taken seriously, and at his own valuation--and he valued himself as a man of the world, with the experience of double his years. it was, perhaps, this attitude of hers towards him that made him tell her of his work, which, in these days, became so magnified in importance to him. when by virtue of _the day_ he got behind the scenes of any phase of london life, he used to make a point of telling her just how it was done, in a rather cock-a-whoop manner. "do you know," she said, "we have in our office thirty men who are doing the same thing, and, in all london, there are hundreds more?" that crushed him entirely. she thought him vain. they very nearly quarrelled seriously. one day jamieson, the dramatic critic of _the day_, met him in the office. jamieson was a tubby little man with a high shakespearean forehead, who exuded cheeriness. he was a professional optimist. he used to depress the reporters' room with his boisterous happiness: he was so glad that the flowers were blooming, and the grass was green, and that there were children, and the joy of life, and so forth. he accosted humphrey with twinkling eyes. "glorious day, quain," he said; "makes you feel glad that you're alive, doesn't it? ah! my boy, it's fine to see the streets on a day like this--full of pretty girls in their spring dresses." "i don't get time to think about the weather, unless i'm writing about it," said humphrey, with a laugh. "buck up, my boy," said jamieson, patting him on the back. "you want to look on the bright side of things on a day like this.... by the way, would you like to have two stalls for the garrick to-morrow. it's the same old play they've had for two hundred nights--they only want a paragraph for _the day_. i've got a first night on at his majesty's." humphrey accepted the tickets gladly, for he had a vision of an evening at the theatre with lilian, and jamieson went on his way, leaving in his wake a trail of chuckling optimism. it happened to be a saturday night, when he was quite free, and so he arranged with lilian to meet her at victoria--she lived at battersea park--and then they would have some dinner before they went to the theatre. * * * * * in those days humphrey had not risen to the luxury of an opera hat; he wore a bowler hat, and his coat-collar buttoned up over the white tie of his evening-dress. he thrust his hands into his pockets and waited at victoria station for her. she was to meet him at a quarter to seven, and it was now five minutes to the hour and she had not come. he stood there, absolutely white with the tension of the passing moments. it seemed that he had been waiting an eternity, and he had lived through a thousand moments of disappointed expectation. others who had been waiting there when he came had long since claimed those whom they had come to meet, and walked them off with smiles and laughter. he was still waiting. * * * * * seven o'clock! what on earth could have happened? visions of possible disasters crossed his mind: a train wreck and a cab accident; or perhaps she was ill and was not coming. there would be no way of communicating with him, and he would have to go on waiting. or, perhaps, she had repented of her consent to make the evening glorious for him. the suspense was really terrible. there was nothing to do except to watch the newsboys cheerily gathering the magazines and papers together into piles, and shuttering the bookstall. he saw people running for trains, and whenever the hiss of steam announced the arrival of another train, he hurried to the wicket-gate to peer into the recesses of the crowd that struggled through it, in the hope of seeing her face a second before she actually appeared in person. at five past seven he was still moodily waiting. it was cruel of her to keep him dallying with patience like this. she must have known that he would be waiting for her on the moment. how little she cared if she could not even be punctual to the time they had arranged. he began to feel stale and dusty, as if he had been in his evening-dress for years. he made up his mind to be very angry with her when she came. and lo! she was at his side: more wonderful than ever, so wonderful that he scarcely recognized her. she had come through the crowd at the wicket-gate, floating towards him, it seemed, like a cloud of filmy, fluffy white. her face was radiantly flushed and smiling, and he sprang towards her with a cry of relief and gladness. "here i am," she announced. "i wondered if you'd be here." (as if he had not been waiting heart in mouth, for all that time.) she wore no hat, but her hair was done in a way that he had never seen before. it seemed to change her strangely. if anything, it made her look more beautiful, as it rose in little waves from her forehead and fell about her ears in wayward threads of sparkling brown. and there was a black velvet ribbon that went in and out among the glory of her hair. he slipped his hand beneath her white cloak that was fastened tightly to her chin, to guide her through the clumsy throng of station people. her arm was warm and bare, as soft as satin, and there was something sacred in the very touch of it. it was an occasion for a cab. they chattered on the way of everyday things, though all the time, with her by his side, so close, so beautiful, he could only think of paradise. "i thought you were never coming," he said, with a dry throat. "was i so late?" she asked, with a laugh. "i couldn't help it. i ran like mad, and just saw the train going out of the station." he wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, but just then they arrived at the little restaurant in soho where they were going to have dinner. he went in with her, supremely conscious that every one was staring at them. there was a stuffy smell of hot food, and the tables were crowded with diners--very few of them in evening-dress. he was passed on from waiter to waiter until a table was found, and then lilian unfastened her white cloak, and he helped her to take it off, with a queer sensation of awe and wonder. she stood before him transformed, another lilian from the one he had known in the street where they worked. he was amazed that she did not realize how this white display of her neck and arms and gently breathing throat was dazzling him with its splendour. he was amazed that she could sit there, revealing her richest beauty for the first time, and be totally unembarrassed--as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.... the dinner was no doubt excellent, but humphrey could not eat. he made a pretence of it, but he felt it was violating the ecstasy of these moments to eat before her. he only wanted to sit and look at her. he drank quite a lot of wine, almost a whole bottle in fact, for she took just half a glassful with water. it was cheap stuff, masquerading under the vague label of "margaux," and it sent his imagination rioting. he was conscious of being deliciously extravagant when he ordered coffees and liqueurs, though the whole bill came to little more than twelve and six. then they went to the theatre, and he bought her chocolates, and they sat in the stalls, side by side, for nearly three hours. he tried to appear normal--impossible! he knew what was coming: he fought against it for quite a long time, but some primeval instinct in him was stronger than his will--his hand sought hers, when the lights were low, and closed upon it. if she had withdrawn her hand, the whole castle of his dream would have come crashing about his ears. but she did not: she let it rest there. once or twice he glanced at her sidewise, but she seemed oblivious of him. her gaze was fixed on the players, her lips parted with pleasure; the pendant that hung from her neck stirring gently with the movement of her bosom. she was enjoying the play, but humphrey could pay no attention to it. he could only think of her. how real was all this: how every moment counted as a moment of pure, throbbing enjoyment. and he thought of rivers, and the office, and selsey and the sub-editors' room, messenger boys and the tape machines--what did it all matter beside the incomparable happiness of these moments. knowledge came to him subconsciously: it was for this that one worked and suffered. * * * * * as they were going in the cab together to victoria through st. james's park, where the lamps make a necklet of yellow round the dark shadows of the trees, and the moon was white in her face, he leaned towards her and kissed her on the lips. she gave a little dry sob, and her head drooped on his shoulder, so that he could bend over her and kiss her with all the impetuous longing of youth. and suddenly she shook herself free with an extraordinary melting look of tenderness and pity in her eyes. he thought she was angry, but she only smiled and patted his cheek. and he felt as if he had passed through the portals of a new world, whose music beat gloriously on his ears, and whose colours leapt before his eyes in flashes of brilliance. "lilian.... lilian," he whispered, calling her by her name for the first time. "it's only for to-night," she said.... "why did you kiss me?" "lilian," he said again. they came out into the glare of the streets near victoria: romance dropped away from her as the park was left behind. she sat upright and fumbled with her hair. "you oughtn't to have kissed me.... i oughtn't to have...." the discussion of it was horrible to him. it jarred. he, too, came suddenly back to reality. "it was only for to-night, of course," she said, with a nervous laugh. "it's not!" he said, positively. "it's for to-morrow and for all time." they drew up at the station. it was all over. the idyll ended in a clatter of horses' hoofs and hissing of steam, and engines whistling, and the hurrying to catch the last train. "look here ..." said humphrey, as he stood by the carriage door. "i'm not angry," she whispered. "it was my fault." the guard blew his whistle and waved his flag. humphrey's heart was bursting with the hideous intrusion of modernity. "good-night," she said. "good-night and thank you. it's been beautiful." there was just a second left to him, and he made use of it. she was leaning out of the window, and he swung himself on to the footboard and whispered-- "lilian--i love you. i'll write to you to-night." before she could reply, there were cries of "stand away there," and the train swung out of the station. that night humphrey wrote his first love-letter, and told her all the things he had been wanting to say for weeks. vii they became engaged. it was a secret, furtive affair, for lilian desired it. he gave her his signet ring--a present from his father--and she wore it, though not on her engagement finger, in case people should ask questions. she gave humphrey a photograph of herself--in evening-dress--which he carried about in his pocket-book, to take out and look at frequently. he wrote to her every night--even when they had met during the day--long, long letters full of very high-sounding sentiments and praise of her. heavens! the pages he covered with great promises. her letters were not of the same quality: they were rather snappy and business-like, and held in them no romance or sentiment. now and again she called him "dear" in her letters, and sometimes "dearest," but they were for the most part inadequate letters, that made him feel as if he were being cheated out of the full measure of his love-affair. she told him that she was five years older than he was, and it only puffed him with greater pride, to think that he had conquered her in spite of his youth. in very truth, it was a conquest! for days and days she had withstood the eager battery of his assault on her heart. "no," she had said gently, "you're a dear boy and i like you ... but let's be friends." he went through all the phases of anger, sulkiness, despair and gloom, pleading with her daily, until the final exultation came. he used to see her home as far as battersea, whenever his work allowed him freedom. there was a narrow, dark lane through which they walked, so that he could talk in the darkness of his love for her. always, before they parted, she allowed him to kiss her. she kissed him too, and often they stood, with beating hearts, and lips met in one long kiss. he drew her to him, yielding and supple, and told her that she must marry him. she could resist no more, she let her head sink on his shoulder, and his finger caressed her chin and neck, and they stayed thus fettered with the exquisite moments of love. "i will be so good to you," humphrey murmured. "yes ... yes ..." she whispered, her last resistance gone. and that was how they became engaged. but out of the glamour of their love and kisses there emerged the grey talk of practical things. "we don't know anything about each other," she cried. "i know you.... i feel that i have known you all my life!" he insisted. "don't you feel like that towards me?" he asked, anxiously. "perhaps i do," she said, and humphrey went into raptures over it. "isn't it wonderful," he said, "to think that only a few weeks ago we were really strangers, and now you have been in my arms--how can we be strangers, lilian, and kiss as we do?" "have you told your mother yet?" he asked, one day. "no--not yet," she said. "oughtn't i to meet her?" "i suppose so--wait a little longer," she pleaded. "have you told your aunt?" "you asked me not to. i'd love to take you down to her--she'd like you, i'm certain. it wouldn't matter if she didn't." they made plans, of course: nothing was settled about the day of their marriage. it was a question whether life was possible for them both on three pounds a week. "i'm sure to get a rise, soon," said humphrey. "i'll go and ask for one, and tell ferrol i'm going to be married. we can live splendidly on four pounds a week. heaps of people live on less." "i don't know.... it's mother i'm thinking of," she confessed. "what about mother?" he asked. "i'm wondering what she'll do without me." "there are your sisters," he said. "how many are there, let me see"--he ticked them off--"mabel, florence and edith. that's enough for her to go on with." her face grew wistful. "yes--that's enough," she echoed, her eyes not looking at him. "i ought to have told you, humphrey, long before this, but mother's rather dependent on me and edith. there's harry, of course, but he's still at the technical institute--he'll be able to help some day. florence is still at school--and mabel--mabel's got something the matter with her hip." "well, what about your father?" she winced. "father--father doesn't help much. he's--he's an invalid." humphrey was young, and this was his first love, and the more obstacles there were to overcome, the greater seemed the prize to him. "we could send your mother a little money each week ..." he said. "it won't cost so much when you're not there." "yes, we could do that. and i could still go on with my work." "what," he cried, horrified, "you go to the special news agency after we're married?" "yes, why not?" "oh, lilian dear, i don't want you to do that. i want you to have a home of your own, just to sit there and arrange it as you like, and do nothing but loll in an arm-chair all day until i come home in the evening, and then we'll loll together." she laughed. "you are a funny boy," she said. "i suppose you think a house doesn't want looking after. it's much harder work than typewriting." "but don't you want a _home_," he persisted, mournful disappointment in his voice. "of course i do, dear; i know what you mean--i was only teasing you. but, i do think, for the beginning, i ought to go on with my work. it's so much safer. supposing you get out of work, then i could keep things going for a time." "i'm hanged if i'm going to live on you," he said indignantly. they compromised by agreeing to the purchase of a typewriter--lilian was to found a little business of her own that could be done at home. plenty of people wanted typewriting, and she could earn almost a pound a week, she said, that would be enough for mother.... these practical discussions were very bitter to humphrey: they robbed the whole thing of the last vestige of beauty; they depressed him, he knew not why. she did not mean it, but everything she said, that had nothing to do with endearment and love, made him feel hopeless. he was only really happy when they rested as children in one another's arms, talking delightful nonsense between their kisses, and not thinking at all of the plans of their lives that puzzled them so much when they came to talk about them. it was about this period that wratten came back from his honeymoon, and asked humphrey to come and dine with him at home, always assuming that neither of them would be kept by work. "tommy pride is coming if he can, and i've asked willoughby." it happened that humphrey was the only one of the invited guests from the office who was able to come. the news of a regent street burglary published in the afternoon papers, made willoughby champ his false teeth--a habit of his when he was excited--run his hand through his tangled hair, and depart in mysterious ways. tommy pride was sent to a lecture that began at eight. "just my luck," he said to humphrey, with a wry smile. "the missis will be disappointed." so wratten and humphrey went out together. "i say," said humphrey, on the way, "don't tell any one, but i'm engaged to be married." "no--are you?" wratten said. "congratulations. when did that happen?" "quite recently." out came the photograph. "you're a lucky fellow. when are you going to get married?" "i don't know yet--we haven't decided. do you think we can live on three pounds a week?" "is that all you get, old man--you're worth more: it's a bit of a tight fit." humphrey wondered what wratten's salary was. perhaps wratten guessed his thoughts, for he said: "i don't like telling people what i get--there's a sort of secrecy about it--but, if you don't let it go any further, i'll tell you--i get ten pounds a week." humphrey felt himself shrink into insignificance before that mighty sum. ten pounds seemed a tremendous salary to earn--no wonder wratten had married. it was too much for one man's needs. "i say, that's pretty good," he said, admiringly. "oh! you'll be worth more than that, some day," wratten said. "you're the kind of chap that gets on, i can see.... that's why i shouldn't be in a hurry to marry if i were you," he added; "i've seen lots of fellows stick in the mud by marrying too early. it doesn't give them a chance. marriage helps in some ways, and holds back in others ... a man is not so independent when he marries. he has to think of others besides himself. unless, of course, his wife has a little means of her own." he has to think of others besides himself! that point of view had never come to humphrey before. why, he was marrying solely to please himself. marriage seemed to him, then, necessary to the fulfilment of his dreams. lilian was a mere excuse. he told her that he wanted to make her happy, blinding himself to the fact that he wanted to make himself happy. he was going to use her as a motive for his life, that was all. she would urge him on to success, encourage him, look after him, comfort him when he was in need of it--he had never thought of her at all, except as an accessory to his life. of course, if anybody had told humphrey this, at the time, he would have denied it, vehemently; protested his eternal love; sworn that she was always uppermost in his mind; and that it was his most ardent desire to work for her happiness. love not only blinds us to the imperfections of others, but twists the vision we have always held of ourselves. wratten had taken a flat at hampstead--a little box of a flat--at a ridiculously high rent, but to humphrey, as he came into the sitting-room, it appeared as an ideal home. there was an air of repose and rest about it, the walls papered in a soft green, chintz curtains drawn over the windows, a carpet of a shade of green deeper than the walls, and old furniture about the room. the artistic nature is always hidden below the practical journalist, and it comes to light in different ways. with some men it shows itself in a love of old books; with others, it bursts out in the form of writing other things than ephemeral newspaper "copy"; and with nearly all, the artist in them shakes itself free from its hiding-place and shines clear and strong in the home. there is no time for art during the day; no need for it, indeed. the standard of what is good is not made by the reporter, but by the paper for which he writes. and here, in wratten's home, humphrey found the vein of the artist in him, in his perception and appreciation of old furniture. he fondled his pieces. "here's a nice little rocking-chair," he said. "don't see many of these now." "i like this," said humphrey, touching another old chair. "ah! yes, that's a beauty," wratten replied. "i picked that up in ipswich frightfully cheap. it's an old dutch back chair of the seventeenth century." he tilted it up and ran his palm over the perfect curve of the cabriole legs, entirely absorbed in the pleasure of touching the chair. "i didn't know you went in for this sort of thing," humphrey said. "i've been getting things like this together for years ... they're so restful, these old things. can you imagine anything more peaceful than that book-case?" and he pointed to a beautiful empire book-case, with rows of books showing through the latticed glass and brass rosettes for handles to the drawers that rested on claw feet. the change in wratten was really remarkable. although he was still serious, and his face in repose was gloomy, he seemed to have lost his brusque manner. marriage had undoubtedly softened him. mrs wratten came into the room and welcomed humphrey. wratten slipped his arm through his wife's, and she looked up at him and smiled at him.... humphrey saw himself standing thus, in his own home, with lilian close to him, his companion for ever. it all seemed so very desirable. this little home was very compact and peaceful, thousands of miles removed from the restlessness of fleet street.... while they were talking, a young man and a woman were ushered into the room by the little maid-servant. the likeness between the two was unmistakable--they were obviously brother and sister. the young man was the taller of the two, very slender, with the thin and delicate hands of a woman. humphrey noticed the long fingers tapering to the well-kept nails. the face was the face of an ascetic, thin-lipped and refined. the eyes were peculiarly glowing, and set deeply beneath the overhanging eyebrows; the nose was finely chiselled; the nostrils sensitive and curling, with a faint suspicion of superciliousness. he was introduced to humphrey as kenneth carr, and humphrey knew the name at once. kenneth carr had the reputation of being a brilliant descriptive writer; he was on the staff of _the herald_, but, besides that, he had written several historical biographies, many novels, and was at work on a play. he belonged to a type which is a little apart from fleet street, with its wear and tear--a shy, scholarly man, who found that historical biographies and novels did not yield sufficient income, and, therefore, the grinding work of everyday journalism was preferable to pot boiling. fleet street was, to him, a stepping-stone. he would have been happier in the editorial chair of a weekly paper, or writing essays for _the spectator_ and the _saturday review_, but, as it was, he threw in his lot with fleet street, and did his work so well that he stood at the top of the ladder. but fleet street had left its mark on his face--it was pale and thin, and the eyes had a strained, nervous look in them. "awfully good of you to ask us," he said to mrs wratten. "elizabeth and i don't go out much, she gets so tired from her slumming." his sister smiled--humphrey saw that the handsome features of kenneth carr became beautiful in his sister's face. the sharp lines about the nose and mouth were softened, her eyes were bluer and larger, her face rounded more fully, and devoid of the hollows which made the face of kenneth so intellectual. the likeness between brother and sister finished with the lips--hers were very red, and were faintly parted, so that one had a glimpse of her teeth, like a string of white pearls. she wore her hair in two loops from a parting in the centre, and she had a habit of carrying her head a little forward, so that the outward curve of her neck was emphasized in its perfect grace. "what does your brother mean by slumming, miss carr?" humphrey asked as they sat at dinner. "he calls it slumming," elizabeth carr laughed, "but it isn't exactly that. i'm rather fond of the people who have no chance in life. i want to make a chance for them." she spoke banteringly, but her eyes had a curious way of growing large and earnest as if they were anxious to counteract the lack of seriousness in her voice. "i'm trying to make a thoroughfare through the blind alley," she said. "isn't it dramatic? can't you imagine me with pick and shovel, mr quain." "what do you mean by the blind alley?" he asked. she suddenly became grave. "of course, you've never thought of that--have you? it's just a phrase.... some day i'll explain to you fully. it's where the people who have no chance live." "how do you help them?" "we don't help them much, at present--we're only beginning. it's a life's work," she said, earnestly, "and it's a work for which a life would be gladly given. you've asked me the question i'm always asking myself--how is it to be done?" "does your brother help?" "kenneth--oh, as best he can. it's the apathy that we want to overcome. that's what makes the blind alley." she laughed. "we'll do it some day--i don't know how--but we'll do it." kenneth carr's voice drawled across the table. "look out, mr quain, or elizabeth will have you in her toils. i'll bet she's talking slumming to you. you can't be a social reformer and a reporter, you know, nowadays. the two don't hang together." "kenneth!" his sister said, with pretended indignation. "look at me! she's making me compile a book about poverty that'll be nothing but statistics--who wants them outside blue books. she's got me in her toils." the phrase amused humphrey: he thought of lilian, and began comparing her with the woman next to him. of course, they were not alike; the comparison irritated him, why compare people so entirely different. one might know elizabeth carr for years, and yet never _know_ her; lilian was different. she seemed simpler, and yet.... he wondered if lilian had ever heard of the blind alley, or bothered about the people who have no chance. when the dinner was finished, and they were all settling down to chatter, the telephone bell rang. wratten went to answer it. "it's the office," mrs wratten said, with disappointment in her voice. wratten came back. "i'm frightfully sorry," he said. "the office wants me ... collard's arrested." he went over to his wife. "i shall be late, dear, don't sit up," he said. "who's collard?" she asked. "oh! the company promoter--reg'lar crook--but he might have waited until the morning to be arrested." "filthy luck!" he grumbled, as he reappeared, shouldering himself into his overcoat. "having to leave all you people like this.... can't be helped." the maid came in with coffee. wratten gulped a thimbleful, kissed his wife, and went out. the evening seemed to have lost something of its pleasure with his sudden departure. they fell to talking over the ways of work and the calls of the office. it was as if fleet street had suddenly asserted itself, and shown the futility of trying to escape from it even for a few hours. "poor mr wratten," elizabeth carr sighed, "i do think they're heartless." "why don't you help us, miss carr?" humphrey said, with a laugh. "we're in the blind alley too." viii the weeks passed into august, and humphrey took eagerly all the work that was given to him by rivers. he became a mental ostrich, assimilating all sorts of knowledge. one day, perhaps, he would have to describe a cat show at the crystal palace, the next he might be attending a technical exhibition at the agricultural hall and olympia, and have his head stuffed with facts and figures of this and that industry. he was acquiring knowledge all day long, but it was only superficial; there was no time to go deeply into any subject, and indeed, his one object was to unburden his mind of all the superfluous things he learnt during the day. if reporters were to keep a book of cuttings of everything they wrote--and they know the value of their work sufficiently not to do that--they would be amazed, looking back over ten years (those cuttings would fill several mighty volumes), at the vast range of subjects they touched upon, at the inside knowledge they had of the little--and even big--things of life; of the great men with whom they had come into contact, perhaps for a few minutes, perhaps for a day; of the men they had even helped to make great by the magic of publicity--they would be astounded at the broadness of their lives, at the things they had forgotten long ago, and perhaps they would pity themselves, looking over their cuttings, for the splendid futility of it all. you remember kipling's poem of "the files," bound volumes of past years; which are repositories of all lost endeavours and dead enthusiasm. heaven help us when we can write and achieve no more, and the only work of our youth and manhood lies buried, forgotten, in the faded yellow sheets of the files. but humphrey quain at this period, just like every other young man, whether he be a haberdasher or a reporter, did not contemplate the remote future. he was young, and his brain was clear and fresh, and he wrote everything with a pulsing eagerness, as though it were his final appeal to posterity. he found his style improving, as he read, and his understanding broadened. he wrote in the crisp style that suited _the day_; he had what they call the "human touch"--that was a phrase which ferrol was very fond of using. rivers began to entrust him with better things to do: now and again he was sent out of london on country assignments. that was a delightful business, to escape for a day or so from the office routine, and be more or less independent in some far-away town or village. you were given money for expenses, and told to go to cornwall, where something extraordinary was about to happen, or some one had a grievance, or else there was some one to interview, and you packed a handbag, and went in a cab to paddington, and had lunch on the train, and stopped at the best hotel, and generally tried to pretend that you were holiday making. but, more often than not, the idea of a holiday fell away when you got to the place, and you had to bustle and bother and worry to get what you wanted. then you had to write your message, and that meant generally being late for dinner, or perhaps it was the kind of story that kept you hanging about and made it necessary to telephone news late at night. but going out of town held a wonderful charm for humphrey--it gave him a sense of responsibility. it made him feel that the office trusted him; somehow or other he felt more important on these country jobs, as if he bore the burden of _the day_ on his own shoulders. there was the charm, too, of writing the story in the first person, instead of adopting the impersonal attitude that was the rule with london work; and the charm of fixing the little telegraph pass to the message, which franked it at press rates to _the day_ without pre-payment. sometimes there were other men on the same story, and they forgathered after work, and as all journalists do, talked shop, because they cannot talk of anything without it touches the fringe of their work. the men he met were, for the most part, thoroughly experienced and capable, they were tremendously enthusiastic, though they tried to appear blasé, because it was considered the correct thing among themselves. they never discussed each other's work, nor told of what they had written. even when they met in the morning, though they had all read their colleagues' messages in the papers, and compared them with their own, they kept aloof from all reference to the merits or demerits of these messages. but it used to rejoice humphrey's heart to see, sometimes, how older men who were inclined to patronize him as a beginner and a junior the night before, treated him as one of themselves in the morning at the breakfast-table. and he nearly burst with pride when he first saw his messages headed: "from _the day_ special correspondent." even though he were no further afield than manchester or birmingham, it seemed to place him in the gallant band of great ones just as if he were a steevens, a billy russell, or an archibald forbes. and all the time he was learning,--learning more swiftly than any one else can learn, in the school of journalism, where every hour brings its short cut to knowledge and worldly wisdom. the occasional separations from lilian, however, modified a little the charm of going away. these orders to go out of town had a habit of coming at the most undesirable moments, generally upsetting any plans they had made together for spending an enjoyable evening somewhere. "when we are married," said humphrey, on the eve of a departure for canterbury to describe the visit of a party of priests from france and italy who were making a pilgrimage to the cathedral, "when we are married, you shall come away with me. it's not bad fun, if the job isn't hard." "i wish you didn't have to go away so often," she pouted. there was a hint of conflict, but humphrey was too blind to see it. he only wished he had to go away more often, for the measure of his success on _the day_ was in proportion to the frequency of special work they gave to him. "all will be well when we are married," he said, comforting her. his love-story wove in and out of his daily work. the date of their marriage had not yet been fixed, because ferrol was away somewhere in the south of france, and that business of the extra pound a week on his salary could not, of course, be settled until ferrol came back. it seemed, too, that lilian was in no hurry to be married; she loved these days of his wooing to linger, with their idyllic moments, and rapturous embraces, and the wistfulness of all too insufficient kisses. for the period of engagement was to them a period of licensed kissing. nor was it always possible to meet beneath the moon. humphrey grew cunningly expert in finding places where they could kiss in broad daylight. there was an italian restaurant in the strand (now pulled down for improvement), which had an upstairs dining-room where nobody but themselves ever seemed to go, and then there was the national gallery, surprisingly empty, where the screens holding the etchings gave them their desired privacy, and on saturday afternoon they went in the upper circles of theatres, sometimes, on purpose not to see the play, but to sit in the deserted lounges during the acting, and enjoy each other's company. their love-affair was tangled by circumstance; scamped and impeded--they made the best of it, and lived many hours of happiness. and then, one day, when he least expected it, she said: "i suppose you ought to come down and see mother." humphrey went out to battersea to the home of his betrothed. the circumstances of his visit were not happy. it was raining, and there is no city in the world so miserable as london when it rains. the house was in a rather dreary side-street, a long distance from battersea park, a mere unit in the army of similar houses, that were joined to one another in a straight row, fronted by railings that had once been newly painted, but were now grimed and blackened. these houses appalled one: they were absolutely devoid of any kind of beauty, never could they have been deemed beautiful by their architect. they were as flat-fronted and as hideously symmetrical as a doll's-house; nor, apparently, did the people who dwelt in them take any pains to lessen the hideousness of their exteriors: ghastly curtains were at every window, curtains of mid-victorian ugliness, leaving a cone-shaped vacancy bounded by lace. in the windows of the lower floors one caught a glimpse of a table, with a vase on it, and dried grass in the vase, and behind the glass panes above the front doors there was, in house after house, as humphrey walked down the street, a trumpery piece of crockery or some worthless china statuette, or the blue vase of the front window, with more grass in it, or a worse abomination in the shape of a circular fan of coloured paper. number twenty-three, to be sure, where lilian lived, was, as far as the outside view was concerned, different from the other houses, in that there were real flowers in the window, instead of dried grass. humphrey felt wet and miserable when he reached it; the rain had dripped through a hole in his umbrella, and had soaked the shoulder of his coat. he went up the steps and pulled the bell. he waited a little while, and happening to glance over the railings into the area, he saw a girl of rather untidy appearance look up at him, and quickly vanish, as if she had been detected in something that she had been forbidden to do. the girl, he noticed, had the same features, on a smaller scale, as lilian: he supposed she was florence. then he heard footsteps in the passage, and through the ground-glass panels of the door he could see a vague form approaching. the next moment all memory of ugliness and squalor and the dismal day departed from him, as lilian, the embodiment of all the beautiful in his life, stood before him, smiling a welcome. how she seemed to change her personality with every fresh environment in which they met! she was the same lilian, yet vaguely a different one here, with her brown hair done just as charmingly yet not in the same way as she did it when they went to theatres in the evening. she wore a white muslin blouse, without a collar, and round her neck was a thin gold chain necklace which he had given her. though he did not realize it at the time, his joy in her was purely physical; the mere sight of her bared neck and throat and the warm softness of her body was sufficient to make him believe that he loved her as he could never love anybody else; he sought no further than the surface; she was pretty, and she was agreeable to be his wife. he did not stop to think of anything else. "so it's really you!" she said, with a laugh. as though she had not been expecting him! he murmured something about the weather as he shook his dripping umbrella. she could invest commonplaces, courtesy phrases, with reality. her eyes were tender as she said, "you poor thing." it was really fine to have some one so interested in your welfare that her eyes could show pity over a few rain-spots. "you must come in and dry yourself over the fire. we had a fire because it is so wet." she closed the door. he took off his coat and hat, and suddenly he caught her silently to him (her eyes spoke of caution, and looked towards the door, leading from the passage), and they kissed hurriedly and passionately. she disengaged herself, and began to talk about trivialities in a high tone. "i have not told any one yet," she whispered. "it is still a secret--so you needn't be afraid of mother." she led the way into the room. somebody was sitting on the sofa, against the light. "mother," said lilian, "this is mr quain." "oh," said mrs filmer, rising and coming forward to shake hands with him, "how do you do?" humphrey sat down in a gloomy, black horsehair chair by mrs filmer, who returned to a sofa that belonged to the same family. they began to talk. it was plain that lilian's mother had been coached by her. she seemed to pay him a deference altogether disproportionate to the occasion, if he were to be considered as a mere casual visitor, a friend of lilian. she was a faded woman of fifty years or so, the personification of the room itself, for everything within those four walls was irrevocably lost and faded--the photographs in their ugly frames were yellow and old-fashioned; the pictures on the walls, chiefly engravings of thirty years ago, in bevelled frames of walnut wood, were spotted with damp; the furniture was absolutely without taste, a mixture of horsehair and mahogany, and the piano had one of those frilled red satin fronts behind a fretted framework. there was a blue plush _portière_, with a fringe of pom-poms down one side of it, hanging from a brass rod over the door. it was difficult for him to believe that she was lilian's mother: that she had actually brought into the world that beautiful, supple being whom he loved. had she ever been like lilian? he could trace no resemblance to her in this little thin woman who sat before him, her hands, with the skin of them warped and crinkled, crossed in her lap, her hair sparse and faded, with threads of brown showing among the grey, and the fringe of another tint altogether. she did not even talk as lilian did: she was too careful of aspirates. he saw that she was altogether inferior to lilian. she talked of nothing--nothing at all. and all the time she was talking, and he was answering her, he was aware, dimly, of lilian's presence, somewhere in the background; he was conscious of her watching him, studying him. the weather was terrible for the time of the year. they wanted to move out of this house; it was too large for them. it was so nice for lilian to have such a comfortable office to work in. but it was a long way to come home, when the weather was bad. the weather was very bad to-day. the summer, one supposed, was breaking up. after all, it was not so very out of season. mr quain must find his work very interesting. and so on. tea was brought in by a girl who was lilian on a smaller scale. "edith, this is mr quain," said lilian; and to humphrey, "this is my sister edith." she put the tray down, and shook hands limply. he noticed that she had precisely the same coloured eyes as lilian's, but they were weaker, and she did not carry herself well. she seemed but a pale shadow of the splendid reality of lilian. then florence, the other sister, came into the room; she was the young girl whom humphrey had seen over the railings as he stood on the doorstep. she was undeveloped, but her face and figure bore great promise of a beautiful womanhood. her hair was of a reddish colour, and hung in a long plait down her back. her face was quite unlike lilian's: he judged that she resembled her father. "you look dreadful, child," said lilian, with a laugh. "go and wash your face, little pig." florence made a grimace, and tossed her pigtail. "it's freckles," she said, hopelessly. "i've been scrubbing away for ten minutes." she looked at humphrey appealingly, with a smile in her eyes--they all had that smile he knew so well. "i think you're too hard on your sister, miss filmer," he said to lilian, with mock gravity. (how odd the miss filmer sounded.) "she looks radiant. i noticed it was freckles at once." florence went to lilian and put her arm round her waist. they were evidently very sisterly. edith was busy pouring out tea ("one lump or two, mr quain"); mrs filmer sat with her hands crossed in her lap looking out of the window into the garden beyond. humphrey took a cup of tea across to her; she was too effusive in her thanks; begged him to sit down, and urged florence to look after mr quain. just then the front door clicked. "there's harry," said edith, putting down the teapot, and running to the door. a short, well-built young man appeared. his hair was the reddish colour of florence's hair, and his face was frank and boyish. he was about nineteen years old, just the age of discrimination in ties and socks, and the flaunting of well-filled cigarette cases. he and edith were apparently the greatest friends, doubtless because there was only two years' interval in their ages. nevertheless, he pulled florence's pigtail affectionately and gave her a brotherly kiss; pecked lilian on the cheek ("what a horrid collar you're wearing, harry," she said, "and you simply reek of tobacco"), and kissed his mother on her forehead. then lilian introduced him to humphrey quain, and they shook hands and regarded each other furtively, with a constrained silence. humphrey felt that the whole family must know of the relations between lilian and himself, though not one of them spoke about it. but they all treated him with a certain deference, and gave him a status in the house, which invested him with a superiority that seemed to match lilian's. for there was no doubt of her superiority in this household, now that they were all gathered together. she seemed so stalwart and broad beside them; a creature apart from them all. she did not appear to belong to them, and yet she was, indisputably, of them. they were so commonplace, and she was so rare--at least, that was what humphrey thought. he watched her as she moved about the room bearing plates and cups, noiselessly, gracefully; she gave him a new impression of domesticity as she wandered about in her own home without the hat that he was accustomed to see her wearing. and she gave him, furthermore, an appearance of strength and character, as though she had acquired the right to rule in this household by the might of her own toil which chiefly supported it. while she was in the room, it lost some of its faded quality, and when she left it to take a cup of tea and a piece of cake to mabel, the third sister, who was an invalid lying, he understood, on a couch upstairs, the room became desolate, and the most insistent person was the faded mother with her querulous voice. they made him look at picture-postcard albums and photographs, and some of florence's drawings, while lilian was absent. florence wanted to be a fashion artist, and though her drawings were incredibly bad and scratchy, he felt it was necessary for him to say that they showed promise.... how had lilian grown to be lilian in these surroundings, he wondered--surroundings of such frank ugliness and shabby gentility? he glanced out of the window which gave a view of a narrow oblong garden at the back, where a few stunted wallflowers struggled to live. a patch of unkempt grass ran between the high walls, and there a broken wicker-work chair faced the windows. as he looked out he saw a man stumbling over the grass towards the side door: he caught a glimpse of the soiled and frayed clothes, and feet clothed in down-at-the-heel slippers, of a grey face with shrunken cheeks, and pale blue eyes that peered weakly from beneath grey wiry eyebrows. the man came across his vision like a spectre, trailing his slippered feet one after another, and swaying a little as he walked. he was fascinated by the sight, and suddenly his attention was distracted by lilian. she had come back to the room, and was standing at his side. her eyes had followed his, and she knew what he had seen. "will you have some more tea?" she said, abruptly, touching him on the shoulder. he turned away hastily: his eyes met hers; they held a challenge in them, as though she were daring him to speak of the man in the garden. it was as if he had probed into a carefully hidden secret. he knew, without being told, that this aimless, shambling man with the slippered feet was the father. he was given in a moment the explanation of this room; the mother; the invalid child; and the air of subdued failure that brooded over the house. he saw lilian as a regenerating, purifying influence, trying to lift them out of the slough. their eyes met, and though no word was passed between them, he understood everything. he wished that he had not come to this house. this family depressed him, and made him feel afraid of life. it was an odd thought that haunted him: they would be his relations when he married lilian. but when, after the leave-takings, she came to the door to help him on with his coat and let him out, he realized that she was unchanged, that she was still splendid for him, and as desirable as she had always been. he felt something of a hero, because he was going to rescue her from this dreadful home of hers.... the memory of the father dogged his thoughts as he came away. he wished he had not gone to the house. ix at eight o'clock, on a chill morning, the women in the red-brick cottages of hyde, which are built round the hyde collieries, felt the earth quiver beneath their feet, and heard a low roar, reverberating about them. their hands went up to their beating hearts; they rushed to their windows that overlooked the grey wastes where the shafts of the mines stood gaunt against the horizon; they saw a burst of flame leap from the upcast shaft of no. mine; leap vividly for a swift moment, and leave behind it a vision of a twisted cable-rope, and twisted iron, and the flame that vanished swiftly bore with it the souls of two hundred men: their husbands, their sons--their men. they gathered their shawls about them, and ran, with their clogs clattering on the cobbled streets, to the pit-mouth, joining a stream of men, whose eyeballs shone whitely from the grime and black of their faces--they ran with terror clutching at their hearts and fear at their heels, and every lip was parched and dry with the horror and dread of the moment. there had been a disaster to no. pit: an explosion; a fire--"what is it? tell us?" they crowded round the mine offices, besieged the mine manager: "for the love of heaven, for the mercy of mary, for the sake of christ--tell us! we must know ... we are the wives, the daughters, the mothers of those who went below to their work in the blackness of the coal.... no need to tell us: we know, now; we see the thin cloud of smoke, with its evil smell, floating above the shaft ... the engine-room is silent. the ventilation fan is not working. it has been shattered, with the lives of all those who matter, by this explosion. "yes, yes, we will wait. some of our men are sure to have escaped; they know the workings. they will find their way to the arden mine shaft adjoining, and come up in the cages. perhaps they all will, and no lives will be lost. we will wait...." at eleven o'clock the little tape machines in the newspaper offices printed out letter by letter the message that was sent by the hyde reporter, who overslept himself that day, and did not hear the news until ten. "an explosion occurred in the no. mine of the hyde collieries this morning. two hundred men were working at the time, and it is feared that there has been a serious loss of life." "off you pop," said rivers to wratten, who had just arrived at the office. "this looks big. i think you'd better have some one with you. boy, tell mr quain to come up." half an hour later wratten and quain were on their way in a cab to euston, humphrey thrilling with the adventure of being chosen to accompany wratten, looking forward to a new experience. "horrible things, these mine disasters," said wratten. "i hate 'em," as if any one in the world was so misguided as to like them. "are they difficult to do?" asked humphrey. "sometimes ... it depends. if there's a chance of rescue, you've got to hang about sometimes all night. they get on my nerves. this'll be your first, won't it?" "yes," humphrey said. it seemed strange to him that they should be discussing such an appalling disaster so dispassionately; considering it only from their point of view. there was no sense of tragedy, of deep gloom, in their talk. it was all part of their business--a lecture, a murder, an interview, a catastrophe--it was all the same to them. they were merely lookers-on. when they arrived at euston, a tall man, whose chief characteristics were gold-rimmed spectacles and a black moustache, came towards them. he wore a red tie and carried a heavy ash stick in his hand. "what--ho! wratten," he said, jovially, "coming up?" "hullo, grame," said wratten, "anybody else here yet?" "oh! the whole gang. we're for'rard in a reserved compartment." kenneth carr, white-faced and breathless, arrived at the last moment. "hullo!" he said, "isn't this awful.... two hundred men! i'll join you as soon as possible." "poor kenneth!" wratten remarked to quain, as they followed grame to the carriage. "he really feels this quite keenly. he realizes the immensity of the tragedy to which we're going to travel. it's a mistake. it hampers one." "i should have thought it would make you do better work," quain answered, "if you really felt the tremendous grief of it all." "not a bit. it makes you maudlin. you lose your head and go slobbering sentimental stuff about. remember, you're no one--you don't exist--you're just a reporter who's got to hustle round, find out what's happened, and tell people how it happened. never mind how it strikes you--_the day_ ain't interested in you and your sensations--it wants the story of the mine disaster." "but--" humphrey began. wratten turned on him savagely. "oh! good god! don't you think _i_ feel it too? don't you think i hate the idea of never being able to write it as i see it? by god! i wouldn't dare tell the story of a mine disaster as i see it. _the day_ would never print it--it would be rank socialism." there were five other reporters in the carriage. two of them humphrey had met before: mainham, who wore pince-nez, looked like a medical student, and spent every saturday at the zoological garden, where he discovered extraordinary stories of crocodiles, who suffered from measles; he was, in a way, the registrar of births, deaths and marriages among the animals; and chander, a thin-faced, thin-lipped young man, who wore long hair, whose conversation was entirely made up of a long chain of funny stories. chander faced the little tragedies of his work daily, but he kept himself eternally young by pretending only to see the humorous side of things. for instance, he once spent a whole morning in the rain and slush of a january, trying to verify some story. he tramped the dismal pavements of a dirty street off tottenham court road, in search of a certain man in a certain house, finally gave it up in disgust, and discovered that he should have gone to another street of the same name by king's cross. that would have disheartened the average man: but chander turned it into a funny story--it is good to have the chander point of view. the other reporters were thomas, who worked for _the courier_--a penny paper--a well-ordered, methodical, unimaginative man, who had a secret pity for the poor devils who had to work for halfpenny papers; and a big broad-shouldered man, whose name was gully. his face at a glance seemed handsome enough, until you noticed the narrow eyes and the coarseness of the heavy under lip. he had brought a pack of cards with him and wanted to play nap. "good heavens!" said kenneth carr, irritably, "try and behave as if you had some decency left. we're going to a mine disaster. there's two hundred dead men at the other end of the journey." "well, you do talk rot," gully replied. "are they relations of yours?" he sniggered at his joke, and asked mainham to play. mainham said he couldn't play in the train, but thomas was willing. chander, who knew that kenneth carr loathed gully and all that he stood for, joined the party out of sheer good-nature. he hated quarrelling. "why look on the black side of things, carr?" he said. "perhaps they're not dead at all. we needn't go into mourning until we know everything, and we don't know anything except what the early editions of the evening papers had. and newspapers are so inaccurate." "ass!" said kenneth, with a grin, for he and chander were good friends, and he understood chander's tact. gully shuffled the cards. "i hope they're dead," he said, "because then we shall be able to get back to-morrow." kenneth carr, grame and wratten looked at each other. wratten gave his head a little toss, and made a clicking noise that meant, "what can you expect, after all, from gully." "charitable soul," chander said, admiringly. "what a sweet temperament you have. won't it be sad if you find 'em all alive and ready to kick!" kenneth carr, wratten, mainham and humphrey went into the dining-car, as the express rocked northwards towards luton. the journey was full of apprehension for humphrey; he had never been on such a big story as this, and, though he knew he had to do nothing but obey wratten, there was still a doubt of success in his mind. it interfered with his appetite. he marvelled that the other men could eat their food so calmly, as though they were going on a pleasure trip, and talk of ordinary things. of course, they were thoroughly used to it. it was as common an incident in their lives as casting up columns of figures is to a bank clerk, or the measuring of dead bodies to an undertaker. after luncheon, mainham left them to go back to the carriage, and the three friends were alone over cigarettes and coffee. "i'm sorry i lost my temper with gully," carr said, after a pause. "oh, we all know gully." wratten smiled and sipped his coffee. "don't get like gully," kenneth said to humphrey, "even if you feel like him. it's bad; it's the gullys that have brought such a lot of disrespect on journalism. he's the type of journalist whom people think it necessary to give 'free' cigars to, and 'free' whiskies and sodas; 'free' dinners, even. they think it is the correct thing to give 'free' things to us, as one throws bones to a dog. it's the gullys who take everything greedily and never disillusion them." "but don't you think you're too sensitive?" humphrey ventured. "it seems to me that the work we do demands a skin thick enough to take all insults. look at the things we have to do sometimes!" "it's our business to take risks," wratten interposed. "i don't mind what i do, so long as there's a good story in it. if it's discreditable, the fault isn't with me. i'm only a humble instrument. it's _the day_ who's to blame--_the day_ and the system. i do my duty, and any complaints can be made to neckinger or ferrol, with or without horsewhip. that's my position." "you see," kenneth carr said, musingly, "there are, roughly, three classes of reporters. there's the man who is keenly alive to the human side of his work and talks about it, as i'm afraid i do; there's the man who feels just as keenly and shuts up, as you and wratten and mainham and hosts of others do; and there's the chap, like gully, who hasn't an ounce of imagination, and gloats over things like this mine disaster, because he's a ghoul. i envy people like you and wratten. you do the best work because, although you feel pity and sorrow, you never allow these feelings to hamper your instincts of the reporter." humphrey smiled. "wratten doesn't." the time passed in recounting some of wratten's audacious doings. his bullying a half-suspected murderer into a confession; his brutal exposure of a woman swindler--he had answered an advertisement for a partner in some scheme or other, found the advertiser was a woman with a questionable commercial past, pretended he was _bona fide_, and, when he had obtained all his material, ruthlessly exposed her in _the day_. there was the case of the feeble-minded millionaire, who was kept a prisoner in his house. there was the case of the gaiety girl who married a lordling, and wratten pried into their private lives, forced the lordling into an interview, and wrote a merciless story that made london snigger. he was absolutely callous in his work, yet so human and tender-hearted out of it. humphrey, since that night when he had been helped by him, had looked up to wratten as the type of the ideal reporter, with courage unlimited, who never flinched, even when the work was most unsavoury and humiliating. he was not popular with the reporters of the papers: he kept himself away from them, and restricted his friendship to one or two men. the reason of his unpopularity was simply because others feared him as a rival, and humphrey found, later, that there was merit in that sort of unpopularity. the strong men are never popular. the train had now sped past rugby, and the green valleys and chequered landscapes ran by in a never-ending panorama. the sunshine held with them as far as crewe, and then, as they came into an unlovely stretch of land bristling with factory chimneys, the clouds gathered, and the greyness settled over the day. the three friends sat silently now: wratten and carr, seated opposite, were looking out of the window, and humphrey over carr's shoulder caught glimpses of the little world to which they were journeying. he saw the great brick chimneys everywhere now, breathing clouds of foul black smoke, and then, wherever he looked, the strange-looking gearing-wheels of the coal-mine shafts came into view. some of them were quite near the railway line, and he could see the light twinkling between their spokes as the great shaft wheels moved round, hauling up invisible cages. there were tangles of iron-work, and buildings of grimy brick, and, as they rushed on, they passed gaunt sidings where coal-stained trucks waited in a long line. they were in a world of brick and iron and coal: down below them, beneath the throbbing wheels of the express, the earth was a honeycomb of burrows, where half-naked men sweated and worked in the awful heat and close darkness. this was a hard world, spread around them, a world where men lived hard, worked hard, and died hard. a world without sunshine,--all grimy iron and coal and brute strength. and again humphrey could not help feeling the pitiful artificiality of his own work, that mattered so little, compared with this real and vital business of dragging coal from the heart of the earth to warm her children. they had to change at wigan: the bookstalls were covered with placards of manchester and bolton newspapers telling of the horror of the disaster. they bought copies of every paper, and saw the whole terrible story, hastily put together, and capped with heart-rending headlines. they would have to wait thirty minutes for the train to hyde: wratten twitched humphrey's sleeve and drew him aside. "look here," he said, "i don't know what the other fellows are going to do. trains are no good to me--i mayn't be able to get back to wigan to wire, and the hyde post-office will be a one-horse show. i'm going to get a motor-car. come on." so they left the group. social friendship was at an end: there were no "good-byes," each man was concerned with himself and his own work. motor-cars were not used by newspapers at that time to the extent that they are used to-day; they were doubly expensive, and even a little uncertain, but _the day_ was always generous with expenses when it came to getting news. they went outside, and wratten hailed a dilapidated four-wheeler. "drive to a motor garage--quick," he said. "won't t' old hoss do, guv'nor?" asked the cabby, with the broad northern accent. "no, it won't, and look slippy," growled wratten. the old cab rattled over the stones and down a steep hill. "this is a pretty dull hole," humphrey said, looking out at the town, which seemed to be oozing coal from all its pores. "yes," wratten said shortly. "i'm trying to think out a plan. you'd better come with me to hyde, and after we've got some stuff for the main story, you can hang on, and i'll bump back here in the car, and put it on the wire. then i'll come back to the mine and relieve you. you'll probably have got some interviews by then, and we can run them on to the story." they arranged for the motor-car, and during a ten-minutes' wait, wratten dashed off to the post-office. "always call at the post-office when you get on a job like this, and tell them what you're going to send. besides, the office may have some instructions for you in the poste restante. and always wire your address to the office. we'd better stop at the royal. i daresay every one else will be there, but it can't be helped." they set out in the evening for the mine. the car took them through the mean streets of wigan and the outlying villages, where the shadow of disaster hung like a black curtain over the houses. the streets were strangely silent: groups of men stood at the street corners, talking in constrained voices, and women with shawls over their heads flicked across the roads, grey and ghostlike, the slap of their clogs breaking harshly into the silence. now and again they passed a beer-house, brilliantly lit, and from here came sounds of voices, and high nervous laughter. "they always get drunk on days like these," wratten said. "they have to forget that death is always sitting at their shoulders." and now there was a stretch of open country, yet even the fields had not the bright green of the southern fields. the very grass was soiled with the coal, and the mines and the tall chimneys made a ring round their horizon. humphrey moved uneasily in the car: the brooding spirit of tragedy that hovered over the place was beginning to seem intolerable. it was all so grey, so appallingly dismal and squalid. here were the houses with the blinds drawn over their windows--whole streets of them--houses where there was no man to come home now. here were women leaning over the railings of the patches of gardens, staring before them into the desolate future. fatherless babes crawling about the dusty pavements and gutters, unheedingly, knowing nothing of the disaster that had scorched and withered the mankind of their world. they turned down a side-street, and came out upon an open space filled with a mighty crowd of people. behind them was the gate that led to the colliery, and far away, above their heads, humphrey saw the winding wheel above the shaft, twisted and broken, the shaft itself jagged and castellated where the force of the explosion had torn the brickwork, and the cable-ropes shattered and tangled, as if some giant hands had wrenched it loose and made a plaything of it. the crowds before the gate parted as they heard the noise of the motor-car. they made a narrow lane, just wide enough for the car to creep through. the gate was guarded by a police-sergeant, who, overcome by the sight of the motor-car, opened the way, and saluted: wratten, bulky with rugs and wraps, touched the peak of his cap. the car drew up outside the offices, and they set out to walk up the black hill to the pit-mouth. desolation, utter and dismal; the lowering sky stained and splashed with the red of the dying sun; dark masses gathering below the purple pall of clouds; the ground barren and black with coal beneath the feet: these were humphrey's first impressions as they walked up the hill, with thousands of envious, resentful eyes regarding them from the crowds that huddled beyond the railings. nobody questioned them; nobody asked them what right they had to be there. they were part and parcel of the scheme--the literary undertakers, or, if you like, the descendants of the bards of old, the panegyrists, come to sing their elegies to the dead. the full force of the tragedy came, as a blow between the eyes, when they reached the pit-mouth. those women, waiting patiently throughout the day,--and they would wait, too, long into the night, keeping up their vigils of despair--who could forget them? who could look at their faces without feeling an overwhelming gush of pity flooding the heart; those eyes, red-rimmed and staring intensely, eyes that could weep no more, for their tears were exhausted, and nothing but a stony impassive grief was left! the shawls made some of the faces beautiful, madonna-like, framing them in oval, but others were the faces of dolorous old women, grey-haired, and mumbling of mouth. and some of them laid their forefingers to their lips, calling the world in silence to witness their stupendous sorrow. they stood there compact and pitiful: thinking of god knows what--perhaps of the last good-bye, of a quarrel before parting, of a plan for the morrow, of all the little last things that had been done by their men, before death had come. and, permeating everything, into the very nostrils of all of them, there crept a ghastly smell of gas and coal-dust--a smell that brought to the vision of the imaginative the shambles in the twisting galleries of coal below their feet; great falls of black boulders, nameless tortured hulks that once were men--living, loving, laughing--lying haphazard as they fell to the same gigantic fist that smote the iron wheel above the shaft, and crumpled the brickwork as if it were cardboard. they had to see it all: they met other reporters wandering in and out--dream-people in a world of terrible reality. their companions of the train were all there: kenneth carr, surveying that wall of women silently; mainham, talking to the mine-manager, whose black and sweating face told of many descents into the mine; gully, buttonholing a woman with a baby in her arms, and making notes in his notebook; grame, plodding to and fro in the coaly mire, for it had been raining that morning in the north: all working, all observing, all gathering facts. it was not their business to moralize, to link up dead men and disasters with the idea of these desolate women and humanity at large. that was the leader-writer's work. their business was to get the news and say how it happened. they dared not even expose criminal negligence, or inhuman cruelty, or savage conditions of work--and libel laws were there to restrain them. and they all felt--yes, i believe even the brutal gully felt it for a moment--the unspeakable horror of the tragedy, the injustice not of men dying like this, but having to live like this; great waves of sympathy and pity came over them, and they pitied themselves for their impotence. ah! if they could have told the millions that would read their writings in the morning, the thoughts that were in their minds.... humphrey saw it all. he saw the gaunt, drear shed where the flickering lamp-light played over a dozen shapeless bundles sewed up in white. a man came to the shed--this business of identification was no woman's work--the policeman in charge whispered something: they went in together; the policeman turned back the sheet--o god! is it possible that a face once human could look like that! turn down the sheet. we cannot recognize him. all we know is that the bundle of clothes seared from his body is his; that pocket-book is his too, and we recognize the bone crucifix that he bought one easter-tide in manchester. "hold up.... thanks, matey, the light's a bit dim...." an odour of carbolic mingled with the stench of the coal-dust; a blue-clad nurse with a scarlet cross on her arm moved among the white bundles, and she seemed to bring with her a promise of exquisite peace after pain, and rest and eternal sleep. outside, a grim black wagon lumbered up the hill, and, as the wind flapped its canvas doors open, one saw its load of coffins.... now the rescue party was going down again. they emerged from a brick shanty, through whose windows humphrey could see the shelves which were meant to hold the miners' lamps--there was a pathos in those empty shelves. these men were going down to dare death: they looked inhuman fantastic creatures, with goggled helmets over their heads, and great knapsack arrangements of oxygen and nitrogen to breathe, for one breath of the air in the mine below meant stupor and sleep everlasting. there were five men, and as they passed the group of dolorous women, they must have felt the tremor of hope and deep gratitude that shot through the fibre of every despairing one. here were the sexes in their elemental state, stripped of all the artificial trappings of civilization; men were doing the work of men; women giving them courage with the blessings of god that they murmured. the leader of the rescue gang carried a little canary in a cage; the little yellow bird piped and sang, and hopped about his perch. the little yellow bird was the centre of all their faith in god's mercy: for if the bird could live in the air of the mine, there was still some hope for their men. slowly the cage descended the shaft that was unbroken. the sunset blinked between the spokes of the gearing-wheel, slower and slower--they were at the bottom of the mine. now, they were in that inferno of vaporous blackness, with death stalking them, a gaunt, cloudy monster, who had but to puff out his cheeks and breathe destruction. there would be enormous falls of coal and timber to combat; they would have to crawl on their bellies, and stagger along, stooping to the broken roofs of the galleries, and always there was the startling danger of a jar knocking their knapsacks, or breaking the mouthpieces through which they breathed their precious elixir of life. up above, the night was coming, and a rain as soft as tears began to drift downwards. the women waited. salvation army officers moved among them, enticing some of them into the shelter of the silent machine-room. "of what use is tea and coffee to us? give us our men. no food or drink shall pass our lips until our men have kissed them, or we have kissed their still faces." up above, a preacher preached of the infinite mercy of god, and the gospel of pain and sorrow by which the kingdom of heaven is reached. he stood there with his arms outstretched, like a black cross silhouetted against the darkening sky, his low, mournful, dirge-like voice blending with the gloom.... down below, in the reek and the stench, the rescuers' hands are bloody with tearing their way through obstacles, and their pulses are hammering in their heads ... and they have seen sickening things. now the wheel begins to move again. doctors hurry to the door of the cage--lint, bandages, stretchers, evil and glittering instruments that kill pain with pain, all the ghastly paraphernalia of death. they are coming up!... they are coming up!... a silence, so swift and sudden, that it is as if the great multitude had whispered "hush," the tinkle of the bell marking the stages of the ascent is clearly heard by people waiting on the bank. the cage appears.... the men stagger out, one by one, helmets removed, their faces grimed and sweaty, their eyes white and staring out of the black grotesquery of their faces, their lips taut and silent. and one of them carries a cage in his hand, a cage with an empty perch, and a smother of wet and draggled feathers huddled into one corner. a world without the song of a bird--no hope! ... no hope. * * * * * "i shall have to dash back to wigan now, and get my stuff on the wires," said wratten. "will you wait here and i'll come and relieve you. pick up any stuff you can. facts." humphrey wandered about the dismal pit-mouth--sometimes he was challenged by the police, and ordered to keep within a certain area. he found a cluster of reporters by a lighted lamp. one of them had received an official communication from the mine-manager, and he was giving it to his colleagues. humphrey took it down in his note-book. then there was another flutter. a piece of flimsy paper was fixed to a board outside the lamp-house. a message from the king. now, the wires were humming with words, thousands upon thousands of words sent by the writers to all the cities of the kingdom. and in all the offices the large square sheets of the press telegraph-forms were being delivered. humphrey saw the picture of _the day_ office: selsey sitting at the top of the table, the boy handing him the pile of news from wigan, a sub-editor cutting it down, here and there--always cutting down. perhaps, you see, some great politician was making a speech at the albert hall, and space was needed for three columns, with a large introduction. it was nine o'clock. another rescue party had gone down. the women still waited, their faces yellow now in the flare of lamps. it seemed to humphrey that he had left london centuries ago ... that he had never met lilian at all. it was as if that morning his life had been uprooted, and it would have to be planted again before it could absorb the old interests and influences.... he was hungry and cold. there was no chance of getting food. if he were a miner, or had any real part in this game, the salvation army would have given him tea and bread ... but he was a reporter, an onlooker, supposed to be watching everything, and, in a sense, physically invisible. a car panted up.... it was wratten. "here i am, quain. anything happened? official communication. oh yes, and the king's telegram. better send them off. hop into the car and then send it back for me. i'll wait." "wait?" humphrey said. "what about food?" "i've got some sandwiches. i'll wait here until two. never know what will happen. rescuer might get killed. it's happened before. fellow might be brought up alive." "but it's going to rain like blazes." "is it?... off you get. you can turn in. i'll keep the deck." * * * * * it was nearly eleven when humphrey had sent his telegram to london. the post-office was open by a side door for the correspondents, and some of them were still writing. cigarettes dangled from their lips. they had an opened note-book on one side and a pile of telegraph-forms on the other--not the forms that ordinary human beings use, but large square sheets, divided up into spaces for a hundred words on a page. fifteen of them made a column in _the day_--wratten had covered thirty forms. humphrey went back to the hotel. his friends were in the coffee-room amazing the waitress with their appetites for cold meat and pickles and beer at half-past eleven. the tension was over, and the reaction was setting in. their faces were strained, and they all seemed unnaturally good-humoured. they laughed at anything, clutching at any joke that would make them forget the dismal horrors of their day. kenneth carr looked more pallid than ever. "where's wratten?" he asked, as humphrey came into the room. "still waiting up there," humphrey said. "what's the good of waiting?" gully put in. "if anything happens, the agency men will send it through, and, anyway, it's too late for the first edition." "i reckon i've done my day's work; me for the soft bed," chander remarked. "by the way, i found five separate men who've got five separate shillings out of me. each swore he was absolutely the first person to arrive on the scene and no one else there. it's a sad world. good-night." kenneth carr left shortly afterwards, and the others remained drinking and telling stories. humphrey had been chary of drinking since his adventure that evening when he was on his first murder story, but to-night he drank with the rest. they were all urged by the same motives. they wanted to forget the black pit-mouth, and the women, and the smell of the coal-dust. that night humphrey woke up suddenly and heard the rain drumming against the window. he wondered if wratten were back from the mine. he fell asleep again, and dreamed of a gaunt building, where a blue-clad nurse, with the face of lilian, hovered about white, shapeless bundles.... and in london the dawn was coming westwards over fleet street, and the vans were rattling to the stations, so that all that had been written would be read over millions of breakfast-tables everywhere in the kingdom. x since his visit to lilian's home, he had come to a definite decision about his marriage. it would have to be privately done, and the news kept from his aunt until they were wedded. in spite of the increasing breadth of his life, he had not yet shaken off the narrow influence of easterham; his aunt still remained as a factor to be considered in his scheme of things. if he told her, beforehand, she would ask all sorts of questions. who were the filmers? what did mr filmer do? (he winced at even this imagined question.) were they _really nice_ people? that was the greatest quality that anybody could have in his aunt's estimation--the quality of being _really nice_. it was a vague, impalpable quality that defied definition, though humphrey knew that, somehow or other, his aunt would arrive at the conclusion that the filmers had not that desirable attribute, if she could by any chance visit them. of lilian, of course, there could be no doubt.... she was rare and exquisite, so different altogether from the rest of her family. nobody could help loving her, and he knew that she would survive the easterham inquisition. but he saw at once that mrs filmer and his aunt would never, never blend. she would find out at once that mrs filmer was not "really nice."... he and lilian talked it over, whenever they could meet. she did not share his hurry to be married. "it is sweet like this," she said once. there was an odd, wistful note in her voice. then she looked at him fondly, and, "oh! what a boy you are, humphrey," she said. he did not object to that so much now. he smiled indulgently--he had not been many months in fleet street, but he seemed to have absorbed the experience of as many years. he was changing, so gradually, that he could not note the phases of his development himself. he felt that he was leaving all his old associations far behind. it was as if some driving power were within him, rushing him forward daily, while most of the other people round him stood still. there was beaver, for instance--he seemed to have left beaver long ago, though they were still at their old guilford street lodgings. but, somehow, beaver seemed now just a milestone, marking the passage of a brief stage in his life. soon, he knew, beaver would be out of sight altogether. there was tommy pride--another milestone; he had run on and caught up with wratten and kenneth carr, and these were the people who were influencing him now.... and there was that great ambition, growing into a steady flame: ambition burning up every other desire within him; ambition leading him by ways that mattered not so long as they led at last to conquest. lilian was to help him: she was to be a handmaiden to ambition. the picture of the journalistic homes that he had seen made him long to found one of his own. this life of lodgings and drifting was profitless--he wanted a home; permanence and peace in this life of restless insecurity. very often he dreamed of his home--where would it be?--they would have to be content with rooms at first, an upper part, perhaps, but the rooms would be their own, and they could shut the door on the world, and live monarchs of their own seclusion for a few hours, at least, every day. there were walls lined with books, too, in his picture of the home, and lilian, in an arm-chair of her own, set by the fireplace, and the blinds down, and the light glittering on the golden threads in her brown hair. he told lilian of his dreams, and she shook her head and smiled. "it's a nice picture, isn't it?" she said. "don't you see it too?" he asked. "sometimes. i used to see it quite a lot at one time. before i knew you." he showed chagrin. "oh! wasn't i in it?" "how could you have been when i hadn't met you? i forget who was the ideal for me at the moment. lewis waller, perhaps, or william gillette." she laughed. "silly humphrey, it's the picture you're in love with, and you can put anybody in the arm-chair." he protested against it, yet all the while he was wondering how she could have known that! he had not considered that point of view himself, nor would he now. it was lilian he wanted; she was just as beautiful as ever, and nobody else was within his grasp. he sighed. "i do wish we could settle about--about our marriage. let's fix it up for next week." she pretended to be horrified. "only a week to prepare in! look at the things i've got to buy. my bottom drawer isn't half full." "well!" he said, hopelessly, "when are we going to get married? do let's try and fix a day." he could not understand why, sometimes, she would seem so eager and delighted with the prospect of marriage, and at other times she would be in a mood for indefinite postponement, as though she wished to keep him for ever lingering after her with all his thirst for love unquenched. he could not know that she was beginning to realize, with that intuition which no man can fathom, that her dreams had been but dreams, and the love that they thought everlasting but the passing shadow of a moment. * * * * * when he got back to the reporters' room that evening--he had been reporting the visit of a famous actress to a home for incurables--willoughby met him with a grave face. "heard about wratten?" he asked. "no--what is it?" humphrey said, feeling that evil news was coming. "double pneumonia--they thought it was a chill at first ... he got it at that mine disaster last week. you were there, weren't you?" "yes. he would insist on staying out all night ... it was raining...." "that was wratten all over," willoughby said. humphrey winced. "don't say 'was,'" he said, almost fiercely. "wratten's going to get better. it's impossible for him to die ... why, he is only just begun to live ... and there's his wife ... and, perhaps...." he stopped short. nobody could quite understand what wratten meant to him. not even wratten himself. "i didn't know you and wratten were very thick," willoughby said. "he's a good chap, but so devilish glum." "none of you know wratten--i don't suppose i do--but i know that he's the whitest man in the street." he went out to hampstead that night, after work, but the nurse who came to the door said that he could not see mrs wratten, she was in the sick-room--mr wratten was dangerously ill; but he was going on as well as could be expected. xi ferrol was back in his room, among his buttons, after a long holiday abroad. there was always a subtle difference in the office when he returned after these occasional absences; and not only in the office, but in the whole street, where men would say to each other, "ferrol's back, i hear ... wonder what _the day_ will do next." for ferrol always returned to his paper with some new scheme, some new idea that he had planned while he was away--he seemed to be able to see weeks ahead, to know what people would be talking about, or, if he could not be certain as to that, he would "boom" something in _the day_, and its mighty circulation would make people talk about anything he wanted them to discuss. they were doing nearly a million a day--think of it! ferrol, sitting in his office, could touch a button, give some instructions, and send his influence into nearly a million homes. he could move the thoughts of hundreds of thousands; throw the weight of _the day_ into a cause and carry it through into success. he could order the lives of his readers, in large matters or small matters. that famous batter pudding campaign, for instance, is not forgotten, when _the day_ found a crank of a doctor, who declared that our national ill-health was due to eating batter pudding with roast beef. batter pudding was on every one's lips, and in no one's mouth. people stopped cooking batter pudding. ferrol touched a button and they obeyed. nor must we forget the wonderful campaign on the "bulrush throat," by which humphrey was able to oust the bulrushes from mrs wayzgoose's sitting-room. yet, sometimes, in _the day_ campaigns, there was a spark of greatness and a hint of nobler things, that seemed to reflect the complex personality of ferrol himself; ferrol groping through the web of commercial opportunism which was weaving round him, striving after something ideal and worthy. a man has been wrongly arrested and condemned--ferrol stands for justice; the columns of _the day_ are opened to powerful pens; the nation is inflamed, there are questions in the house, the case is re-opened and the conviction quashed. nameless injustices and cruel dishonesty would flourish if _the day_ were not there to expose such things. you must balance the good against the evil, and perhaps the good will outweigh the evil, for ferrol, when he touched the buttons, did many good things, and the nearest approach to evil he made was in doing those few things that were transparently foolish.... something in _the day_ had arrested his attention that morning. (he always read the paper through, page by page, from the city quotations to the last word on the sporting page.) the article in question was not an important one: it was a few hundred words about a party of american girls who were being hustled through london in one day--the quickest sight-seeing tour on record. the account of their doings was brightly written, with a flash of humour here and there; and, you know, it had the "human touch." who wrote it? the button moves; pink-faced trinder starts nervously from his desk in the ante-room, and appears shiny, and halting in speech. he is sent on a mission of investigation, while ferrol turns to other matters: the circulation department wants waking up. ferrol actually travelled in his car all the way from his house in kensington, and for every contents bill of _the day_ he saw three of _the sentinel_. gammon, the manager of the circulation department, appears, produced magically by touching a button. "this won't do, you know." there are explanations, though ferrol doesn't want explanations--he wants results; which gammon, retiring in a mood for perspiration, promises. there has been a slight drop in advertisement revenue--ferrol has a finger in every pie. "dull season be damned," says ferrol to the advertisement manager--a very great person, drawing five thousand a year, commissions and salary, and with it all dependent on ferrol. in two minutes ferrol has produced a "scheme"--an idea that may be worth thousands of pounds to the paper. "splendid," says the advertisement manager. "get ahead with it," says ferrol.... in ten minutes it is as if there had been an eruption in every department of the grey building. the fault-finding words in the red room with the buttons drop like stones in a pool, making widening rings, until they reach the humblest junior in every department--ferrol is back, and the office knows it!... trinder reappears. mr quain wrote the article ... and ferrol suddenly remembers. so the boy has been doing well. both neckinger and rivers approve of humphrey. "not a brilliant genius, thank god!" says rivers, "but a good straightforward man. very sound." thus is ferrol justified once more in his perception for the right man. his thoughts travelled back once more to easterham, to the days when he himself was humphrey's age, to the days of margaret, and the white memories of his only romance. strange that the vision of her should always stand out against the thousand complexities of his life after all these years. he saw her just as he had last seen her, eyes of a deep darkness, and black hair that seemed by contrast to heighten the dusky pallor of her skin. a child that was too frail to live, and yet she had inspired him in these long distant days. it was astonishing to think that she had had a separate life of her own; that she had married and passed out of the scheme of things. she was dead, and yet she came knocking like this at queer, irregular intervals, at the door of his life. and ferrol was drawn with a strange attraction towards this boy who was her son; he came as if he were a message from margaret, holding out her hands to him, across the unfathomable abyss of space and time. "now you can repay," she seemed to say. * * * * * "well, quain," said ferrol, as humphrey came into the room. ferrol masked his sentiments behind the crisp, hard voice that he always cultivated in the office. nobody could have guessed from his treatment of humphrey that he regarded the boy with any particular favour. ferrol knew well enough how to handle men: they must be made always to believe that they are firm and independent, and it does not do to let them see the props and supports that hold them up. humphrey was busily searching for the reason of this summons to ferrol's room. it was only the third time that he had been in this broad red room, yet already his nervousness vanished, he no longer feared his greatness, or the comprehensive power of the man with the black moustache and the strong hands that held in their grip all the fortunes of _the day_. he stood there, by ferrol's desk, so changed, so different from the timid humphrey who had felt the floor sinking beneath him when he faced, for the first time, this man whose potentiality he could not grasp. there was little outward difference, save, perhaps, the lips compressed a little tighter, and a frown that came and went, but inwardly the timid humphrey had gone, and in its place there was a bolder humphrey, whose mind was all the better for the bruises of battle. "well, quain," said ferrol, moving papers about his desk, and regarding humphrey all the time with those penetrating grey eyes. "you sent for me, sir?" humphrey asked. "yes." ferrol paused. "getting on all right?" he blurted out. humphrey smiled--getting on! the phrase had been on his lips on that day when he had first appeared in the red room. he thought of all the things that had been crowded into his life since then. of all that he had seen; of all the people he had met; of the glimpses into the greatness and the pettiness; the worthiness and the unworthiness; the virtue and the vice and the vanity of it all. as he thought thus, he saw a blurred composite picture of the past months, figures flitting to and fro, men striving in the underworld of endeavour, work, work, and a little love, and, in the background, a whimsical picture of his aunt who preached the stern gospel of getting on, without knowing what it really meant. "i'm going to have you put on better work," ferrol said. how the boy's eyes sparkled and lit up his face! "mr rivers is quite satisfied. you shall do some of the descriptive work. think you'll be able to do as well as john k. garton one day?" john k. garton!--he was the great descriptive writer of _the day_, the man who signed every article he wrote, who was never seen in the reporters' room, except when he looked in for letters; a being who seemed to humphrey to belong to quite another sphere, above wratten, above kenneth carr, above all the reporters in salary and reputation. he was one of ferrol's products: all england knew of him, and read his work as special correspondent, yet ferrol could put a finger on a button, you know.... humphrey laughed. "oh, i don't know, mr ferrol," he said, awkwardly. "my work would probably be quite different, i couldn't write in his style." "that's right," said ferrol. "try and find an individual style of your own. no room for imitators here. still, there's plenty of time to talk about that. i just wanted to let you know i've had my eye on you." ferrol nodded, humphrey turned to go. then he remembered he was going to ask ferrol for a rise in salary. he came back to the desk. "oh, mr ferrol," he said, "i ought to tell you, i'm going to be married." ferrol pushed his pad aside. what a fool he had been to think he could constitute himself the only influence in this boy's career. how was it he had overlooked the one important factor--a woman. it came so suddenly, this revelation of humphrey's intimate life, and all at once ferrol found himself swayed with an unreasoning dislike of this unknown woman--it was an absurd feeling of jealousy.--yes, he was jealous that anybody should exercise a greater influence than himself over humphrey, now that he had decided to push him forward to success. "married!" he said, harshly, "you damned young fool!" the words came as a blow in the face. humphrey flushed, and found that he could not speak. he thought of ferrol's soft words that had opened up such illimitable visions of the future, and then, quite unexpectedly--this. "somebody in easterham?" asked ferrol. "oh no! nobody in easterham. she lives in london. she's in fleet street." "a woman journalist?" "no--she's a typist." "you damned young fool!" ferrol repeated. "what do you want to get married for?" xii in the silence that followed, humphrey stood bewildered. the harsh note in ferrol's voice surprised him; what on earth could it matter to ferrol whether he married or not. and ferrol must have read his thoughts, and seen his mistake at once. "of course," he said, "it's no business of mine. your life's your own. only i think you're too young for that sort of thing. why, you haven't seen the world yet. you haven't a father, have you?" "no," said humphrey. "well"--ferrol's voice softened--"you won't mind my advising you then." "no," said humphrey again: already he seemed to feel lilian slipping from his grasp. "i'm looking at it simply from the business point of view. no man has a right to marry until his position is made--least of all a reporter." "but she would help me," humphrey pleaded. "she would be able to help me. she would ..." he broke off. ferrol completed the sentence for him. "keep you straight. yes, i know. i've heard it all before. the man who needs a woman to keep him straight is only half a man." "but," continued humphrey--and he thought of wratten and tommy pride--"we don't get much out of life--we're at work all day long, there's absolutely nobody ... i mean, there's nothing left in it all ..." he spread his hands wide. "at the end there's nothing ... emptiness." he stammered broken sentences that had a queer impressiveness in them. "i'm nothing ... it seems to me ... all this life, rushing about all day ... and everything forgotten to-morrow ... there's nothing that lasts ... nothing except...." "oh, you think you'll get happiness," ferrol said. "perhaps you will. but every moment of happiness is going to cost you years of misery. as soon as you marry, what happens? you are no longer independent. you've got to lie down and take all the kicks. you've got to submit to be ground down; to be insulted by men whom you dare not strike back, as you would, if you had only yourself to think of.... and then, you know, in a year's time, you've got to work ... double as hard, and to watch every penny, and to save.... why, you young fool, don't you see that if you're going to get on in this business, you mustn't have any other wish in life but to rise to the top. everything must be put aside for that--you must even put aside yourself. you must have only one love--the love of the game; the love of the hunter for his quarry." what made ferrol talk like this.... what had happened to humphrey that he should be there, standing up to ferrol, fighting the question of his marriage? something new and unexpected had thrust itself into their relations, and humphrey could not understand it. "but that's what i want to do," he said; "we should do it together." "yes. how?" said ferrol, a little brutally again. "shall i tell you? i know you young men who marry the moment you see a marrying wage. it's all very well for you--you may progress--you may develop--you're bound to, for men knock about and gather world experience. but what of the woman at home?--cooped up in her home with babies? eh? have you thought of that? where would your home be? you haven't got as far as that, then. the woman stands still, and you march on. she can lift you up, but you can't lift her up. and then the day comes that you're a brilliant man--the most brilliant man in the street, if you like...." ferrol smiled. "oh! you never know. think of john k. garton, and mallaby, and owers.... and you're different. you can link up the things of life. you can perceive and appreciate pictures and fine music and the meaning of everything that matters ... and for the woman who has not been able to progress, nothing but popular songs, chromographs, and ignorance of anything but the petty little things of to-day. then you hear people saying, 'how on earth did he come to marry her?' there's always an answer to that. _he_ didn't marry her. it was another man--the man he was twenty years ago--who did it. do you see?" humphrey looked about him forlornly. his dreams were crumbling before the onslaught of ferrol's remorseless less words. the powerful magnetism of this man held him: he felt sure that ferrol was right.... ferrol was only voicing the thoughts that he himself had feared to express. above the inward turmoil of his mind, he heard again the voice of ferrol, forceful and insistent: "you are not the man you will be in twenty years' time. there's no reason," he added hastily, "why i should take all this trouble over you ... no reason at all ... it's no concern of mine. other people on my staff can do as they please--for some men marriage is the best thing ... i don't interfere. i'm not interfering now. i'm only giving my point of view." "yes ... i know," humphrey said, and somehow or other he seemed to feel an extraordinary sympathy for ferrol; he seemed to understand this man. at that moment he would have stood forth for ferrol and championed him against a world of hatred! "only i thought ..." humphrey began. "you see, she supports her family...." "o lord!" ferrol groaned. "it's worse than i imagined." "besides, she's ... she's clever ... we have the same tastes." "of course you have. but your tastes will alter. you're going to progress.... and she's going to progress, too, on different lines.... a woman's line of progress is different ... and in twenty years' time!" the telephone bell rang. ferrol took up the receiver. "well, that's all," he said to humphrey. and then: "i don't take this trouble with every one." humphrey groped for words. "no ... i understand ... i see what you mean.... you don't think...." ferrol nodded. "you can do what you like, of course." he put the receiver to his ear and began talking rapidly. xiii lilian knew the letter by heart now, she had read it through and through so often. she had received it early that morning, when, as usual, she ran downstairs at the postman's knock, so as to take that precious letter, that came daily, from the floor where it lay as it had been dropped through the slit in the door. of late, the sisters and brother had noticed the hurry to capture the first post, and there had been a little good-humoured chaffing over the breakfast-table, where they all sat together--the father and mother took their breakfast upstairs in bed, in keeping with their slatternly lives. "going to be a blushing bride soon, lily?" said harry, with a wink to edith. "don't be silly!" lilian said, crumbling her letter in her pocket. "what's he like? is it that nobleman who came here a few weeks ago? if so, i don't think much of his taste in ties!" "it's better than your taste in socks," retorted lilian. "aha!--a hit, a palpable hit. guessed it at once. pass the butter, edie." "do tell us all about it," florence urged. "the family wants to know," pleaded harry. "lilian--are you really...." her hands closed over the letter which she had just read. she turned her head away and pretended to be busy at the coffee-pot. they were all joking among themselves, and they did not notice the tears glisten in her eyes. "there's nothing to tell," she said, in a hard voice. "oh, we don't believe that!" harry said. "young ladies wot gets letters in masculiferous handwritings every morning...." she rose abruptly and looked at the clock. then--wonderful lilian!--she laughed and threw them all off the scent. "you children are too talkative," she said, with pretended loftiness. "i mustn't stop chattering with you or i shall miss the eight-forty." she put on her gloves with precision, and took up her little handbag, and adjusted her hat, just as if nothing had happened to disturb the ordinary course of her life; and, then, with the usual kiss all round, she let herself out of the house. oh, she kept herself well in hand throughout the journey to town--nobody knew, and nobody must know. it was only a secret between herself and her heart. she looked out with dry eyes over the dismal plain of chimney-pots with which the train ran level, the cowls spinning in the wind ... the chimney-pots stretched row upon row, far away, until, with a hint of the open sea, adventure and wide freedom, the masts and rigging and brown sails arose from the ships lying in the docks. but when she came to the office she rushed upstairs, and in the little room where they hung their cloaks and hats, all her pent-up emotions broke loose with a torrent of tears. she wanted to empty her eyes of tears so that there should be none left, and she wept without control, silently, until she could weep no more. it was just like a short, sharp storm on a day that is oppressive and heavy; the air is all the cooler and sweeter for it, fresh breezes play gently over the streets, the world itself seems eased after its outburst. she could smile again. she bathed her red eyes in the cold water of the basin, and performed some magic with a powder-puff. nobody would have guessed, as she sat tap-tapping at her typewriter, with the sunshine touching her hair with its golden fingers, that a thunderstorm had shaken her nature a few minutes earlier. it was all over now; only the letter remained, and she knew the letter by heart, she had read it so often. a difficult letter to write! well, not really, for that which comes from the heart is easy to write. it is insincerity which presents difficulties, and in this business humphrey had not been insincere. he had not made any cold calculations as to the future; he had not weighed the pros and cons of it all. after the letter was written and posted, the vision of her reproachful face haunted his dreams, and he felt that he had lost something irretrievable--something of himself that had gone from him, never to return. he was only considering himself. he saw the sudden possibilities of the future which ferrol had opened for him; the true proportions in which he had painted that picture of the days to come. the fear of these responsibilities attacked him and made him a coward. he saw, at once, that he could not marry lilian, and he told her so in a tempestuous, passionate letter, with ill-considered phrases jumbled all together, treading on one another's heels, as fast as the ideas tumbled about in his mind. "i cannot do it, lilian, dear," he began. "we should never be happy together. i can see that. i don't know what you will think of me; you cannot think any worse of me than i think of myself. i feel a blackguard; i feel as if some one had given me a beautiful, priceless vase, and i had hurled it to the floor and smashed it. it is not that i love you any the less, but i cannot ask you to share this life of mine. when i first knew you, i thought it would be beautiful if we could be married--everything seemed so easy to accomplish. but now i see that years must pass before i win my way, and that marriage for us would be an unhappy, uphill affair. forgive me, forgive me, lilian. i cannot tell you all my thoughts on paper. but meet me just once more in the old restaurant in the strand, where i can explain to you all that i want to say, and plead for your forgiveness. oh, my sweet lilian, you will understand and help me, i know. "humphrey." this was the letter, written on the impulse of the moment, which humphrey sent to her. incredible that it should be dropped in the ordinary way into a pillar-box, to lie for hours with hundreds of other letters, to pass through many hands until it finally came into the hands of the postman at battersea park, who delivered it, without any emotion, with a score of bills and receipts and circulars. well, it was done, and, while humphrey was waiting for his work in the reporters' room of _the day_, lilian's mind was busy with the new development of affairs. now, she could review everything calmly, she felt in her heart that humphrey was right, but there was the sense of wounded pride with her. he had thrown her over! he did not even ask her to wait for him--yes! she would have waited--he was hasty to unburden himself and win his freedom again. yet she knew that she could not wait--she was older than he--she would be too old in ten years' time. the flower of her life would be full for a few years, and then she knew he would see that her glory was waning.... all this was no surprise to her. instinctively she seemed to have known that this would be the outcome of her love affair. strange! how she accepted it without any more demur than the natural outburst of tears--and what were those tears, after all, but tears of self-pity, as she looked upon herself and saw that she was poor and patient and loveless? they met in that same italian restaurant in the strand to which humphrey had first taken her on that day, months ago, when the glamour was upon him. the proprietor knew them for more or less regular customers, and they always had the upstairs room, which was invariably empty. this dreadful business of the waiter taking his hat and stick, setting the table in order, offering the menus, and recommending things, with a greasy smile, and knowing, dark eyes! they had to mask their feelings, and to play the old part, and pretend that they were going to have lunch. she noticed that humphrey's face was pale, the lines about his mouth less soft than usual. his eyes were strained, and he looked at her wistfully, not quite sure of his ground, wondering whether there would be a scene. she could read him thoroughly. she knew that he really felt mean and uncomfortable, that she had but to use her woman-wit to recapture him at once--snare him so completely that never could he escape again. she knew that the very sight of her weakened him in his resolve, a kiss on the lips, and her fingers stroking his hair and face, he was hers, and the world well lost for him. but that was not lilian's way. a strange, deep feeling of pity was in her heart as she marked the pallor of his face. she would have mothered him, but never cajoled him. "he is only a boy," she thought sorrowfully, "with a boy's destructiveness. this, that he thinks is an overwhelming tragedy, will be only a mere incident in a few years' time." and she smiled at her thoughts. her smile awoke only the faintest echoes of dying memories within him: her smile that had once thrilled him, and sent his heart beating faster, and made his throat so curiously parched--incredible that such things had happened once! "you are not angry," he said, timidly, with a touch of tragedy in his voice. "angry?" she echoed. (he feared she was going to make light of the whole affair, and trembled at the idea of her mocking him: he might have known that that also was not lilian's way.) "angry," she repeated. "no, humphrey. i'm not angry." "there's no excuse," he began, hopelessly, "i've got nothing to say for myself.... it seems to me ... it seems best that it should be ... for both of us, i mean." "i think it's better for me," she said, softly. "there's no good making a tragedy of it. things always turn out for the best." he fidgeted uneasily. "i was thinking it over last night.... oh, my head aches with thinking.... you see, what can we do, if we married. everything's up against us ... it's all fighting and risks, and uncertainty. i don't mind for myself" (and humphrey really believed this, for the moment), "it's you that i'm thinking of ... it wouldn't be fair. i could ask you to wait ..." he did not finish. now, really, humphrey's arrogance must be taught a lesson. behold, lilian gathering her forces together to crush him--ask her to wait, indeed! as if he were her last chance. and then something in his eyes checked her, something wistful and intensely pathetic. splendidly, lilian spared him. he was so easy to crush ... perhaps she still liked him a little, in spite of everything. "no," she said. "there's no need to do that. we'll each go our own ways." the waiter, after discreet knocking at the door, came between them with plates of food and clatter of knives and forks. they regarded him silently, and when he was gone, they made a feeble pretence of eating. "i ought to have known better," she said, returning to the business again with a wry smile. "i ought to have known it couldn't have lasted." "it isn't that i love you any the less," he said, unconsciously quoting a phrase in his letter. "i don't know how to explain my attitude.... i love you just the same ... but, somehow...." "don't, don't explain," she interrupted. "i understand. of course it's impossible if you think like that. and, of course, humphrey, there's no need to talk of love...." she laughed a little, and then, really, she could not spare him any more. "oh, what a boy you are!" he flushed hotly. "i know you've always looked upon me as a boy," he said. "you think i'm a child ... but it takes a man to do what i'm doing ... it takes courage to face it out ... it hurts." "oh, you _are_ a boy," she said, with a little hysterical laugh. "of course you're only a boy." she pushed her plate away from her. "don't you see what you've done--you've broken up everything." and she put her head on her arms outstretched on the table, and sobbed and sobbed again. he watched her shoulders tremble with her sobs, and heard her accusing words repeat themselves in a pitiful refrain in his ears. at that moment he touched, it seemed, the lowest depths of meanness. he felt awkward and foolish.... she was crying, and he could do nothing. "lilian ... lilian," he pleaded, touching her hand that was flat on the table. "don't--i didn't mean to." heavens! if she did not stop, he would snatch her to him, and kiss her hotly, and let ferrol and the world and all its success go by him for ever. the waiter saved the situation. his knock came as a warning, and when he entered the room with more plates and a greasier smile, he found the lady at the window flinging it open widely and complaining of the heat, the gentleman looking moodily before him, and the food barely touched. "you no like the fricassee, sare?" he said, turning the rejected food with his fork. "it's all right," humphrey said, in a voice that the waiter knew to mean "get out." "no appetite to-day." lilian turned from the window, as the door closed behind him. her eyes and lips were struggling for mastery over her emotions, and the lips conquered with a wan, watery smile. she placed her hand on humphrey's shoulder. "there," she said, wiping her eyes, destroying the tension with a prosy sniff. "it's all over--i didn't mean to be so silly." the miserable meal went on in silence. there was nothing more to be said. he was thinking of all this pitiful love-affair of his, how it ran unevenly through the fabric of work and hopes, beginning at first with a brilliant pattern--a splash of the golden sunrise--and gradually becoming worn, until now all the threads were twisted and frayed. after this, they would part, never to meet again on the old terms, never to recapture the thrill of early love. odd, how she who had lain so close to his heart, enfolded in his arms, would have to pass him in the street henceforth, perhaps with only a nod, perhaps without any recognition at all. and nobody would know, nobody would guess of their shipwrecked love. "i'm glad i never told mother," she said once, voicing her thoughts. she took a little package from her pocket: it held the few trinkets he had given her, wrapped up in tissue-paper--a brooch or two, a thin gold necklace with a heart dangling from it, and his own signet ring. "no ... no ..." he said; "for god's sake, keep those. i should be happier if you kept them." she shook her head gently. "i could not keep them," she said. "they were little tokens of your love ... they belong to you now." there was a pause. the clock chimed two. the disillusion was complete, all the fine draperies of love had been wrenched away--they were so flimsy after all--and behind them reality stood, sordid and ashamed. she tried to strike a note of cheerful fatalism. "well, what must be, must be," she said, reaching for her cloak. he sprang to his feet to help her, remembering how, in other days, his hand had touched her cheek, and he had urged her lips towards him, that he might kiss her. how calm and self-possessed she was now. how magnificently she mastered the situation--a false move from her and the moments would become chaotic. he was uneasy, awkward and embarrassed ... one moment, ready to snatch her to his arms and begin all over again; the next, alertly conscious that he was unencumbered, that henceforth there was no other interest in his life but work--free! now she was ready to go. "i won't come down with you," he said, "i'll say good-bye now." he could not face a parting in the street. he watched her gather her things together, her bag, her umbrella, her gloves ... she smiled at him, and now the smile was a riddle: he could not guess her thoughts: contempt or pity? suddenly she bent down towards him, stooped over him, with her face aglow with a divine expression, virginal and tender, the light of sacrifice in her eyes, the sweet pain of martyrdom on her lips; she bent towards him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "good-bye, humphie dear." she had never spoken with a voice like that before, she had never shown how much she loved him, and all the misunderstandings, the torment, the doubts and uncertainties were washed away as his thoughts gushed forth in a great appreciation of his loss. the next moment she had gone. he was alone in the room, with her good-bye ringing in his ears. idly he fingered a little packet of tissue-paper, opening it and laying bare the little pieces of metal that were all that remained to him of his love. he touched the presents that he had given to lilian--each one held memories for him.... the gold signet ring had belonged to his father.... if only daniel quain had been there, with his world-wisdom and philosophy.... tears, humphrey? surely, not tears! think how splendidly free you are now; think of the moment of triumph when you can go to ferrol and tell him that you are no longer hampered; see how straight the path that leads to conquest. xiv that night, in a little box of a flat in hampstead, a man was fighting his last battle, with the fingers of death at his throat and the arm of love for his support. it was a sharp, short battle, ended when the night itself finished, and the dawn came through the chinks in the shutters, as pale and as cold as a ghost. this was the end of leonard wratten, whom so few people understood, who had always kept his own counsel, so that only he himself knew of his own struggles and ambitions--they were just like humphrey's, just like those of every other man in the street. he had not asked much of life, and all that he asked for was given him, and then snatched away. they talked about it in the pen club, and in the offices. "overwork," they whispered. "he was just married." ferrol rose to the occasion: wrote handsome cheques for mrs wratten, straightened out affairs, sent her flowers, arranged for her to take a sea-cruise ... did all that he possibly could, except bring leonard wratten striding back to life again. but there was one in fleet street who followed the coffin to the cemetery, who seemed to feel that he alone had understood wratten. ("it's always the best fellows that are taken," they said, when he was gone, as they say of every one.) and, as he came away from the cemetery in the sunshine when the coffin had been lowered into the grave, and scattered with lilies, he knew that he had lost friendship inestimable, for it had not had time fully to develop and ripen. wratten's death, and the break with lilian, came hard upon each other: he felt that the roots of his life were stirred, two influences of such potent possibilities had gone from him. he knew that a phase of his life was closed. part iii elizabeth i the pen club stands far away from clubland up a narrow court that leads from fleet street, into the maze of the little streets and courts that finally emerge on holborn. it is the hidden core of newspaper land. it lurks behind the newspaper offices with discreet ground-glass windows, unpretentious, and obscurely peaceful. no porter in brass-buttoned uniform guards its doors--indeed, it has but one, and that a door with a lustrous, black-glass panel, with a golden message of "members only" lettered upon it. strangers and messengers are requested to tap gently on the window of a little pigeon-hole at the side. oliver goldsmith once lived in the house that is now the pen club; dr johnson lived a few courts away, and strode down fleet street to the "cheshire cheese," little dreaming that americans would follow in his footsteps as pilgrims to a shrine. its courts have had their place in the history of our letters, but all that is past, for journalism affects a contempt for literature, and literature walks by with a high head. if you want literature, and art, and high-thinking, you must go further west, along the strand, where you may find a club that still clings to the traditions of bohemia: but if you want to meet good fellows, jolly, generous, foolish men, wise as patriarchs in some things, and like children in others, then you must join the pen club. all around it are the flourishing signs of the journalists' trade. here a process-block maker; there a lesser news agency; round the corner a large printing works, and almost opposite it the vibrating basements of _the day_. you can see the props of the scenery--take a stroll through the courts, and you see the back-doors of all those proud newspaper offices, great rolls of paper being hoisted up for to-morrow's issue, dismal wagons piled high with yesterday's papers, tied up in bundles, "returns"; unsold papers that will be taken back to the paper-mills and pulped: food for the philosopher here! humphrey quain joined the pen club when he had been three years in fleet street. it was willoughby, the crime enthusiast of _the day_, who put his name down; jamieson, the dramatic critic, seconded him. two years had made very little outward difference in humphrey. he had perhaps grown an inch, and his shoulders broadened in proportion, but his face was the same frank, boyish face that had gazed open-mouthed in fleet street on that january day. yet there was some slight change in the expression of the eyes; they had become charged with an eager, expectant look; observation had trained them to an alertness and a strained directness of gaze. inwardly, too, the change in him was imperceptible. he had lost a little of that cocksure way of his, and acquired, by constant mingling with men older than himself, a point of view and an understanding above his years. in worldly knowledge he had advanced with large and sudden strides: some call it vice and some call it experience. a young man, thrust into the whirlpool of london, finds it difficult to avoid such experience, and so humphrey had allowed himself to be tossed hither and thither with the underswirl of it all, learning deeper lessons than any man can teach. he had come out of this period with a sense of something lost, yet never regretting its loss. sometimes a bitter spasm of shame would overtake him when he thought of the sordid memories he was accumulating. he could have wished it all undone, and he looked back on the humphrey quain of easterham, and saw himself singularly unsmirched, and innocent--knowing nothing, absolutely nothing. after all, he thought, was this knowledge? does all this go towards the making of a man, as the steel is tempered by the fire? humphrey did not know ... he took all that life offered him: the good and the bad, the folly with the wisdom. that affair of his with lilian filmer was now nothing more than a memory. they had never spoken since their wretched meeting in the strand restaurant. it was strange, too, how rarely they had met, when in the old days scarcely a day seemed to pass without the sight of her in fleet street. she still worked in the special news agency office, and yet, during the two years that had passed since their parting, he had not seen her more than four or five times, and then only in the distance. once he found himself marching straight towards her in the crowd of the luncheon-hour walkers: panic seized him; he did not know what to do. she was walking proudly with the erect carriage of her body that he knew so well--and then, almost mysteriously, she had disappeared. perhaps she had seen him, and avoided a direct meeting by turning down a side street or by passing into a shop. for a year he always walked on the other side of the street during the luncheon hour. at the back of his mind she lived as vividly as she had lived in the days when she had been the most important factor in his existence. there were times when the thought of her rendered him uneasy; he felt he had not been true to himself, there was a reproachful blot on his escutcheon.... strange! how lasting his love had seemed that night when he had kissed her in the cab after the theatre. he could look back on it all now dispassionately. there had been progress in the office. his salary was now eight pounds a week. he remembered the day when he had gone to ferrol, and said, a little miserably, for the strain of the breaking with lilian pressed hardly on his heart in those days: "i've broken off my engagement." in these words he had dedicated himself to ferrol and _the day_. nothing more was said. ferrol nodded in a non-committal sort of way. a few weeks later humphrey was sent to the east coast on special work. he did well, and the increase in salary came to him at last. with this he lifted himself out of the old ruck of his life. the money opened up unbounded vistas of wealth and new possibilities to him. he decided to leave beaver and guilford street. beaver, as an influence, had served his turn in shaping humphrey's career. it was beaver who first showed him the way to london, and now, at odd intervals, beaver occurred and recurred across his vision, still biting his nails, and still with ink-splashed thumbs. no stress of ambition seemed to disturb beaver's placidity. he was content to plod on and on, day after day, a journalistic cart-horse, until he dropped dead in his collar. that was how it seemed to humphrey, who never credited beaver with any great aspirations, yet that shaggy man had a separate life of his own, with his own dreams, and his own aims, which one day were destined to touch the fringe of humphrey's life. humphrey took a small flat in clifford's inn, a place of sleep and peace and quiet then, as it is now, out of the noise of fleet street. it was a "flat" only by courtesy, for in reality it was made up of two rooms and a box-room. the larger was his sitting-room, and the smaller--a narrow, oblong room--he used as a sleeping apartment. very little light, and scarcely any air, came through the small latticed windows, but the rooms held a mediæval charm about them, and he was free for ever from the landladies and grubbiness of lodgings. he paid a pound a week for his rooms in clifford's inn. every evening when he was free in london, humphrey went to the pen club. the place had a fascination for him, which he could not shake off. one could not define this fascination, this influence which the club wielded over him. it grew on him gradually, until an evening spent without a visit to the club seemed empty and insufficient. there was nothing vicious about the club--it was just a meeting-place, where one could eat and drink. within its four walls there was peace unutterable; and the world stood still for you when you passed the threshold. other clubs have tape machines spitting out lengths of news: telegrams pasted on the walls; chairs full of old gentlemen reading newspapers with dutiful eagerness--the pen club was a place where you escaped from news, where nobody was interested in news as news, but merely in news as it stood in the relation to the doings of their friends. there was no excitement over a by-election, nobody cared who would get in on polling day; nobody thrilled over a revolution in a foreign state; mention of these things only served as a peg on which to hang discussions of personalities. "i expect williamson's having a nobby time in st petersburg," or "who's down at bodmin for _the herald_--carter?--i thought so. jolly good stuff in to-day." and when news did touch them, it touched them personally, and altered the tenor of their lives perhaps for many days. at any minute something would happen, and a half-dozen of them would be wanted at their different offices. they would just disappear from the club for a few days, and return to find that a fresh set of events had dwarfed their own experiences completely. they were never missed. a man might be absent in morocco for half-a-year, living through wild happenings, with his life hanging on a slender thread--a hero in the eyes of newspaper readers--but nobody in particular in the eyes of the pen club, where every one found his level in the fellowship of the pen. they came and went like shadows. humphrey found all types of journalists in the pen club--odd types off the beaten track of journalism, guarding their own cabbage-patch of news, and taking their wares to market daily. there was larkin, for instance, who took the railway platforms as his special province. he was a tall, thin man, with friendly eyes smiling behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. no duke or duchess could leave london by way of the railway termini without larkin knowing it. those paragraphs that appeared scattered about all the newspapers of london, telling of the departure of somebody and his wife to cairo or nice marked the trail of larkin's day across the london railway stations. then there was foyle, a chubby, red-faced man, with a jolly smile, who, by the unwritten law of fleet street, chronicled the fires that happened in the metropolis. a fire without foyle was an impossible thing to imagine. there was touche, who dealt only in marriages and engagements; and ford, who had made a corner for himself in the divorce courts; chate, who sat in the bankruptcy court; modgers, who specialized in recording the wills and last testaments of those who died; and vernham, lean, long-haired, and cadaverous, who was the fleet street authority on the weather. these men and others were the servants of all newspapers, and attached to none. in some cases their work had been handed down from father to son; they made snug incomes, and though they were servants of all, they were masters of themselves. and all these men were just like children out of school, when they met in the pen club: there was no grim seriousness about them--they kept all that for their work. they had insatiable appetites for stories, for reminiscences of their craft. they knew how to laugh. it was well that they did, for, if they had taken themselves seriously, they would never have been able to face the caricatures of themselves which hung on the walls. these caricatures, drawn by a cartoonist on one of the dailies, were things of shuddering satire: they were cruelly true, grotesque parodies of faces and mouths, legs and arms. if you wanted to know the truth of a member, all you had to do was to consult the wall, and there you saw the man's character grimacing at you in colours. * * * * * humphrey had been away from london for a week, and he came back to find the club seething with excitement. the moment he crossed the threshold he was aware of something abnormal in the life of the club. it was the last night of the club elections for the committee--a riotous affair as a rule. all round the room there was the chatter and buzz of members discussing the new spirit in the club. as member after member dropped in, the excitement grew. it was a historic election. for the first time the youngest members of the club had been nominated to stand on the committee. the older members, the men who had watched the pen club grow from one room in the second floor of a house to two whole houses knocked into one, looked on a little sorrowfully. they had not become accustomed to the new spirit in the club. among themselves, they said the club was going to the dogs. these young men were making a travesty of the whole business. they had no reverence for traditions. after all, the election of a chairman and a committee was a grave affair. it was amazing how seriously they took themselves. presently chander appeared selling copies of _the club mosquito_, a journal produced specially for the occasion, which stung members in the weakest spots of their personalities. there were caricatures and portraits of all the "young members" who were going to save the club, as they put it, from the moss and cobwebs of old age. really, these young men were very ruthless. they invented election songs, and they sang boisterously:-- "we're going to vote all night, we're going to vote all day." privileged sub-editors, dropping in for a half-hour from their offices, found themselves caught up on the tempest of exhilaration. "hallo, here's leman--have you voted yet, leman?" and a paper would be fetched and leman would be made to put a cross against thirteen names, with thirteen people urging him to have a drink. bribery and corruption! humphrey abandoned himself to the merriment of the evening. he constituted himself willoughby's election-agent, and canvassed for votes with shameless disregard for the corrupt practices act. sharp, the sporting journalist, was busy making a book on the result. that eminent war-correspondent, bertram wace, issued a manifesto, demanding to know why he should not be chairman. the price of _the club mosquito_ rose to a shilling a copy when it was known that all the proceeds were to go to the newspaper press fund. humphrey found himself left alone with the excitement eddying all round him. he was able to survey the scene with an air of detached interest. it reminded him of his school-days: all these men were young of heart, with the generous impulses of boys; they had the spirit of eternal youth--the one reward which men of their temperament are able to wrest from life. he saw willoughby, with his black hair in a disordered tangle over his eyes, joining in the war-song of the young members. as he looked at all these men, chattering, laughing, grouped together here and there where some one was telling an entertaining story, he saw the smiling aspect of fleet street, the siren, luring the adventurous stranger to her, with laughter and opulent promise. to-morrow they would all begin their nervous work again, struggling to secure a firm foothold in the niches of the street, when a false move, a mistake, would bring disaster with it; but they thought nothing of to-morrow; they lived in a life of to-days.... he saw tommy pride come into the club. two years had left their mark on tommy's face. new reporters had appeared in the street, and somehow tommy found himself marking time, while the army of younger men pressed forward and passed him. he could not complain; he felt that if he asserted himself, rivers or neckinger would tell him bluntly that they were cutting down the staff--the dreadful, unanswerable excuse for dismissal. he knew that his mind was less supple than it was years ago; the stress and the bitterness of competition was sterner now than in those days when they posted assignments overnight. so, too, his pen went more slowly, finding each day increasing the difficulty of grappling with new methods. tommy pride had lived in to-day, and now to-morrow was upon him. "stopping for the declaration of the poll, pride?" asked humphrey. "not me," said tommy, picking a bundle of letters from his pigeon-hole. "i've had a late turn to-night and the missis will be sitting up." "well, what about a drink?" tommy shrugged his shoulders wearily. "oh--a whisky and soda," he said. "what a row these fellows are making." willoughby attacked him with a voting paper, and humphrey noticed how pride's hand--the hand that had written millions of words--trembled as he made crosses against the names. it was as if each finger were attached to thin wires; it reminded humphrey of those toy tortoises from japan, that danced and shook in a little glass case. and he thought: "will my hand be like that one day?" the torrent of talk flowed all round him; gusts of boisterous laughter marked the close of a funny story. in all the stories there was a note of egotism. he saw, suddenly, why these men were not as other men. they were profound egotists, they lived each day by the assertion of their own individuality. the stronger the individuality of the man, the greater his chance of success. and these men, he saw, though they all worked in a common school, were absolutely different from one another. they were different, even, in breeding: there were men whose voice and pose could only have been acquired at one of the 'varsities; there were men who lacked the refinements of speech; keen, eager men, and men whose eyes had lost their lustre, who seemed weary with work; mere boys, self-assertive and confident with the wisdom of men of the world, and older men with grey heads and bald heads. they surged about him, and came and went, in twos and threes, some of them departing to their homes in the suburbs, north and south, whither trains ran into the early hours of the morning. humphrey had been long enough in fleet street to know them all: if you could have taken the personalities of these men and blended them together, the composite result would have closely resembled the personality of tommy pride--who was now drinking his second glass of whisky. they were men of tremendously active brains--not one of them but had an idea for a new paper that was worth a fortune if only the capital could be procured--and all of them longed intensely for that cottage in the country after the storm and stress of fleet street; they could not talk seriously without being cynical, for though they saw the real side of life, the pompous make-believe of the rest left them without any illusions. "better wait for the result now," humphrey said to tommy. "it'll be out in a few minutes." "all right," said tommy, glancing at the clock. "green's offered me a lift in his cab. have a drink, quain. i had the hump when i came in--feel better now." they all trooped upstairs, where the young members were making discordant noises. they sang new and improvised quatrains. you would have thought that not a care in the world could exist within those cheerful walls. there was a shout of "here they are." the vote-counters came into the room. one of them they hailed affectionately as "grandpa." humphrey had seen him before, walking about fleet street, with his silver beard and black slouch hat set on his white hair, but to-night he felt strangely moved, as the old man came into the room, smiling to the cheers. what was it? some association of ideas passed through his mind, some linking up of ferrol, young, powerful, master of so many destinies, with the picture before his eyes.... these thoughts were overwhelmed with a tumult of shouting. the old man was reading out the names of the members of the new committee. the young members had won. "come on," said tommy pride, "let's get off before the rush." as they passed out of the club into the cool air of the night, tommy suddenly recollected green and his offer of a cab. "oh, never mind," he said; "can you lend me four bob for the cab; i'm rather short." humphrey passed the money to him, and, drawn by the jingle of the coin, as a moth is to candle, a man lurched out of the shadows of the court. the gas-light fell on the unshaven face of the man, and made his eyes blink feebly: it showed the pitiful, shabby clothes that garbed the swaying figure. "hullo, tommy," said the man. he smiled weakly not sure of his ground. "good god!" said tommy. eagerness now came into the man's face; a terrible eagerness, as if everything depended on his being able to compress his story into as few words as possible, before tommy went. there was no beating about the bush. "i say, old man, lend me a bob, will you?... didn't you know?... oh, i left two years ago.... nothing doing.... yes, i know i'm a fool.... honest, this is for food.... remember that time we had up in chatsworth, when the duke...? seen anything more of that fellow we met in portsmouth on the royal visit?... what was his name?... can't remember it ... never mind, i say, old man, _can_ you spare a bob?" tommy passed him one of the shillings he had just borrowed from humphrey. "why don't you pull up," he said; "you can do good stuff if you want to." "pull up!" said the man. "course i can do good stuff. i can do the best stuff in fleet street.... remember that story i wrote about...." there was something intensely tragic in this sudden kindling of the old, egotistical flame in the burnt-out ruin of a man. the cringing attitude left him when he spoke of his work. "well, you'd better get home..." tommy said. "what's the missis doing?" "she's trying to make a little by typewriting now.... thanks for the bob...." he shambled down the court towards gough square. "so long." his footsteps grew fainter, until the last echoes of them died away. tommy pride came out with humphrey into fleet street. there came to them, as it comes only to those who work in the street, the fascination of its night. the coloured omnibuses, and the cabs, and the busy crowds of people had left it long ago, and the lamps were like a yellow necklace strung into the darkness. eastwards, doubly steep in its vacancy, ludgate hill rose under the silent railway bridge to st paul's; westwards, the griffin, the dark towers of the law courts, and the island churches loomed uncertainly against the starless sky. the lights shone in the high windows of offices about them, and they caught glimpses of men smoking pipes, working in their shirt-sleeves--liverpool, manchester, sheffield, leeds, were waiting for their news. the carts darted up and down the street with loads of newspapers for the trains. there was a noise of moving machinery. a ragged, homeless man slouched wretchedly along the street, his eyes downcast, mumbling his misery to himself. two men in grimy clothes were delving down into the bowels of the roadway, and dragging up gross loads of black slime. they worked silently, seeing nothing of the loathsomeness of their work. over all, above even the noise of the machinery, there came the cleansing sound of swiftly running water, as the street-cleaners, with streaming hoses, swept the dust and the muck and the rubble of the day into the torrents of the gutter. ii humphrey took rooms in clifford's inn, because that was where kenneth carr lived. the two came together, though their natures were opposite, and their friendship had ripened. carr was an ascetic, denying himself most of the ordinary pleasures of life, sacrificing himself to the work of his heart; his mind was calm, with a spiritual beauty; he was a man of singularly high ideals. this contrast with humphrey's frank materialism, his love of pleasure and lack of any deep, spiritual feeling, seemed only to draw their friendship closer. then there was the memory of wratten. they often talked together of him, and, as for humphrey, he never found himself face to face with a difficult piece of reporting without imagining what wratten would have done. most people in fleet street had forgotten him long ago, but on humphrey's mind he had left an indelible impression. "i wonder what it was about wratten that makes us remember him still," humphrey said one day. "i had only known him a few months." "i don't know," kenneth said. "it's like that, i've noticed. sometimes a man, out of all the others you meet, comes forward, and you feel instantly, 'this man is worth having as a friend.' the charm of wratten was that there were two wrattens: one, the glum, churlish man, with whom nobody could get on, and the other, the self-revealing wratten we knew." they smoked in silence. presently kenneth threw his cigarette into the fireplace. "i suppose i'll have to get on with my book." "why don't you come out ... come to the club?" "not me, my son. i'm happier here. i want to get a chapter done." "what's the good of writing novels ... they don't pay, do they?" "pay! they pay you for every hour you spend over them," said kenneth. "i should go brooding mad if i couldn't sit down for an hour or so every night and do what i like with my people. the unhappiest moments of my life were when, to oblige elizabeth, i gave up novel-writing for a time, and took to poverty statistics." humphrey glanced up at the mantelpiece. a portrait of elizabeth carr was there, in a silver frame, set haphazard among the litter of masculine knick-knacks--ash-trays, a cigarette-box and a few old pipes. it was a portrait that had always attracted humphrey; the sun had caught the depth of her eyes and the shadows about her throat. he was never in the room without being conscious of that portrait, and often, when he was not thinking of her at all, he would find himself looking upwards at the silver frame to see, confronting him, the eyes of elizabeth carr. she, herself, never seemed to be quite like the photograph. she came, sometimes, to see kenneth, and, at rare intervals, humphrey's visits coincided with hers. she did not live with her brother. she was more fortunate than he, because she had been left an income which was large enough for all her wants. she had always wished to help kenneth with a small allowance, but he declared he would not touch a penny of her money. "i'll fight my own battles," he said. there was something in her attitude towards humphrey--a vague, impalpable something--that left him always uneasy; perhaps it was a subtle display of deference--he could not define it, but he felt that she was comparing him, in her mind, with kenneth, and that he was worsted in the comparison. she would move about in the little room, preparing tea for them, her presence bringing an oddly domestic air into the rooms, and humphrey would help her, and she would be jolly and laugh when he was clumsy, but all the time it was as if she were holding him away from her with invisible hands. and, when he looked at her photograph, he saw behind the clear beauty of the face, with its smile of tenderness and large eyes that never left him, an elizabeth carr divinely meek ... utterly unlike the elizabeth carr he knew, who carried herself with such graceful pride and seemed so far above him. he took up the portrait for a moment. "she hasn't been here lately?" he said. "who?" asked kenneth, at his writing-table. "your sister ... you were speaking about the statistics you did for her." "oh? elizabeth. no. she's been pretty busy with her work." "slumming, eh?" "that's about it. i don't know half her schemes. wonderful girl, elizabeth. now i come to think of it, i've got to go down to epping forest to-morrow. some bean-feast she's giving to a thousand slum kids. there's sure to be a ticket in your office, why don't you ask to do it?" "i will," said humphrey. "a day's fresh air in the forest would do me good." and he did. things happened to be slack that day in fleet street, and rivers thought there would be plenty of human interest in the story, "though, of course, it's a chestnut," so that was how humphrey found himself on the platform at loughton station an hour later. the morning was rich with the warmth and colour of june. the clear fresh smell of the country was all about him. the scent of the flowers, the sight of the green fields dappled with the yellow and white of kingcup and daisy, the pale sky above him with the sun beating down from the cloudless blue, called him back to easterham, and the life that now seemed centuries away. throughout all the comings and goings of years, throughout the change, and the unrest of men and women, the old cathedral close would be unaltered. the rooks would still clamour and circle about the beeches, and the ivy would grow more thickly. looking back on easterham, now on the odd market-place, and on the streets that wandered out to the hedgerows and meadow-lands towards the new forest, he looked back on a picture of infinite peace. a bird's song and the croon of bees as they swung in their flower-cradles; a horse galloping freely in a field, and cattle browsing in the sunshine--were not all these of more worth than anything else in life? unnoticed, he had relinquished everything to fleet street. the poison of its promise had drugged him. he could appreciate nothing outside its narrow area ... news! news! and the talking of news; fifty steps round to the pen club, and fifty steps back to the office; all the day spent in that world of bricks and mortar, which had once seemed so vast, and was now to him nothing more than a very much magnified easterham. he had not even sought out london. he remembered regretfully the evening of his first ride with beaver, through the crowded streets to shepherd's bush, when he had promised himself nights and days of enchantment in the new wonder of london. and the wonder was still unexplored. as it was with london, so it was with everything. his acquaintance and knowledge was superficial. there was no time for deep study, and the past could not live with the present hammering at its doors urgently day after day. just so, too, with the cities in every part of england. he had travelled much, but he came away from every place taking with him only the knowledge of the whereabouts of the hotel, the post-office and the railway station. a sense of waste filled him; he saw behind him the years, crowded with events, so crowded with movement that he could retain nothing of their activity. and he saw before him a repetition of this, year after year, and again year after year, a long avenue of waiting years, through which he passed, looking ever forward, seeing nothing, remembering nothing, and coming through them all empty-handed, unless.... unless what? he saw the impasse waiting for him. what was there to be done to avoid it? he might rise to the highest point in reporting--climb up laboriously, only to find at the top of the ladder that others were climbing up after him to force him down the steps on the other side. kenneth carr was rescuing the flotsam of the years. these books of his, though they brought little money, were something permanent; they were the witnesses of endeavour; they remained as things achieved out of the reckless squandering of the hours. and humphrey knew that for him there would be nothing left except the dead files of _the day_, nothing more profitable than that, a brain worked out, weak eyes and a trembling hand. yes, and as he looked about him on the glory of the country, and heard the breeze making a sea-noise among the trees, he felt that there was something everlasting here, if he could only grasp it. he could not explain it. he only knew that looking upwards into the lucent depths of the green leaves of a tree, and catching now and again the glimpse of the blue sky beyond, seemed to remove the oppression that weighed his soul, and release his mind from perplexity. he smiled. the old phrase came echoing back to him. "two pounds a week and a cottage in the country," he thought. eternal, pitiful, unfulfilled desire. the whistle of the approaching train woke him from his thoughts. "i'm an ass," he said to himself. "i couldn't live a day without being in the thick of it." he walked back to the station, just in time to see the train coming round the bend of the platform, giving a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs and eager faces at the windows. the stillness of the station was suddenly shattered into a thousand noisy pieces. the children tumbled over one another in their haste to be the first to see all that there was to see. there was a mighty sound of shrill voices, chattering, laughing, and calling to one another: a confused picture of pallid-faced children, darting from group to group, seeking their child-friends, and arranging themselves in marching order. the teachers herded them together like hens marshalling their elusive brood. humphrey surveyed the scene with an eye trained to the observation of detail. he saw the painful cleanliness of the children, as though they had been scrubbed and washed for days before their outing. he saw behind the neatness of the pink ribbon and the mended boots, a vision of faded mothers, fumbling with hands shrivelled by laundry work, or fingers ragged with sewing, at these parting touches of pathetic finery. and, behind the vision of the mothers, he saw that whole sordid underworld hung round the neck of civilization.... these children, pinched and haggard, were left to live in the breathless slums, with only charity to help them. the state made laws for them: but there was no law to make them grow up otherwise than the generation of neglect which produced them. they were too young to know the difference between happiness and misery. they could only sing and march away, an army of rags and patched neatness, because for one whole day their young limbs were to have the freedom of the country. they thought of that one day, and not of the other three hundred and sixty-four days of squalor and want. "hullo--here you are, then," kenneth carr appeared out of the crowd of children. "seen elizabeth--i've lost her." humphrey looked along the platform, and he saw elizabeth carr bending down and talking to a little girl. she looked tall and beautiful, among all the harsh ugliness for which these children stood. her figure, as she stooped to the little ones, seemed to shine with grace and merciful pity. she saw humphrey, and nodded to him, as he raised his hat. then she came up leading the child. "look," she said, and though her eyes were lit with anger, her voice was gentle. "look at this child's dress--and the father's earning thirty shillings a week." humphrey looked. the child was dressed grotesquely, so grotesquely that it appealed more to the sense of the ludicrous than to the sense of pity. her main garment was an absurd black cape sparkling with sequins, that undoubtedly belonged to her mother's cloak; it reached to below the child's knees. beneath this was a tattered muslin blouse of an uncertain, faded colour, and beneath that--nothing. elizabeth lifted the cape a little and showed undergarments made of string sacking. the child had neither shoes nor stockings. "isn't it a shame!" she cried, sending the child to join the rest. "doesn't it revolt you?" "poverty!" said humphrey. "what can one do?" "do!" retorted elizabeth. "what's the good of having compulsory education, if you don't have compulsory clothing. i know the parents of that child. they could dress that child if they wanted to. oh," and she clenched her fists, "it makes me feel so helpless." they talked about it on the way to the forest, as they followed in the wake of the children. "the wicked folly and the shame of it," she said. "does nobody realize the ruin and wreckage that belongs to big cities? thousands on thousands of lives ended before they began. the parents don't know, and won't know. "and what becomes of those who live? these children here will go through their school-days, and then--what? a small percentage of them may get on, the rest will become casual labourers, dock-hands, and loafers." they passed a long, ill-clad youth lounging along the road. his face was brutally coarse, and he walked with a slouch. "there's one of them," elizabeth went on. "now, i know that boy: he used to come to these outings three years ago. he's left school now, and he has tramped down from london for the sake of a meat-pie or a mug of tea. lots of them do that, you know," she said to humphrey. "he's never learnt a trade. of course, he learnt history and geography, and all that, and he got a place, i think, as an errand-boy. there's no interest in running errands--so he just loafs now; and he'll loaf on through life, until he's an old man, sleeping on the embankment, or on the benches on the bayswater side of the park. perhaps he'll have a few spells in prison--anyhow, he's doomed. lost. and so are nearly all these children here to-day." the strength of her convictions amazed humphrey. he had never heard elizabeth talk like this before. he wondered why she, so beautiful and frail, should mingle with the ugliness of life. when they came to the forest, and kenneth wandered off alone, she told him. "it's because behind all this sordidness there is something that is more than beauty--there are magnificent tragedies here, that make my throat dry. there are struggles to live of which nobody ever knows. and, sometimes, you know, when i come from one of my slums and stand by the theatres as they are emptying, and see the lighted motor-cars, and all these other women with jewels round their necks and in their ears, i want to laugh at the folly of it all. "they don't know ... they never can know, unless they go down to the depths, and look." humphrey was silent. "and nobody can do anything, you know, except this sort of thing. it's a poor enough thing to do, but it's something to know you're helping." "i think this work is noble," humphrey said. "oh no--not noble. it would be noble if we could do something lasting--something permanent." they were sitting now on the soft grass, and he looked sidewise at elizabeth carr, and saw the fine outline of her profile. there was great beauty in her face, in the delicate oval of her chin, in the shadows that played about her throat, showing soft and white above the low collar of lace. that low lace collar and unornamented dress gave to her a touch of demure simplicity. she had the fragrance of lavender: he could imagine her--(seeing her now, with her eyes and lips tender, and her hands meekly clasped in her lap)--standing in a room of chintz and chippendale, tending her bowl of pink roses by the latticed window opened to the sunshine. he sat by her absorbing her serenity; there was repose and rest in the unconscious pose of her body. he had suddenly found the elizabeth carr of the photograph on kenneth's mantelpiece: her presence seemed to bring him peace. the noise of the children rioting in their happiness made her smile. "come," she said, "let us go and join them." they walked across the open space in the forest, the soft grass yielding to their feet, and came upon the whole exulting landscape. on all sides of them the ragged little ones, released for a day from the barren prison-house of alley and by-way, ran and romped in the freedom of unfettered limbs, uttering shouts of triumph and gladness. this picture of merriment unchecked, cheered the heart with its bright movement. here was life, overflowing, bubbling, swirling in little eddies among the trees and undergrowth, running free over the green meadow-lands with all the chattering animation of childhood. out of the main stream they found strange types of children, odd-minded little things, full of cunning and mother-wit that they had learnt already, knowing the world's hand was against them. some of them clutched pennies in grimy fists: money saved in farthings for weeks in anticipation of this treat. others secreted about their person portions of the meat-pie which was given them for lunch. they would take this home as an earnest of altruism. impossible to forget the shadow of misery that overhung all their lives; impossible to see these ragged children, who had hopeless years before them, without realizing the mad folly and the waste of citizenship. splendid empire on which the sun never sets! will the historian of the future, discovering in the ruins of the british museum humphrey's account of that day in epping forest, place his finger on the yellow paper with its faded ink, and cry: "this is where the story of the decline and fall of britain begins." they went to see the children take their tea. they sat at long plank tables under the corrugated iron roof of the shed-like pavilion. the girls were in one vast room, the boys in another. their school-teachers rapped on the table, and the jabber and chatter faded away into a silence. then the voice of one of the school-masters started singing-- "praise god, from whom----" and the hymn was taken up by the voices, singing vociferously-- "praise god, from whom all blessings flow; praise him, all creatures here below; praise him above, ye heavenly host; praise father, son, and holy ghost." there was nothing half-hearted about it; they made a great clamour of their thanks, and their shrill treble made echoes within echoes against the iron roof and wooden walls of the room in which they sat. and humphrey, always the looker-on, saw the imperishable pathos of this and all that lay behind it, and for a moment he felt pity tug at his heart. then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he turned to elizabeth and saw that she was watching him. she laid a gloved hand on his sleeve for the fraction of a second; it was an impulsive, unconscious movement, the merest shadow of a caress. "i did not know you could feel like that," she said softly. iii in those days humphrey, trained in the school of experience, took his place in the ranks of fleet street, that very narrow community, where each man knows the value of his brother's work. he was being shaped in the mould. the characteristics of the journalist were more strongly marked in him than they had ever been. he was self-reliant and resourceful, he had acquired the magic faculty of making instant friendships; he had developed his personality, and there was about him a certain charm, a youthful ingenuousness of expression that stood him in good stead when he was at work. people liked humphrey; among his colleagues in the street, he was not great enough for jealousy, nor small enough to be ignored. he steered the middle course of popularity. he had been long enough now on _the day_ for ferrol to perceive his limitations. humphrey did not know--nobody knew--that ferrol from his red room was watching his work, noting each failure and each success, watching and weighing his value. and it was with something of regret that ferrol realized that in humphrey he had found not a genius, but merely a plodding conscientious worker, perhaps a little above the average. for, in spite of rivers, who found that genius and reporting do not go hand in hand, ferrol was always searching alertly for the miraculous writer whose style was individual; whose writing would be discussed in those broad circles where _the day_ was read. one sees ferrol hoping for that spark of genius to glow in humphrey, dreaming, whenever his thoughts took him back, of days now so dim that they seem never to have existed, and faced only with disappointment. up to a certain point he could make humphrey--but no further. perhaps, after all, the boy might show his worth in work of broader scope.... ferrol plans, and plans, rearranging the men in his employ, moving a man here, and a man there, a god with life for a chessboard and human lives as the men.... one sees humphrey, young and vigorous, doing his daily work.... it was an extraordinary life, full of uncertainties and sudden surprises ... a life of never-ending energy, with little rest even in sleep, for into his dreams there crept all the tangle of the day's happenings. disaster swept all round him, but he seemed to be lifted above all evil by the magic of his calling. the king can do no wrong: no journalist ever seemed to be hit by the hazards of life. murders, the collapse of houses, railway smashes, roofs falling in and burying people in the rubble, shipwrecks and terrible fires.... humphrey was always on the spot, sooner or later, with a dozen others of the craft.... he was outside the range of the things that really mattered. politics and the problems that touched deeply the lives of the people did not come his way. they fell into the hands of the lobby correspondent, the man in the press gallery of the house, or the sociological writers who stood somewhat aloof from the routine of the street. but, on the whole, the life was glorious, in spite of its bitter moments. "i shall have to chuck it, you know," kenneth carr said, one day. "this life is too awful: it's the system that's wrong, there is no system." that was kenneth's point of view. of course there was no system. is there any system in life? "we're all sick men, in fleet street," sighed kenneth. "we're sick and we're growing old. our nerves are broken with the continual movement and unrest. there's no time allowance made for our stomachs: i tell you, we're all sick men in fleet street, brain, nerve and stomach." at such times, humphrey would laugh and defend the street and its work, just to cheer kenneth up. "don't you go and drop out," he urged. "i shall be left without a friend." the next day they met each other on the platform at paddington. there was to be a royal week in windsor. a foreign monarch had come to england. "well, what do you think of the life to-day?" humphrey asked. "oh, it's all right," kenneth laughed. "i suppose i wanted a little fresh air and sunshine.... i shall get it in the forest." iv he was reading a letter in the bold, firm handwriting of elizabeth carr. "dear mr quain," she wrote, "i don't think i ever thanked you for the article you wrote of our day in the forest with the children. i asked kenneth to tell you how glad i was, but i expect he forgot all about it. i think your article was most _sympathetic_, though i wish you hadn't made quite so much of that unfortunate child who was dressed so grotesquely. i will tell you what i mean when i see you, for i am writing to know if you can come to dinner here. i'm sorry kenneth won't be able to come--he's away in lancashire on that dreadful strike. thank heaven--he'll be leaving it all soon." there was a postscript. "of course, i know the nature of your work will not let you say 'yes' definitely, but i've made the day saturday, on purpose to give you a chance. and if i don't have a wire from you, i shall expect you." it was quite a month since he had spent that day in loughton with elizabeth carr, and though he could not name offhand the things he had done since then, day by day, that day and its incidents remained sharply defined in his memory. had he really taken more than usual care to write his account of their doings? or, was it that the vision of her, and the recollection of her earnest eyes, inspired him to better work? or, had there been nothing very special about the story after all, and was her letter merely a courtesy? the fact remained that he was flattered to receive the letter with its invitation. kenneth had certainly forgotten to deliver her message. he looked upon it as something of a triumph for him: very patiently he had waited for a word from elizabeth carr. there was that extraordinary remark of hers when he had watched the children sing their grace. he had asked her what she meant by it, and she had declined to say. he had felt humiliated by her words: did she imagine that he had no heart at all? she seemed to think that because he was a reporter on a halfpenny paper, he must be absolutely callous. he re-read the letter. she was curiously captious. she seemed ready to take offence now because he had made a "story" out of that wretched child clad in its mother's cape and bedraggled blouse. well, of course, she wasn't a journalist. she couldn't be expected to see human interest from the same point of view as _the day_. he wrote, accepting her invitation provisionally. in the days that followed, thoughts of elizabeth carr recurred with disturbing persistency. he recalled the odd way in which she had come into his life: first at that evening at the wrattens, when lilian filmer had been his foremost thought, then, intermittently, at kenneth carr's, something unusually antagonistic in her attitude to him; and now she had come into the heart of his work, bringing with her a touch of intimacy. she, who had always averted herself from him, was now asking him to be her guest. she, who had always seemed to ignore him, was, of a sudden, extending towards him tentacles of influence, vague and shadowy; he was uneasily aware of their presence. he read her letter several times before the saturday came--the gentle perfume of it reminded him of her own fragrance. he was sensitive to praise and appreciation, and he dwelt often on those words which spoke of his work. it was pleasant to know that he had at last shown elizabeth carr what he could do. she was, he knew, judging him always by kenneth's standard, in life as well as writing, and of course every one knew that kenneth's ideals were high, that his writing was brilliant.... so kenneth was going to leave fleet street. it was the first that humphrey had heard of it. "i shall have to chuck it," kenneth had said, and he was going to keep his word. he contemplated the prospect with melancholy. kenneth was a good friend; his departure would leave an intolerable gap in london life. the chats and the evening meetings would be gone.... they would pass out of each other's daily life.... thus saturday came, and humphrey found himself free to carry out his acceptance of elizabeth's invitation. humphrey had always imagined that elizabeth lived in a flat with some woman-friend: he was surprised when he found the address led to a little white house, one of a row of such houses, in a broad, peaceful road at the back of kensington high street. it was one of those houses that must have been built when kensington was a village; it was like a cottage in the heart of london. the virginian creeper made its drapery of green over the trellis-work that framed the window, and the walls were green with ivy. an elderly woman opened the door to his knock, and he found himself in a low-ceilinged hall, with a few black-and-white drawings on the walls, and a reproduction of whistler's nocturne. he was ushered into the sitting-room. even if he had not known that it was her house, he could have chosen this room, out of all the rooms in london, as the room of elizabeth carr. wherever he looked, he found a reflex of her peace and gentle calm. in the few moments of waiting he took in all the details of the room: the soft-toned wall-paper, with a woodland frieze of blue and delicate shades of green, the old japanese prints on the walls, and the little leather-bound books on the tables here and there. he had sat so many times in the rooms of different people whom he went to interview, that his observation had trained itself mechanically to notice such details. he heard a rustle on the stairs, the door opened gently, and elizabeth carr came into the room. she looked as beautiful as a picture in the frame of her own room. so had he imagined her, her hair looped back from its centre parting piled in gleaming coils just above the nape of her neck, leaving its delicate outline unbroken; a long necklet of amethysts made a mauve rivulet against the whiteness of her bosom till it fell in a festoon over her bodice, and blended with the colour of her dress, amethystine itself. and in her hair there gleamed a comb beaten by a norwegian goldsmith, and set with moonstone and chrysoprase. she came forward to greet him, moving with the subtle grace of womanhood. her charm, her frank beauty, filled him with a peculiar sense of unworthiness and embarrassment. before the wonder of her, before the purity of her, everything else in life seemed incomprehensibly sordid. "i am so glad you were able to come," she said. she looked him in the eyes as she spoke, and there was this, he noticed, about elizabeth carr: she meant every word she said--even the most trivial of greetings took on significance when she uttered them. her words gave him confidence. "it was good of you to ask me...." there was a slight pause. "i nearly missed the house," he said with an inconsequential smile. "i always thought you lived in a flat." "did you?" she replied. "oh no!--(do sit down--i'm expecting some more visitors shortly.) i've had this house for a long time." she sighed. "it's an inheritance, you know, and i thought i'd live in it myself, instead of letting it. kenneth and i have dreadful squabbles--he says it's too far out for him, and wants me to keep a flat with him in town--and i loathe flats. i've got a small garden at the back, and it's blessed in the summer. there's a walnut tree and a pear tree just wide enough apart to hold a hammock." "a hammock in london!" cried humphrey; "i envy you! think of our clifford's inn." "i really don't know how you people can live on the doorsteps of your offices. i'm sure it's not good for you. anyway, kenneth's giving it up." "i hadn't heard of it before your letter." "it was only settled a few days ago. grahams, the publishers, liked his last book well enough to offer him a good advance; and the book's sold in america--he's got enough to get a year's start in the country, and so he's going down there to write only the things he wants to." humphrey smiled in his cocksure way. "aha! he'll soon get sick of it, miss carr." elizabeth carr's fingers strayed into the loops of her amethyst necklace; the light shone on the violet and blue gems as she gathered them into a little heap, and let them fall again. her brows hinted at a frown for a moment, and then they became level again. "nothing would make you give up fleet street, i suppose?" she asked. "no ... the fever's in me," he said. "i couldn't live without it." "are you so wrapped up in it?" "well," said humphrey, "i suppose i am. it's rather fine, you know, the way things are done. you ought to go through a newspaper office and see it at work ... all sorts of people, each of them working daily with only one aim--to-morrow's paper...." "and you never think of the day when ferrol doesn't want you any more?" "well, you know," humphrey said, with a smile, "it's difficult to explain. we just trust to luck. after all, lots of men have drifted into journalism; when they're done, they drift back again." "i see," elizabeth carr said, nodding her head gently. "and there are always fresh men to drift." "i suppose so." "and, you're quite content." humphrey shrugged his shoulders. "what else can i do?" the bell rang. "ah! what else!" she exclaimed, rising to meet her visitors. the new-comers were introduced to humphrey. one was a tall, thin man, with remarkable eyes, black and deep-sunken, and the thin mobile lips of an artist. his name was dyotkin; he spoke english fluently, with a faint russian accent. the other was a woman whose youthful complexion and features of middle age were in conflict, but whose hair tinged with grey left no doubt of her years. although her dress was in excellent taste, it suggested an unduly overbearing wealth. humphrey recognized her name when he heard it: mrs hayman. she was one of the philanthropists who helped elizabeth in her work. they went into dinner, to sit at a little oval chippendale table just big enough for the four of them; dyotkin and he faced one another, sitting between elizabeth and mrs hayman. "your work must be very interesting," mrs hayman said. humphrey smiled. that was the commonest remark he heard. those who did not know what the work was, perceived dimly its interest, but not one of them could ever be made to understand the intense, eager passion of the life. "it is interesting," humphrey said. "miss carr knows a good deal of it." "i suppose you go everywhere--it must be splendid." "when you talk like that, i, too, think it must be splendid. sometimes, it's very funny." "still, it's nice to see everything, isn't it? and i suppose you go to theatres and concerts." "oh no! i'm not a critic. that's another man's work. i'm just a reporter." "i don't know how you get your news. what do you do? go out in the morning and ask people? and isn't it dreadfully difficult to fill the paper?" it was always the same; nobody could understand the routine of the business. everybody had the same idea that newspaper offices lived in a day of tremulous anticipation lest there should not be enough news. nobody understood that the happenings in the world were so vast and complex, that their sole anxiety was to compress into four pages the manifold events that had happened while the earth had turned on its axis for one day. "now, yesterday, for instance?" mrs hayman said, with an inviting smile. "what did you do yesterday?" "oh, yesterday was an unpleasant day. i had to go to camberwell late at night. a man had given himself up somewhere in wales. he said he'd murdered miss cott--you remember the train murder, three years ago.... he kept a chemist's shop in camberwell, we found out. so i had to go there. i got there dreadfully late. the door was opened by a girl. her eyes were swollen and red. she was his daughter, i guessed.... i can tell you, i felt awkward." "i should think so," elizabeth said. he looked at her, and saw that she was annoyed. "what did you do--go away?" mrs hayman asked. "go away? good gracious, no. i interviewed her." "interviewed her!" "well, i talked with her, if you like. they were very pleased at the office." "i think it's repulsive," elizabeth remarked. "oh, come!" humphrey remonstrated. the dinner was finished. it occurred to humphrey that he had fallen from grace. "we will go into the next room," elizabeth said, "and mr dyotkin shall play to us." as she passed by him, humphrey went forward and opened the door for her. dyotkin and mrs hayman lingered behind. he passed into the adjoining room with elizabeth. he wanted to defend himself. "you're a little hard on me, you know," he said. "i don't understand how you can do it," she said. "do what?" "forget all your finer feelings, and make a trade of it." "i don't make a trade of it," he said, hotly. "you cannot separate the good from the bad. you must take us just as we are--or leave us." the words came from him quietly, almost unconsciously, as though in an unguarded moment his tongue had taken advantage of his thoughts. she turned her face sideways to his, and he was conscious of a queer look in her eyes--an expression which was absolutely foreign to them. he saw doubt, uncertainty and surprise in the swift glance of a moment. "i ought not to have said that," he thought to himself. and, then, hard upon that, defiantly, "i don't care what she thinks; it's what i thought." the expression in her eyes softened. though he had said nothing more, it was as if he had subtly communicated to her that which was passing in his mind. "yes," she said, with softness in her voice, "we must take the good with the bad, but we must separate the sincere from the insincere. i saw you that day in the forest when your eyes showed how you felt the pity of it all--and yet, you see, you did not put that in _the day_. you did not write as you felt." so that was her explanation. how could he make her comprehend the conflict that was for ever in his mind, and even his explanation could not redeem him in her eyes. john davidson's verse ran through his mind like a dirge:-- "ambition and passion and power, came out of the north and the west, every year, every day, every hour, into fleet street to fashion their best. they would write what is noble and wise, they must live by a traffic in lies!" ah, but it was wrong of her to take that view. as if one could ever tell the truth in a world where the very fabric of society is woven from lies and false conceptions. how could he tell her and make her believe that he was thrilled, and that his throat tightened at things that he saw--and yet he never dared give way to his emotions, and write them. why, the most vital things in his life were not the things he wrote, but the things he did not write. though his mind was rioting with indignation, he laughed. "we mustn't take our work too seriously," he said. "it's too ephemeral for that. things only last a day." she did not answer. she turned from him without a word. he had meant to anger her, and he had succeeded. there was a chatter of voices in the passage and mrs hayman came into the room with dyotkin. elizabeth went towards him. "won't you play something?" she begged. dyotkin sat down by the piano. the seat was too low; he wanted a cushion, or some books, and elizabeth went to fetch them. the sight of her waiting on dyotkin filled humphrey with an increasing annoyance. it jarred on him somehow. he attempted to help in an ungainly way, but elizabeth, without conveying it directly, held aloof from his assistance. he settled himself in the arm-chair by mrs hayman ... and dyotkin played. humphrey had no knowledge of music. he did not even know the name of the piece that was being played, but as the fingers of dyotkin struck three grand chords, something stirred within his soul, and, gradually, a vague understanding came to him, and he followed and traced the theme through its embroidery. and the following of the theme was just like the following of an ideal. at times he was lost in waves of seductive sounds, that charmed him and led his thoughts away, and then, suddenly, the chords would emerge again, out of the bewildering maze of melody clear and triumphant, again, and yet again; he could follow them, though they were cunningly concealed beneath intricate patterns. and then, for a moment, he would lose them, but he knew that they were still there, if he sought for them, and so he stumbled on; and, behold, once more as the dawn bursts out of the darkness, the familiar sounds struck on his ears. and now they were with him always: he hearkened to them, and they were fraught with a strange, delicious meaning. "i have thought this," he said, in his mind. here was something far, far removed from anything of daily life. he was uplifted, exalted from earthly things. the wonder of the music enchanted him. ah! what achievements were not possible in such moments! he felt grandiose, noble and apart from life altogether.... the music ceased. he sighed as one awaking from the glory of a dream. he looked up, and his eyes, once again, met the eyes of elizabeth, deep and tender and unspeakably divine. v it is impossible to point a finger at any date in this period of the career of humphrey quain and say, "this is the day on which he fell in love with elizabeth carr." for the days merged gradually into weeks and months, and they met at irregular intervals, and out of their meetings something new and definite came to humphrey. there was no sudden transition from acquaintance to friendship, from friendship to love. he could not mark the stages of the development of their knowledge of one another. but before he was aware of its true meaning, once again the spirit of yearning and unrest took hold of him. this time, his love was different from that abrupt love-affair with lilian filmer. then untutored youth had broken its bounds, and love had swept him from his foothold. he had been ardent, passionate in those days, the fervour of love had intoxicated him; but now, with this slow attachment, his love was a different quality. lilian, coming fresh upon the horizon of his hopes, bringing with her the promise of all that he needed in those days, had made a physical appeal to him. always there was working, subconsciously, in his mind, the thought of her desirability. she offered him material rewards; they were attracted to each other by the mutual disadvantages of their surroundings. their meeting, their abortive love-affair was the expression of the everlasting desire of the companionship of sex: they were, both of them, groping after things half-understood, towards a goal that looked glamorous in the incomplete vision they had of it. but elizabeth carr appealed to the intellectual in him. no doubt the old primeval forces compelled him towards her, but they were far below the surface of his thoughts whenever the vision of elizabeth rose before him. he could not describe the hold she had on his imagination. her influence had been so subtly and gently exercised, that he had not noticed the power of it, until now he was dominated by the thought of her. the finer spirit that lies dormant in every man, except in the very basest, put forth its wings and awoke. in little questions of everyday honour he began to see things from elizabeth's point of view: little, trivial questions of his dealings with mankind which jarred on elizabeth's own code of morality. unquestionably, he was better for her influence, better from the spiritual standpoint, but weaker altogether when judged by the standard of everyday life. elizabeth preached the gospel of altruism not directly, but insidiously, and he found himself adopting her views. hitherto his had been the grim doctrine of worldly success: those who would be strong must be ruthless and remorseless; there must be no halting consideration of the feelings of others. though he did not realize it, his absorption of elizabeth's ideals was weakening him, inevitably. the charity of her work, with its gentle benevolence, was reflected in all her life. she gained happiness by self-sacrifice, and peace by warring against social evils. their characters and temperaments conflicted whenever they met, and yet, after each meeting, it seemed to humphrey that their friendship was arising on a firmer basis. sometimes the shock of their opposing personalities would leave behind it quarrelsome echoes--not the echoes of an open quarrel, but the unmistakable suggestion of disagreement and dissatisfaction. he blundered about, trying to fathom her wishes, but her individuality remained always to him a problem, inscrutably complex. there were times, it seemed, when their spirits were in perfect agreement, when he was raised high in the wonder of the esteem in which she, obviously, held him. those were the times when he came first to realize that he loved her: and the audacity of his discovery filled him with dismay. he knew that she was altogether superior; she lived exalted in thought and deed in a plane far above him. they met, it is true, over tea, or at a theatre, just as if they both inhabited the same sphere, but, in spite of that, they were as separate planets, whirling in their own orbits, rushing together for an instant, meeting for a fraction of time, and soaring away once more until again they drew together. and, even when understanding of her seemed nearest to him, she suddenly receded from his grasp. a change of voice, a change of expression, a movement of her body--what was it? he did not know. he only knew that something he had said had separated them: she could become, in a moment, distant and unattainable, another woman altogether, coldly antagonistic. yet, by the old symptoms, he knew that he loved her. she persisted in his thoughts with an alarming result. he found himself pausing, pen in hand, at his desk in the reporters' room, thinking, "would elizabeth be pleased with this?..." and an impulse that needed all his strength to combat seized him to abandon the set form into which _the day_ had cast his thoughts, to criticize and to express his own individual impression, whether they accorded or not with the views held by _the day_. this was altogether new and disturbing. he was a mouthpiece whose mere duty was to record the words of others by interviews, or a painter to present pictures and not opinions. conscience and convictions were luxuries that belonged to the critics of art, and the leader-writers. there came to him days of unqualified unhappiness, when he was possessed by doubts. for the first time he mistrusted the value of his work: he began to see that the fundamental truths of life were outside his scope. cities might be festering with immorality and slums; vice might parade openly, but these things could never be touched on in a daily newspaper. nobody was to blame, least of all those who controlled the newspaper, for it is not the business of a daily to deal with the morals of existence.... it is not easy to analyse his feelings ... but, as a result of all this vague tormenting and apprehension, the old thrill at the power and wonder of the office which throbbed with daily activities forsook him, leaving in its place nothing but the desolating knowledge of the littleness and futility of it all. * * * * * the phase passed: the variety of the work enthralled him again. he travelled to distant towns and remote villages, and whenever he was in the grip of his work, all thoughts of elizabeth carr departed from him. he obtained extraordinary glimpses into the lives of other people; he acquired a knowledge into the working of things that was denied to those who only gleaned their knowledge second-hand from the things that he and others wrote. he saw things all day long: the plottings, the achievements and the failures of mankind. the other men of the street flitted into his life and out again at the decree of circumstance. for a week, perhaps, half-a-dozen of them would be thrown together in some part of england. they met at the hotels; they formed friendships, and they parted again, knowing, with the fatalism of their craft, that they would forgather perhaps next week, perhaps next year. there was no sentiment in these friendships. there were the photographers, too. a new race of men had come into fleet street, claiming kinship with the reporters, yet divided by difference of thought and outlook upon news. they were remarkable in their way, the product of the picture daily paper. and their coming marked the doom of the artist illustrators in the newspapers. they were the newest of the new generation, shattering every conception even of the younger men of the manner in which a journalist should perform his duty. the photographers were drawn, as a class, from the studios and operating-rooms of the professional photographer. they forsook the posing of babies and young men in frock coats for the photographic quest of news. their finger-tips and nails were brown with the stain of iodoform, and for them there was no concealment of their profession, for they went through life with the burden of their cameras slung over their shoulders. their audacity was astounding, even to humphrey and his friends, who knew the necessity of audacity themselves. they ranged themselves outside the law courts, or the houses of parliament, or wherever one of the many interests of the day centred, and when a litigant or a cabinet minister appeared, a dozen men closed towards him, their cameras at the level of their eyes, and a dozen intermittent "clicking" noises marked the achievement of their quest. they saw life in pictures; a speech was nothing to them but the open mouth and the raised arm of the speaker; the poignancy of death left them unmoved before the need of focus and exposure. the difficulties of their work seemed so immense to humphrey that reporting seemed child's play beside it. for not only had they actually to be on the spot, to overcome prejudices and barriers, but, once there, they had to select and group their picture, and to reckon with the light and time. and though the photographers and the reporters were far removed from one another by the external nature of their work, though neither class saw life from the identical standpoint, yet they were interdependent, and linked by the same ceaseless forces working towards one common end.... sometimes, also, in out-of-the-way places, humphrey met men who reminded him of his days on the _easterham gazette_, men with attenuated minds who were even more absorbed in their work than the london reporter. they had a shameless way of never concealing their identity: they were always the "reporter"; some of them never saw the dignity of their calling, they were careless of speech and appearance, seeming to place themselves on the level of inferior people, and submitting to the undisguised contempt of the little local authorities, who spoke to them scornfully as "you reporters." yet, among these, humphrey found scholars and men of strange experience. their salaries were absurdly low for the work they did--thirty shillings to two pounds a week was the average; their lives were a thousand times more dismal and humdrum than the lives of the london men. and, in spite of these, many london men sighed for the pleasant country work. whenever humphrey heard a man speak of the leisure and peace of country journalism, he told them of easterham and its dreadful monotony. he had interior glimpses, too, of other newspaper offices; not a town in the kingdom without its sheet of printed paper, and its reporter recording the day or the week. these offices held his imagination by their sameness. whether it was belfast or birmingham, edinburgh or exeter, their plan was uniform. there was always the narrow room, with its paper-strewn desks or tables at which the reporters sat; always the same air of hazy smoke hovered level with the electric-light bulbs; the same type of alert-eyed men, with the taut lips and frown of those who think swiftly, came into the room, smoking a cigarette or a pipe (but rarely a cigar), and brought with them a familiar suggestion of careless good-fellowship as they sat down to the work of transcribing their notes. and, always, wherever he went, the pungent smell of printer's ink was in his nostrils, the metallic rustle of shifting types from the linotype room, and the deep, rumbling sound of machinery in his ears. ah, when he got down to the machines that moved it all, he probed to the depths of the simple greatness. those big, strong men who worked below it all, and lived by the labour of it, made a parable of the whole social system. of what avail would all their writing be, if it were not for the men and the machines below? once he went down the stone steps to the high-roofed basement of _the day_. he went at midnight, just when the printing was about to begin. it was as if he had penetrated into the utmost secrecy of the office. here were the things of which nobody seemed to think; here, again, were men in their aprons stained with grease and oily ink; men with bare, strong arms lifting the curved plates of metal, and fixing them to the cylinders; each man doing his allotted work, oiling a bearing here, tightening a nut there, moving busily about the mighty growth of machinery that filled the brightly lit room. the sight of that tangle of iron and steel confused his thoughts. he understood nothing of it all. those great machines rose before him, towering massively to the roof, tier upon tier of black and glittering metal, with rods and cranks, and weird gaps here and there showing their bowels of polished steel. the enormous rolls of paper which he had seen carried on carts and hoisted many a time into the paper-department of the office, were waiting by each machine, threaded on to a rod of steel. their blank whiteness reflected the light of the electric lamps. and then, suddenly, a red light glowed, and somebody shouted, and a man turned a small wheel in the wall--just as a motor-car driver turns the wheel of the steering gear--and the great machines broke into thunderous noises. the din was appalling. it was loud and continuous, and the clamour of it deadened the ears. humphrey looked and saw the white reels of paper spinning, and, through the forest of iron and steel, he could trace a cascade of running whiteness, as the paper was spun between the rollers, up and down and across, until it met the curved plates of type, and ran beneath them, to reappear black with the printed words. and the columns looked like blurred, thin lines in the incredible rapidity of the passing paper. the moments were magical; he tried to follow the course of this everlasting ribbon of paper, but he could not. he saw it disappear and come into his vision again. he saw it speed and vanish along a triangular slab of steel, downwards into the invisible intricacies that took it and folded it into two and four and eight pages, cut it and patted it into shape, and tossed it out, quire after quire, a living, printed thing--_the day_. and everywhere, wherever he glanced at the turbulent, roaring machines, little screws were working, silent wheels were spinning, small, thin rods were moving almost imperceptibly to and fro, to and fro. he saw great rollers touching the gutters of ink, transmitting their inky touch to other rollers, spinning round and round and round; and the paper, speeding through it all, from the great white web to the folded sheets that were snatched up by waiting men and bundled into a lift, upwards into the night where the carts were waiting. and the force of the noise was dreadful, and the power of the machines perpetual and relentless as they flung from them, with such terrible ease, hundreds and hundreds of thousands of square, folded papers. they looked as if they could crush the lives of men in the swift snare of their machinery. vi whom should he meet one day, but beaver! beaver of the inky thumbs and the bitten nails, who had, somehow, eluded him, though they both worked in the narrow street. nothing astonishing in this, for the work of beaver lay in circles different from his own. he never came outside the radius of meetings, inquests, the opening of bazaars and the hundred and one minor happenings that are to be found in "to-day's diary." but here he was, utterly unchanged from the beaver with whom humphrey had lived in guilford street, with mrs wayzgoose, her wasteful coal-scuttles and her bulrushes. they met in a chop-house by temple bar, a strange place, where the lower floor was packed with keen-faced men from the courts of justice over the way and the temple at the back. they sat crowded together, abandoning all comfort in the haste to enjoy the luxury of the chops and steaks for which the house was famed. there were no table-cloths on the round tables, where coffee-cups and plates of poached eggs and rounds of toast jostled each other. only in england would people sit with joy and eat cheek by jowl in this fashion, with the smell of coffee and hot food in their nostrils, and the clatter of plates and knives and forks in their ears. upstairs men played chess and dominoes over coffee and rolls, cracking their boiled eggs with difficulty in the cramped space. humphrey heard a voice hail him as he threaded his way between the tables. he looked back and saw beaver waving a friendly fork at him. "hullo!" cried beaver, shifting his chair away a few inches, and seriously incommoding a grey-haired man so absorbed in his game of chess that his coffee was cold and untouched. "come and sit here," cried beaver. they shook hands. "well, how goes it?" humphrey asked. "still with the nose to the grindstone?" "that's it," beaver said. their positions had been changed since the days of easterham, when beaver seemed miles above him in worldly success. he remembered the day beaver left for london, to embark on a career which shone clear and brilliant in humphrey's imagination. "write in!" those had been beaver's last words. "write in. that's what i did." the vision of it all rose before him now, as he sat by beaver: the dingy office, with the scent of the fishmonger next door, the auctioneer's bills on the walls, with samples of mourning and wedding cards, and tradesmen's invoice headings, to show the excellence of the _gazette's_ jobbing department. and now--? he was conscious of a change in beaver's attitude towards him. humphrey had taken his place in fleet street among the personalities, among the young men of promise and achievement. he had even seen his name signed to occasional articles in _the day_--glorious thrill, splendid emotion, that repaid all the long anonymous hours of patient work! "you're getting on!" beaver said. there was admiration unconcealed in his eyes and voice. "great scott! it seems impossible that you and i ever worked together on that rotten easterham paper. that was a fine story you did of the hextable railway smash." "i've got nothing to complain of," humphrey replied, hacking at a roll of bread. "it hasn't been easy work. yours isn't, for the matter of that." beaver laughed. "oh, mine--it isn't difficult, you know. i get so used to it, that i can report a speech mechanically without even thinking of the speaker." "it's a safe job, you know," he said, after a pause. "a life job." humphrey knew what beaver's exultation in the safety of his job meant. there were men in fleet street, husbands of wives, and fathers of families, who lived and worked tremblingly from day to day, never certain when a fatal envelope would not contain the irrevocable "regret" of the editor that he could no longer continue the engagement. why, it might happen to humphrey himself, for aught he knew. truly, beaver was to be envied after all. "but don't you think you'd do better on a daily paper?" humphrey said. "i could tell rivers about you, you know. there might be room on _the day_." "i'm taking no risks. i'm going to stop where i am. you see--er--" beaver became suddenly hesitant, and smiled foolishly. "what i mean to say is--i'm engaged to be married." he leant back in his seat and contemplated the astonishment in humphrey's face. "no--are you really!" "fact," retorted beaver. "been engaged for the last year." beaver going to be married! the news touched humphrey oddly: beaver could be earning very little more than humphrey had earned at the time when he had almost plunged into married life, and there was no desire on beaver's part to reach out and grasp greater things; he was in a life job, untouched by the wrack and torment of ambition, and the craving for success. oh, assuredly, beaver was not to be pitied in the equable calmness of his life and temperament. "well, i congratulate you, old man--though i never thought you were the marrying sort." beaver took the congratulations blushingly. "nor did i, until i met her." he spoke of "her" in an awed, impressive manner, as though she were some abnormal person far removed from all other people in the world. humphrey tried to figure the girl whom beaver had chosen. he thought of her as a rather plain, nice homely sort of person, with no great burden of intellect or imagination. beaver's hand dived into an inside pocket, and out came a leather case. this he opened, and displayed a photograph, reverently. "that's her!" he said, showing the portrait. humphrey kept his self-possession well. neither by a look nor a word did he betray the past: there was nothing in his manner to show beaver that the girl whose portrait he held in his hand was she whose lips had clung to his in the young, passionate kisses of yester-year. but, as humphrey looked on the face of lilian filmer, the same lilian, even though the photograph was new, and the hair was done in a different fashion, an acute feeling of sorrow came over him, bringing with it the remembrance of aching days, of the early beginnings, of those meetings and partings, and hearts that strained, and he saw the reflection of himself, foolish and cruel, mistaking the shadow for the substance, struggling and struggling, all for nothing ... for not even as much as beaver had gained. she looked at him out of the eyes of her photograph, and about her lips there still hovered that smile which had always been a riddle to him; a smile of indulgent love, or contempt? who knows--a woman's smile is the secret of her sex. yet now, it seemed, her lips were curved in triumph. this was her revenge on him, that he should go for ever loveless through the world, while she should steal into a haven of welcome peace. beaver's voice brought him back to physical things. she would kiss beaver's shaggy-moustached lips, and his arms would catch her in an embrace.... how soon she had forgotten ... he thought, unreasonably.... she might have waited.... she might have understood.... "well?" said beaver, awaiting praise. "you've had a good old look." "she's awfully nice and charming," humphrey answered, returning the photograph. "she's like somebody i know." "oh, you've probably seen the original, old man, when you used to come and call for me. she used to be one of the girls in our office." he had forgotten that lunch in the fleet street public-house, when humphrey had asked for the name of the girl. used to be one of the girls in the office! then lilian had left. he wondered what she was doing, and an impulse that could not be withstood, compelled him to find out whether she had ever mentioned him to beaver. "by george!" he said. "i remember, now. miss filmer, her name was, wasn't it?" "that's it, miss filmer. did you ever speak to her, then?" he was treading on uncertain ground. it was clear that she had never spoken of him. he felt that she had forgotten him, absolutely and completely. "oh, i think so--just casually, now and again." "well, i never!" said the innocent beaver. "that's interesting. i'll tell her i met you." "oh, she wouldn't remember me or my name," humphrey answered, hastily. "it was only just 'how-d'ye-do' and 'good-day' with us.... so she's left the office now." "yes. it's rather a sad story. her father died, you know. he was a chronic invalid--paralysis, i think. anyhow, we don't speak of it much, and i've never pressed her. but the father who was so useless in life, has been the salvation of the mother by his death. odd, isn't it? he was insured for a good round sum, and lilian's mother--did i tell you her name was lilian?--has bought a little annuity, so that lilian's free. she used to slave for her mother and the rest of the family until they grew up. that's why she worked overtime at the office. 'pon me soul, i'd rather be the lowest jackal in fleet street than some of these poor little typist girls at eighteen bob a week.... well, time's up. i've got to be at the mansion house at three: the lord mayor's taking the chair at some blooming meeting to raise a fund for something, somewhere. what are you doing to-day?" "oh, i'm on the klipp case at the old bailey." humphrey came away profoundly disturbed. something entirely unexpected had happened. lilian had lived as the vaguest shadow at the back of his mind, just as he had last seen her, when she bent down to kiss him, and now this picture would have to be erased. he shuddered at the thought. she was beaver's "girl": she would be beaver's "missis." after all, what did it matter? he and lilian had long since parted; there had been little in common between them. he might have married her, and been as beaver; she might have married him, but never, never, could she have held the magic and the inspiration of elizabeth carr. his mind, always susceptible to outside influences, brooded on the new fact that had come into his life. unconsciously, as a natural sequel to his thoughts, he began to dream of his new love, and to see himself happier than he had ever been, with elizabeth for ever at his side. the same motives that impelled him to lilian after that scene in the registry office, when wratten was married, now urged him towards kenneth carr's sister.... and, of course, one day, beaver would have to mention his name to lilian. she would probably smile and say nothing. "he's engaged now," beaver would say. "there won't be any bachelors left, soon." and that would be his message to lilian. vii on a saturday evening some weeks later, humphrey sat in the dismantled room in clifford's inn, in which he and kenneth carr had shared so many hours of grateful friendship. the room looked forlorn enough. square gaping patches on the wall marked the places where pictures had once hung; the windows were bared of curtains and the floor was dismal without the carpet, littered with scraps of paper and little pieces of destroyed letters. trunks and boxes ready for the leaving were in the small entrance hall, now robbed of its curtains and its comfort. a pair of old boots, a broken pipe, a row of empty bottles and siphons, a chipped cup or two--these alone formed the salvage which the room would rescue from kenneth's presence. "this," said kenneth, taking the pipe-rack from the mantelpiece, "this, my son, i give and bequeath to you." he laughed, and tossed it over to humphrey, who caught it neatly. kenneth waved his arm comprehensively round the room. "now if there's any other little thing you fancy," he said, "take your choice. i'm afraid there's nothing but old boots and broken glass left. you might fancy a bottle or two for candlesticks." "the only thing of yours i coveted was your green edition of thackeray, and you took jolly good care to pack that before i came," humphrey remarked. "i'll send you one for your next birthday. i shall be rolling in money when i get to work. meanwhile, just hold this lid up, while i put these photographs in." the light glinted on the silver of the frames. humphrey knew nothing of two of them, but the third was a photograph that he had always observed. he could see it now as it lay, face upwards, in kenneth's hand--the photograph of elizabeth, very sweet and beautiful, with soft eyes that seemed to be full of infinite regret. "do you know, old man," he said, "i wish you'd let me have that photograph." "which one?" "the one of elizabeth." closer acquaintance had led to the dropping of the formal "miss" and "mister." "what will elizabeth say: it was a special and exclusive birthday present to me, frame and all." "you can easily get another one. keep the frame if you want to. honest, i'd like to have the photograph. it would remind me of you and all the jolly talks we've had." "best beloved," laughed kenneth, jovially, "i can refuse you nothing. it is yours, with half my kingdom." he slipped the photograph from the frame. "you know, i feel exhilarated at the thought of leaving it all. i walk on air. i am free." he slammed the lid on the last box and pirouetted across the room. "thanks," said humphrey, placing the photograph in his letter-case. "think of it," kenneth cried, "from to-morrow i'm a free man--free to write as i will: free to say at such and such a time, 'now i shall have luncheon,' 'now i shall have dinner,' or, 'now i will go to bed.' free to say, 'to-morrow week at three-thirty i shall do such and such a thing,' in the sure and certain knowledge that i shall be able to do it. henceforth, i am the captain of my soul." "oh yes, you feel pretty chirpy now, but just you wait. you wait till there's a big story on, and you read all the other fellows' stories--you'll start guessing who did this one, or who got that scoop--and you'll wish you were back again." "not i! i shall sit in the seclusion of my arm-chair, and gloat over it all the next morning. and i shall think, 'poor devils, they're still at it--and all that they think so splendid to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow.' i've had my fill of fleet street.... besides, i don't quite break with it." "why?" "didn't i tell you? old macalister of _the herald_ is a brick. he's the literary editor, you know, a regular spider in a web of books. he's put me on the reviewers' list, so you'll see my work in the literary page of _the herald_. and it's another guinea or so." "good old macalister," humphrey said. "the literary editors are the only people who give us a little sympathy sometimes. i believe that whenever they see a reporter they say: 'there, but for the grace of god, go i.'" kenneth surveyed the room. "there," he said, brushing the dust of packing from him. "it's finished. in an hour i shall be gone." "what train are you catching?" "the eight-twenty. i shall be in the west country two hours later, and a trap will be waiting to take me to my cottage. you should see it, old man--just three rooms, low ceilings and oaken beams, and a door that is sunk two steps below the roadway. five bob a week, and all mine for a year. there's a room for you when you come." "sounds jolly enough!..." humphrey sighed. "by george, i shall miss you when you've gone, kenneth," he said. "there'll only be willoughby left. it's funny how few real, social friendships there are in the street, isn't it? fellows know each other and all that, and feed together, but they always keep their private family lives apart...." "i'll tell you a secret if you promise not to crow. i _am_ sorry to leave. i'm pretending to be light-hearted and gay, as a sort of rehearsal for elizabeth--she'll be here soon--but, really and truly, i feel as if i were leaving part of myself behind in fleet street. say something ludicrous, humphrey; be ridiculous and save me from becoming mawkish over the parting." "i can't," humphrey admitted miserably. "it gives me the hump to sit in this bare room, and to think of all the talks we've had--" "you've got to come here on monday again, and see that carter paterson takes away the big box." "i shall send a boy from the office: i won't set foot in the room again.... wonder who'll live here next?" he added inconsequently. "donno," kenneth replied, absently looking at his watch. "they're not bad rooms for the price. i say, it's time elizabeth were here." their talk drifted aimlessly to and fro for the next quarter of an hour. they had already said everything they had to say on the subject of the journey. a feeling of depression and loneliness stole over humphrey: his mind travelled to the days of his friendship with wratten, and he was experiencing once more the sharp sense of loss that he had experienced when wratten died. there came a knock at the door, and elizabeth appeared, bringing with her, as she always did, an atmosphere of gladness and peace. her beautiful face, in the shadows of her large brimmed hat, her brilliant eyes, and the supple grace of her figure elated him: he came forward to greet her gaily. sorrow could not live in her presence. "i'm sorry i'm late," she said. "but i've kept the cab waiting.... well, have you two said your sobbing farewells?" kenneth kissed her. "don't make a joke of the sacred moments ... we were on the verge of a tearful breakdown. my tears spring from the fact that he has given me no parting gift." "good lord! i forgot all about it." humphrey produced from his pocket a small brown-paper parcel. "it's a pipe--smoke it, and see in the smoke visions of fleet street." "well, i'm hanged!" said kenneth, conjuring up a similar parcel; "that's just what i bought for you. a five-and-sixpenny one, too." "then i've lost," humphrey said, with mock gloom. "mine cost six-and-six. he'll have to pay the cab, elizabeth, won't he?" "if you two are going to stand there talking nonsense kenneth will miss the train. come along! i'll carry the little bag. can you both manage the big one?" both of them cunningly kept up their artificially high spirits. even when kenneth switched off the electric light, and the room was in darkness, except for a pallid moonbeam that accentuated the bareness of the floor and walls, they parodied their own feelings. they were both a little ashamed of the sentimental that was in them. but as the cab drove out of fleet street, they were silent. the lights were flaming in the upper rooms, but the offices of _the herald_ and _the day_ and the rest of the large dailies were unlit and silent, for sunday gave peace to them on saturday night. but fleet street itself was still alive, and the offices of the sunday papers were active, and the noise of the presses, without which no day passes in the street, would soon be heard.... half an hour later, under the great glass roof of paddington station, the last farewells had been said. nothing but a "so long, old man," and a "good-bye" and a tight handshake marked the breaking of another thread of friendship. humphrey watched the train curve outwards and away into the darkness with that queer emotion that always comes when one is left standing on a railway platform, and a lighted train has moved out, full of life behind its lit windows, leaving in its place a glistening, empty stretch of rails. elizabeth was fluttering a valedictory handkerchief to the shadows. humphrey touched her arm gently. "shall we go now?" he said. "i suppose we'd better." these were awkward, uneasy moments. he would have liked to have told her how much he felt the passing of kenneth, but he was afraid of hurting her, for he knew that she, too, was saddened at his departure. "you'll let me see you home, won't you?" he asked. "would you? thanks, so much." they passed out of the station, and he called a hansom. his hand held her arm firmly as he helped her into the cab. she thanked him with her eyes. the moment was precious. it seemed that he had taken kenneth's place; that, henceforth, she would look to him for protection. they rode in silence through the lamp-lit terraces, where the white houses stood tall and ghostly, flinging their shadows across the road. there was nothing for him to say. he knew that their thoughts were running in the same groove. the sudden clear ray of a lamp flashed intermittently as the cab came into the range of its light, and he could see her face, serene, thoughtful, and very beautiful. it made him think of the photograph that lay in his pocket, against his heart.... she was very close to him, closer than she had ever been before, so close that he had but to put out his arms and draw her lips to his. never again, he thought, would she be as close to him as she was at this moment. and the memory of lilian intruded ... and with the memory came a vision of just such a ride homewards in a hansom.... ah, but elizabeth was of a finer fibre,--a higher being altogether. his body tingled at his thoughts. his imagination ran riot in the long silence, and he did not seek to check it. he was seized by an indefinite impulse to hazard all his future in the rashness of a moment, to take her and kiss her, and tell her that he loved her. "here we are," she said, with a sudden movement as the cab jolted to a standstill. he sighed. how calm and remote she seemed from love. "you must come in for a moment and have something." he hesitated from conventional politeness. "the drive has been cold," she said. "i will ask ellen to mix you a whisky and soda; and i daresay she's left some sandwiches for us." "for us!" there was an inestimable touch of intimacy about those words. "thanks," he said (was his voice really as strange and as husky as it sounded to his ears?) "thanks--if i won't be keeping you up." again, that suggestion of close acquaintance and absolute familiarity, as she let herself and him into the house with her latchkey, and closed the door softly on the world outside. it was all nothing to her. she moved about with perfect self-possession, unaware of the agitation within him. "let me turn up the light," she said, leading the way into the sitting-room. he stumbled against something in the feeble light. "mind," she cried, laughingly. "don't knock my treasures over." and then, suddenly, the room was in utter darkness. he heard her make an impatient murmur of annoyance. "there! i've turned it the wrong way.... don't move ... i know where the matches are." he heard the rustle of her dress, and her breathing, and the faint fragrance of her pervaded the darkness. he stood there in the black room with the blood surging in his veins, and pulses that seemed to be hammering against the silence. he could feel the throbbing of his temples. she moved about the room, and once she came near to him, so near that her hair seemed to float across his face with a caress that was soft and silken ... clearly in his brain he pictured her, smiling, pure and beautiful ... this darkness was becoming intolerable. he made a step towards her.... and the room was lit with a brightness that blurred his sight with the sudden transition from darkness. he saw her standing by the gas-bracket, with a look of concern on her face. "humphrey!" she cried, "is anything the matter with you?" he was standing in a direct line with the oval mirror on the wall, and he caught the glimpse of a white face, with straining eyes and blanched lips, that he scarcely recognized as his own. she came to his side, tenderly solicitous. he could bear it no longer. the words came from him in faltering sentences. "elizabeth," he cried. "don't you know ... i love you, i love you." her face flushed with perfect beauty. "oh--humphrey ..." she said. and by the intimation of her voice, half-reproachful, and yet charged with infinite pity and love, he knew that, if he were bold enough, he could take her and hold her for evermore. "i love you.... i love you ..." he said, drawing her unresistingly towards him. and there was nothing in life comparable to the exquisite happiness of that miraculous moment when her lips met his. viii he seemed to have reached out and touched the very summit of life in that swift moment of supreme excellence. his whole being vibrated with the splendour of living. he felt as he had felt that night when those three grand chords struck by dyotkin had stirred the depths of his soul.... and then his moment faded away into the irrevocable past, as she disengaged herself with a gentle, graceful movement, and they stood facing each other in silence. he saw her eyes, inexpressibly mild and soft, droop downwards, as she bent her head; he marked the colour mounting up her cheeks, flushing faintly the whiteness of her neck, and her fingers straying nervously in the thin, golden loop of the chain that fell across her bosom. the wonder of his emotions dazed him. all that he could realize was that, in the space of a second, their relations had been absolutely changed. henceforth, she appeared to him in another aspect. quite suddenly and swiftly they had become isolated from all the countless millions in the world by the sorcery of a kiss. it seemed unreal and absurd to him. he wanted to laugh. "you had better sit down," she said in a low voice, that had a note of appeal in it. "i hear ellen coming.... it will not do to let her notice anything...." astonishing, he thought, how tranquil and undisturbed she could remain. she could talk to ellen as if nothing at all had happened; she could hand him sandwiches and prattle about little things as long as ellen was in the room, and even when the door closed on ellen she seemed loath to let him speak. but he stopped her, emboldened by the privilege of his love. he went over to her and, placing his hands on each side of her face, drew her forehead towards his kiss, and looked at her with sparkling, victorious eyes. "you have made me happier than i have ever been," he said. "i will be very grateful and good to you." her eyes met his searchingly. "you will, really?" she asked. "really," he said, and he kissed her again. now they could talk--he had so much to say. with her acceptance of his pledge, her smiling "really," and his reply, he became normal again. his thoughts descended from their eminence and came back to their matter-of-fact, everyday plane. "tell me," he said, with a lover's vanity, "when did you first know that i loved you?" "i don't know ..." she said. "perhaps to-night." "only to-night!" he echoed, disappointed. "oh, i have loved you long before this. i think it began when we went to the forest together that day with the children.... i shall be able to help you with your work," he cried, buoyantly, "or will you drop it now?" she laughed merrily. "how you hurry things on!" she said. "give me time to think, like a good boy. we're not going to be married to-morrow, are we?" "no ... no," he protested, "i didn't mean that. let's have a really long, lovely engagement. give me months in which i can do all sorts of things for you; we'll see things together that i've never seen before--museums and picture-galleries. do you know, there's hundreds of things in london i've never seen." "why not?" "i put off the seeing until i go there with my love." the consummate joy of the hour infected him. he walked up and down the room promising great things ... vanity and egotism tinged his talk. "i shall get on, you know. i shall do something great in fleet street, one day. there's no knowing where i shall stop. and then there are the books i mean to write. oh yes! kenneth's sown the seeds of book-writing in me. and plays ... plays are the things to make money with...." "you won't need money," she said, kindly. "i have enough for both of us." "dearest," he answered. (it seemed the most natural thing in the world, now, that he should call her "dearest.") "you must not say that.... you won't mind waiting, just a little, will you? until i feel i can come to you and say that i do not need your money.... i can't explain it ... i should never be happy if i took a penny from you." she took his hand and caressed it. "i like you all the better for that, humphrey." (he noticed that she did not use the word "love.") he saw the future splendid, and roseate. he thought, with a smile, of ferrol. ferrol could not check him now. he had made his own identity, he was conscious of his own will to achieve that which he set out to do. besides, there was such a difference between lilian and elizabeth. he emerged from the house, a new being in a new world, living in the amazement of the last hour. ix it seemed strange to him that, with such a change in his life, the old work should proceed unaltered: he stood in rivers' room, listening to rivers' talk and banter as the news-editor gave him his work to do; he came before selsey at night, copy in hand; he mingled with the reporters in their big, bare room, talking of the day's paper, and discussing their jobs and their troubles with them; he came into that close, personal contact with men whom he knew, and men who knew him, and yet there was always an abyss that divided his two lives. so it was with all of them: in their friendship they seemed to say, "thus far shalt thou go, and no further"; their homes, their private sorrows and eager hopes, the real lives that they lived, in fact, were left behind them with the closing of their house-door, and they came to the office different beings. those matters that touched their innermost lives were never discussed. occasionally, the birth of a baby in the home of a reporter or a sub-editor would bring a queer suggestion of humanity and ordinary life into their affairs: sometimes, the news would filter through of a wife seriously ill in some home at herne hill or wimbledon, and there were solicitous inquiries (ferrol would send down the greatest specialist in one of those deep, generous moods of his), for the rest they displayed no interest in each other's private affairs. as a matter of fact, it was assumed, by the law of the street, that they had no private lives of their own. it is impossible to imagine humphrey saying: "if you please, i am engaged to be married, may i have the evening off," if at seven in the evening anything from a fire at the docks to the kidnapping of a baby occurred. therefore he told no one of the new wonder that had come into his life, not even tommy pride, who, by the way, had of late taken to sending out for a glass of whisky and soda, and doing his work with the glass before him on the table. they looked at each other in the reporters' room, and sighed, "poor old tommy." least of all would he tell ferrol. he would have liked to have gone to ferrol, and told him, but he remembered ferrol's outburst. he was older now, and he could not trust himself to listen calmly to the old arguments. and he felt that it would be a slur on elizabeth if he were forced to plead the cause of his marriage.... so the days followed each other, and he was happy with that mixed happiness which is, perhaps, the most perfect. after the first great moment when he had declared his love, their relations had fallen back to their original groove. it was safer thus: one could not live always on the exalted plane of that moment. his love-affair with elizabeth carr was of a different calibre from that with lilian. it was truer, and rested on a firmer basis of friendship, but it lacked the ardour, and the passionate moments and kisses of the days when love held the ascendancy over his work.... once, when he was moved with most eager desire during one of their lonely meetings, he caught her to him, and kissed her, and he was conscious of an unspoken reproach in her lips and eyes, that took from him, for the moment, all the savour of his love. it seemed to him that he was most successful when he was not playing the lover, when they met just as if they were rather exceptional friends instead of betrothed, and this irked him from time to time. he wanted to love, and be loved, he wanted to give all and take all. but when, in those rare moods, she answered his kisses recklessly, she was splendidly beautiful and magnificent, atoning lavishly for all that she had withheld from him. in one thing this wooing ran parallel with the wooing of lilian: there were the same interruptions and postponement of plans; fleet street for ever intruded, and always there was the remorseless, inexorable conflict between his love and his career. after an unfortunate week of shattered plans for spending an evening together, she sighed impatiently. "i wish you would give up fleet street," she said. "you could do better work." "oh!" he said, light-heartedly, "one day i will. i'll sit down and write my book. but it's too soon yet." she looked at him with doubt in her eyes. she seemed to be feeling her way through the dark corridors of his mind. "but surely you don't like the work," she said. he laughed. "some days i don't, and some days i do. some days i think it loathsome, and some days i think it glorious.... we're all like that." * * * * * a day came when he thought it glorious, when fleet street gave him of its best, a swift reward for his allegiance. he was in the reporters' room one evening, talking the latest office gossip with jamieson and willoughby, which concerned the marriage of _the day's_ miss minger, with young hartopp of _the gazette_. it was an event in fleet street, marking, in its way, the end of the epoch of the woman reporter. "i don't think a reporters' room is a fit place for a woman," willoughby said. "they're all right for their special work--cooking and dress and weddings, and all that--but hard, right-down chasing after stories is man's work." "i didn't mind miss minger," remarked humphrey. "she was a jolly good sport, but women have us at a disadvantage. remember that time when we all fell down on the gun-running story at harwich, and miss minger sailed in, smiled her prettiest, and squeezed a scoop out of them." "ah, well," jamieson said. "they're all the same ... marriage, you know, and a happy home, with jolly children. they soon find out that it's better to let hubby do the reporting.... hullo, young man trinder, what do you want?" he said, breaking off as the pink-faced secretary stood in the doorway. "_you're_ wanted," trinder said, nodding to humphrey. "me!" said humphrey. "what's up?" "ferrol wants you." "my word!" said willoughby. "are you going to be sacked, or is your salary to be raised?" "our blessings on you," cried jamieson, as he followed trinder out of the room, upstairs, and along the corridor to ferrol's door. ferrol stood with his hat and coat on waiting for him. "oh, quain," he said, shortly. "get your things and come along. i want to talk to you." humphrey paused, bewildered. "hurry up," said ferrol. he took his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and clicked its case hurriedly. "i've got to be back here at ten." "very well, sir," said humphrey. he ran back to the reporters' room, and gathered together his hat and his coat and his stick. "what's up?" chorused jamieson and willoughby. "lord knows!" he gasped. "_he_ wants me to go somewhere or the other with him." "most certainly you are either going to be sacked or have your salary raised," remarked willoughby. "but if you are going to be made editor, be kind to us when you are all-powerful." "ass!" laughed humphrey, in reply. he went back. ferrol made a noise of satisfaction, and led the way out of his room, carefully switching off the lights. down the stairs they went, side by side, humphrey walking beside the mighty ferrol, just as he did in his dreams. down the stairs they went, and the men coming up--his colleagues--raised their hats to ferrol, for they always gave him respect, and the heart of him throbbed with the strangeness of it all. the commissionaire saluted stiffly, and gazed at humphrey with a new esteem. a small boy in uniform darted with haste before them, and opened the door of a limousine car, reflecting the lights of the night in its lacquered brilliance. the chauffeur touched the polished peak of his hat. it seemed that everybody paid homage to ferrol, greatest of all men in the eyes of humphrey quain. for this man was the symbol, the personification of the street and the paper for which he had worked with all his heart, with all his might, and with all his soul. he stood aside to let ferrol step into the car first, but ferrol, with a smile, urged him into the lighted interior. he received an impression of superlative comfort and riches in that small, blue-lined room with its little electric lamp overhead. there were rugs of deliciously soft camel-hair, and, as he settled in the yielding cushions, his outstretched feet struck something hard, that gave warmth instantly, even through the leather of his boots. a silver cone-shaped holder, filled with red roses, confronted him; their very scent suggested ease and luxury. there were touches of silver everywhere: an ash-tray at his right hand, a whistle attached to a speaking tube, and a row of books in a silver case--an a b c railway guide, a diary, an address book, and a postal guide. they gave the ferrol touch of concentrated energy, even in these surroundings of comfortable, upholstered rest. the car sped along with a soft movement, almost noiseless, except for the low purring of its engines. through the windows, past the strong face of ferrol, he caught glimpses of a wet world with people walking upon their own reflections in the glistening pavements, of ragged beggars slouching along with hunched-up shoulders, of streaming crowds passing and repassing, ignoring entirely the passage of this splendid, immaculate room on wheels, never questioning the right of those people within it to the shelter which was denied to them. and he felt extraordinarily remote from all these people: an odd thrill of contempt for them moved him to think: "what fools they are not to get cars for themselves." it was as if he had been suddenly translated to another world: a world inhabited by a superior race of men and women, almost god-like in the power of their possessions, who looked down on other struggling mortals from their exalted plane, with a vision blurred by warmth and security. the silence enchanted him. if ferrol had spoken, the spell of that journey would have been snapped. the silence enabled him to enjoy to the full the extraordinary sensation of being whirled along in the darkness by the side of ferrol towards some unknown destiny. the discipline had made him always regard ferrol with awe; but now, as he sat wrapped in the warm rugs of the motor-car, the social barriers dropped. he wondered why ferrol was doing this. the speed of the car slackened gradually. he caught a glimpse of railings and the lights shining among the trees, bringing back to him the old memories of his first impression of the park. but they were on the kensington side, and the breadth of the park from bayswater to kensington made all the difference. here there seemed to be a culture and dignity in the very houses themselves: they did not suggest the overbearing, self-made prosperity of that broad road that ran parallel with it on the other side of the trees and meadows. a servant stood by the open door of the car. his face was implacably dignified. his white shirt-front and tie were splendidly correct for his station, in that he wore three obvious bone studs and a black tie. he held the door of the house open, and humphrey followed ferrol inside. he had been to many houses such as this as a reporter, when he had waited with a sense of social inferiority in halls hung with old masters, and furnished with rare old oak ... at those times the servants had treated him with a mixture of deference and contempt. but this was different: respectful, eager hands relieved him of his coat and hat; vaguely he knew he had to follow one of the owners of these hands up a broad staircase, along a soft carpeted passage, to a room which, suddenly flooded with light, showed its possession of a basin fitted with shining silver taps. he washed luxuriously; the towels were warm to the touch. he felt at peace with the world. down the stairs again, with a portrait on the white panelled wall for each step, to the inner hall lined with tapestries and brocade, where a bronze statue held an electric torch aloft to light the way to the dining-room. ferrol was standing by the fire. "chilly to-night," he said, as humphrey came into the room. his voice echoed in the spacious loneliness of the room. "yes," said humphrey, "it is." he hesitated a moment, and then added "sir." it seemed the correct thing to do, though ferrol and he might have been, for all that had happened in the last half-hour, excellent personal friends, of equal status in the world. "come and warm yourself," said ferrol, motioning him to a high-backed chair by the fire. humphrey sat down, and put his hands to the fire. this room with its bright lights and its high ceiling filled him with a realization of his own comparative poverty. the walls, again, reflected the artistic in ferrol. his glance wandered to the table. dishes of delicacies in aspic and mayonnaise gave colour to the white glitter of glass and silver. a bowl of great chrysanthemums rose out of the centre-piece of crystal, whose lower tiers were crowded with peaches, apricots, green figs, grapes, and other exotic fruits.... a whimsical vision came to him of a sausage-shop in fleet street where, often, kept late on a job, without opportunity for dinner, he had sat on a high stool at the counter eating sausages and onions and potatoes as they came hot from the sizzling trays of fat in the window. the thought made him smile. "what's the joke?" asked ferrol, smiling too. humphrey went a diffident pink. after all, why shouldn't he tell ferrol? he was quite right: the great man bubbled with laughter. he saw the ingenuousness of the thought. it endeared humphrey to him. "ah, young man," he said, "i know that shop." humphrey's eyebrows raised. "i've passed it many a time and seen the inviting sausages. by god!" he continued, bringing his fist down on the mantelpiece, "i'd give you everything on the table, every night of your life, if i could go in and sit at the counter and eat them." he laughed. "so don't you be in too much of a hurry to give up sausages." a servant appeared, bearing a silver soup-tureen. ferrol sat at the top of the table, and humphrey took the seat at his right hand. the soup was clear and delicious, possessing a faint, elusive flavour of sherry. while he was eating, he became aware of the butler pouring light-coloured wine into a high stemmed glass. he looked up and saw ferrol regarding his wine glass. "it's all i drink," said ferrol. "a little hock with dinner. in my day, many a fellow was ruined with too much drink. are they as bad now?" he asked. it was a strange experience to have ferrol question him on the doings of the street. "oh no!" he said, hastily, "there's not much of that now. perhaps a half dozen or so here and there, but nothing serious." (but he thought of the shaking hand of tommy pride as he spoke.) "none of my men drink, eh?" ferrol said. it was more of an assertion than a query. "do you know we've got the finest staff in london--in england." during the whole of that delightful dinner humphrey listened to ferrol talking about the men with whom he worked. he knew them all: knew all that they had done, and all that they were capable of doing. he asked humphrey's opinion on this man and that man, and listened attentively to the reply. sometimes humphrey made a joke, and ferrol laughed. and, as the dinner progressed, and the clear, cold wine invigorated his mind and warmed his perceptions, he conceived a greater liking for this man, who was so human at the core of him. in the office one saw him with the distorted, disciplined view, as an unapproachable demi-god, surrounded by people who sacrificed his name to their own advancement. ah! if one could always be on these terms of privileged intimacy with him, what a difference it would make in the work. if one dared tell ferrol of the obstacles and the petty humiliations that obscured the path to good work for the sake of the paper.... "tell me," said ferrol, suddenly, pushing bunches of black grapes towards him--"tell me about easterham, and your life there." now, what could there be in easterham and its monotonous life to interest ferrol, thought humphrey. nevertheless, he told him of easterham, and the _easterham gazette_ on which he had worked. that amused ferrol vastly. and he had to answer oddly insistent questions--to describe the market square, and the cathedral close, with its rooks and ivy. it astonished him to find how interested ferrol was in these little things, and almost before he was aware of it, he found himself speaking of personal matters, of things that touched his own inner, private life, of his aunt (with her stern gospel of "getting on"), of the mother whom he did not remember, and of daniel quain, his father. and as he talked on, he saw suddenly that ferrol was listening in a detached manner, and it occurred to him that he had rather overstepped the limits of a reply to a polite inquiry. he became confused and shy. his reminiscences withered within him. ferrol tried to urge him along the old track. "he's only doing it out of politeness," thought humphrey. "i shan't tell him any more. he's making fun of me." he cracked walnuts in silence and sipped at the port. (ferrol touched neither nuts nor wine.) he did not interpret that air of detached interest with which ferrol had listened to him as meaning anything else but boredom. he did not know that, as he was speaking, the old years came back again to ferrol, bringing with them once again the vision of margaret and those secret walks outwards from easterham, under the white moon of romance and love and supple youth that could be his never more. ferrol sighed. "you ought to be very happy," he said. "i think the happiest time of my life was when i was reporting." "were you ever a reporter?" asked humphrey. "oh yes! i didn't buy _the day_ at once." he rose and went to a cabinet to fetch silver and enamelled boxes of cigars and cigarettes. the cigarettes were oval and fat. "i don't think you've had enough scope," said ferrol, handing him a lighted match. "you've done well ... not as well as i hoped ... but perhaps you'd do better elsewhere." a peculiar sensation attacked humphrey in the regions of his throat and heart. ("most certainly you are to have your salary raised or be sacked.") he waited tensely. the butler came into the room, apologetically. "half-past nine, sir," he said; "the car's waiting, sir." "oh--yes. i forgot. i've got to be back at the office.... all right, wilson. "let me see--what was i saying.... oh yes, broader scope. can you speak french?" he asked abruptly. "just what i learnt at school.... i can read the papers." "you'll easily pick it up.... look here, i'll give you a lift back to fleet street. do you want to go there?" "yes," said humphrey, and then, suddenly, for some odd reason, he thought of elizabeth. he was not very sure of his geography, but the street in which she lived could not be far from here. "i think i'd rather walk, if you don't mind.... i've got a call to make." he wanted to tell elizabeth how splendid ferrol had been to him. "oh well! it doesn't matter. come and see me at twelve to-morrow. i'm going to send you to paris." "paris!" echoed humphrey, as if ferrol had promised him paradise. "paris," repeated ferrol. "we're changing our correspondent." x he did not go to elizabeth that night: he walked, in a dream, past knightsbridge and up piccadilly, contemplating the fulfilment of all his dreams. everything seemed possible now. he was a young man--and ferrol was going to give him paris; he was a young man--and elizabeth had given him her love. the sequence of this thought was significant. it would be very fine to tell her.... at last he was lifted out of the rut into a field of new endeavour. from paris the path led to other cities, of course--to petersburg, vienna, and rome. one day he would see them all. life became at once very broad and open. he walked on, an un-noteworthy figure in the throng of people that moved along piccadilly, his thoughts surging with the prospects of his new life. "humphrey quain ... paris correspondent of _the day_." he murmured that to himself. glorious title! splendid ferrol. how noble was this work in fleet street, holding out great promises to those who served it well, and sacrificed everything on its altar. how could one abandon a calling where fortune may change in a moment? he passed through astonishing ranks of women whose eyes and lips simulated love: one or two of them spoke to him in foreign accents. he passed on across the circus where the lights of the variety theatres made a blur of yellow in the nebulous night. his steps led him again to fleet street, and he walked with the joy of a man treading the soil of his own country. it was always the same when he passed the griffin: deep satisfaction took hold of him at the sight of the signs in all the buildings, telling of newspapers all the world over, in this narrow street in which the lives of him and his kind were centred. the fascination of the street was perpetual. it belonged to him. it belonged to all of them. at every hour of the day and night there were always friends to be met. he turned into the cheery warmth of the pen club--friends everywhere and fleet street smiling! there was laughter at the wooden counter, where larkin was telling some story to a group of men. "well, the next day i thought i'd go up and inquire after his lordship's health. the butler was very kind. 'come in,' he said. 'his lordship's expecting you.' so up i went, thinking i was going to get a fine story--he was supposed to be dangerously ill in bed, mind you." humphrey joined the group and listened. ("have a drink?" said larkin, turning to him. "it's my shout.") "well," continued larkin, "when i got to the room, there was his lordship in pants and undervest--you know how fat he is--with dumb-bells in his hands and whirling his arms about like a windmill. 'do i _look_ like a dying man?' he said, dancing lightly on his toes. 'go back, young man, and tell your editor what you've seen. good-morning.'" "talking of funny experiences," said one of the others, "i remember--" and so it went on, story after story, of real things happening in the most extraordinary way. it was all this that humphrey enjoyed, this inter-change of experiences, this telling of stories that were never written in newspapers, that belonged alone to them. presently tommy pride came in. "hullo all!" he said, "hullo! young quain--been busy to-day?" they sat down together, and humphrey noticed that tommy's face had changed greatly, even in the last few months. the flesh was loose and colourless, and the eyes had a nervous, wandering look in them. "ferrol's going to send me to paris--he told me so to-night," humphrey blurted out. "splendid," said tommy. "good for you." and then a look of great pathos crept into his eyes, and he seemed to grow very old all at once. "i wish i had all your chances," he said wistfully. "i wonder what will be the end of me.... i hear they're making changes." "don't you bother," humphrey said. "ferrol knows what you're worth.... but, i say, tommy, you don't mind, do you ... aren't you taking too much of _that_," he pointed to the whisky glass. "oh, hell! what does it matter," said tommy. "what does anything matter.... i'm a little worried ... they're thinking of making changes," he repeated aimlessly. * * * * * it was all settled in a few minutes the next morning. the paris appointment was definitely confirmed: he was to leave immediately. he hastened to elizabeth to tell her the wonderful news. it never occurred to him that she could be otherwise than pleased and proud at his success. but her manner was recondite and baffling. "have you accepted the post?" she asked. "why, of course," he said. "how could i refuse such a chance." she regarded him dubiously. "no--you could not refuse it. i don't blame you for not refusing it. i think i know how you feel...." "it's splendid!" humphrey cried. his voice rang with enthusiasm. "fancy ferrol singling me out. it will be the making of me.... it might lead to anything." "but weren't you only going to stay in journalism for another year, humphrey?" "oh, of course, when i said that, i couldn't foresee that this was going to happen.... elizabeth," he said suddenly, with a great fear on him, "do you want me to give it up now?" "no ... no," she said in haste. "you don't understand. it's so difficult to make you see. i wasn't prepared for this...." she laughed for no reason at all. "i am glad of your success. i am glad you're happy.... of course, you don't expect me to come to paris, like this, at a moment's notice. you must give me time." he smiled with relief. "why, of course, i didn't imagine i could carry you away at once.... but after a few months, perhaps. it will take me a few months to get used to the work." "yes," she agreed, "after a few months. we shall see." her face was strangely sorrowful. her attitude perplexed him. it hurt him to find that she did not share in his rejoicings. it took away some of the savour of his success. he thought he was the master of his destiny. he could not discern the hand of ferrol moving him again towards a crisis in his life. part iv paris i the noise of paris came to him through the open windows, a confusion of trivial sounds utterly different from the solid, strong note that london gave forth. it was the noise of a nursery of children playing with toys--he heard the continuous jingle of bells round the necks of the horses that drew the cabs, the shouts of men crying newspapers, the squeaking horns of motor-cars, and, every afternoon, at this hour, the sound of some pedlar calling attention to his wares, with a trumpet that had a tinny sound. at intervals the voice of paris, modified by the height at which he lived and the distance he was from the grands boulevards, sent a shout to him that reminded him of london. that was when a heavy rumbling shook the narrow street which was one of the tributaries of the boulevards, as a monstrous, unwieldy omnibus, drawn by three horses abreast, rolled upwards on its passage to the gare du nord. the horses' hoofs slapped the street with the clatter of iron on stone, and the passing of the omnibus drowned every other sound with its thunder, so that when it had gone, and the echoes of its passage had died away, the voice of paris seemed more mincing and playful than before. humphrey had been in paris six months now, but the first impression that the city gave had never been erased from his mind. at first the name had filled him with a curious kind of awe: paris and the splendour of its art and life, and the history which linked the centuries together; all the history of the kings of france which he did not know, and the rest that he knew with the vagueness of a somewhat neglected education--the bloody days of the revolution, the siege, the commune; paris, the cockpit of history and the pleasure-house of the world. there was some enchantment in the thought of going to paris, not as a mere visitor, but as a worker, one who was to share the daily lives of the people. and he had arrived in the evening of a february day, in the crisp cold, bewildered by the strangeness of the station. the huge engine had dragged him and his fellows--englishmen chiefly, travelling southwards, and eastwards, and westwards in search of sunshine--across the black country of france, into the greener, sweeter meadows of the valley of the loire, with tall poplars on the sky-line, through the suburbs with their red and white houses looking as if they had been built yesterday, to the vaulted bareness of the gare du nord. there, as it puffed and panted, like a stout, elderly gentleman out of breath, it seemed to gasp: "i've done my part. look after yourselves." to leave the train was like leaving a friend. one stepped to the low platform and became an insect in a web of blue-bloused porters, helpless, eager to placate, afraid of creating a disturbance. it seemed to humphrey in those first few moments that these people were inimical to him; they spoke to him roughly and without the traditional politeness of french people. the black-bearded ticket-collector snatched the little cook's pocket-book from his hand, tore out the last tickets, and thrust it back on him, murmuring some complaint, possibly because humphrey had not unclasped the elastic band. there was bother about luggage too; heaven knows what, but he waited dismally and hungrily in the vast room, with its flicker of white light from the arc-lamps above the low counters at which the customs-men, in their shabby uniforms, seemed to be quarrelling with one another, their voices pitched in the loud key that is seldom used in england. he was required to explain and explain again to three or four officials; something of a minor, technical point, he gathered, was barring him from his baggage. his french was not quite adequate to the occasion; but it was maddening to see them shrug their shoulders with a movement that suggested that they rejoiced in his discomfiture.... it was all straightened out, somehow, by a uniformed interpreter, a friendly man who came into humphrey's existence for a moment, and passed out of it in a casual way, a professional dispenser of sympathy and help, expecting no more reward than a franc or so for services that deserved a life-long gratitude. but when the cabman had shouted at him, and the blue-bloused porters (one had attached himself to each of his four pieces of baggage) had insisted on their full payment, and after there had been an exchange of abuse between the cabman and an itinerant seller of violets, whose barrow had nearly been run down, humphrey looked out of the window and caught his first glimpses of paris ... of the light that suggested warmth and laughter. he saw great splashes of light, and through the broad glass windows of the cafés a vision of cosy rooms, bustling with the business of eating, of white tables at which men and women sat--ordinary middle-class people. the movement of their arms and shoulders and heads showed that conversation was brisk during their meal; they smiled at one another. as the cab sped softly along on its pneumatic tyres, he saw picture after picture of this kind, set in its frame of light. "i shall like living here," he thought. chance decreed that the rue le peletier was being repaired, and the cab swung out of the narrower streets into the vivid and wonderful brilliance of the boulevard des italiens. the street throbbed with light and life. he was in a broad avenue with windows that blazed with splendid colour in the night. the faces of the clocks in the middle of the avenue were lit up; the lamps of the flower and newspaper kiosks made pools of shining yellow on the pavement; and above him the red and golden and green of the illuminated advertisements came and went, sending their iridescence into the night. it was not one unbearable glare that startled the eyes, but a blend of many delicate and fine luminous tints: one café was lit with electric lights that gave out a soft pale rose colour, another was of the faintest blue, and a third a delicate yellow, and all these different notes of light rushed together in a lucent harmony. music floated to him as he passed slowly in the stream of bleating and jingling and hooting traffic. he saw the people sitting outside the cafés near braziers of glowing coal, calmly drinking coloured liquids, as though there were no such thing as work in the world. and that was the thought that gave humphrey his first impression of paris. these people, it seemed, only played with life. there was something artificial and unreal about all these cafés: they played at being angry (that business at the customs office was part of the game), an _agent_ held up a little white baton to stop the traffic--playing at being a london policeman, thought humphrey. he wondered whether this sort of thing went on always, with an absurd thought of the paris he had seen at a london exhibition. the cab veered out of the traffic down a side-street between two cafés larger than the rest, and, at the last glimpse of people sitting in overcoats and furs by the braziers, he laughed in the delight of it. "why, they're playing at it being summer," he said to himself. six months had passed since that day, and he had seen paris in many aspects, yet nothing could alter his first impression. the whole city was built as a temple of pleasure, a feminine city, with all the shops in the rue royale or the avenue de l'opera decked with fine jewels and sables. huge emporiums everywhere, crowded with silks and ribbons and lace; wonderful restaurants, with soft rose-shaded lights and mauve and grey tapestries, as dainty as a lady's boudoir. somewhere, very discreetly kept in the background, men and women toiled behind the scenes of luxury and pleasure ... those markets in the bleak morning, and the factories on the outskirts of the city, and along the outer boulevards one saw great-chested men and narrow-chested girls walking homewards from their day's work. but there was pleasure, even for these people: the material pleasure of life, and the spiritual pleasure of art and beauty. the first they could satisfy with a jolly meal in the little bright restaurants of their quarter with red wine and cognac; and of the second they could take their fill for nothing, if they were so minded, for it surrounded them in a scattered profusion everywhere. * * * * * humphrey, in the paris office of _the day_, on the fourth floor of an apartment building in the rue le peletier, sat dreaming of all that had happened in the past six months. wonderful months had they been to him! they had altered his whole perception of things. here, in a new world and a new city, he was beginning to see things in a truer proportion. fleet street receded into the far perspective as something quite small and unimportant; the men themselves, even, seemed narrow-minded and petty, incapable of thinking more deeply than the news of the day demanded. humphrey, from the heights of his room in paris, began to see how broad the world was, that it was finer to deal with nations than individuals, and from his view fleet street appeared to him in the same relation as easterham had appeared to him in london. the clock struck five. rivers and neckinger and selsey would be going into the conference now in ferrol's room to discuss the contents of the paper. "anything big from paris?" some one would be asking, or "what about berlin?"... and he knew that every night they looked towards paris, where amazing things happened, and he, humphrey quain, was paris. that splendid thought thrilled him to the greatest endeavour. he was _the day's_ watchman in paris, not only of all the news that happened in the capital, but of all the happenings in the whole territory of france. a pile of cuttings from the morning's papers were on his desk. here was a leading article on the franco-german relations from the _echo de paris_--an important leading article, obviously inspired by the quai d'orsay. there was a two-column account of the hanon case--an extraordinary murder in lyons which english readers were following with great interest. there was a budget of "fait-divers," those astonishing events in which the fertility of the paris journalist's imagination rises to its highest point. they supplied the "human interest." he had received a wire from london to interview a famous french actress, who was going to play in a london theatre, and that had kept him busy for the afternoon. the morning had been devoted to reading every paris paper. at five o'clock dagneau arrived with the evening papers, bought from the fat old woman who kept the kiosk outside the café riche. he let himself into the flat with a latch-key, and appeared before humphrey, a young man, immaculately dressed, with a light beard fringing his fat cheeks. humphrey could never quite overcome the oddness of having a bearded man as his junior. dagneau was only twenty-two, but he had grown a beard since he was twenty; that was how youths played at being men. humphrey called dagneau "the lamb." "hullo," he said. "anything special?" dagneau's pronunciation of english was as bad as humphrey's pronunciation of french, but in both cases the vocabulary was immense. "they're crying 'death of the president' on the boulevards," said dagneau. humphrey leapt up. "great heavens! you don't say so!" he shouted, going to the telephone. "be not in a hurry, _mon vieux_." (though dagneau was his assistant, they dropped all formalities between themselves.) "it is in _la presse_." "but--" "calm yourself. _la presse_ is selling in thousands. the news is printed in great black letters across the front page." "is it true?" gasped humphrey. "it is true that the president is dead--but it is the president of montemujo or something like that in south america, and not m. loubet." dagneau laughed merrily and slapped the papers on the table. he took humphrey by the shoulders and shook him playfully. "i--would i let my old and faithful englishman down?" he asked. the newspaper phrase spoken as dagneau spoke it sounded delightful. "by george, you gave me a shock," humphrey laughed. "i thought i'd been dozing for an hour with the president dead. dagneau, you are an _espèce de_--anything you like." "any telegrams from london?" "one to interview jeanne granier. i've done it will you go through the evening papers? look out for the _temps_ comments on the persian railway ... they're running that in london. and the latest stuff about the hanon case. i'll run round to _le parisien_ and see what they've got." he went down the winding staircase, past the red-faced concierge and his enormous wife, who knitted perpetually by the door ("_pas des lettres, m'sieu_," she said, in answer to his inquiring look), and so into the street. a passing cabman held up his whip in appeal, and, as moments were precious now, humphrey engaged him. they bowled along through the side-streets, and at the end of each he saw, repeated, the glorious opal and orange sunset over paris: those magnificent sunsets that left the sky in a smother of golden and purple and dark clouds edged with livid light behind the steeple of st augustine. they came to the building of _le parisien_, with whom _the day_ had an arrangement by which humphrey could see their proofs evening and night, in exchange for extending the same privilege to the london correspondent of _le parisien_ at the offices of _the day_. he crossed the threshold into the familiar atmosphere of fleet street. hurry and activity: young frenchmen writing rapidly in room after room. some of them knew him, looked up from their work and nodded to him. from below the printing-machines sent tremors through the building, as they rolled off the first edition for the distant provinces of france, and for the night trains to every capital of europe. the same old work was going on here: the same incessant quest and record of news. he went to the room of barboux, the foreign editor. "good-evening," said barboux, black-bearded, fat and bald-headed. he pronounced "evening" as though it were a french word, and it came out "événandje." barboux offered humphrey a cigarette he had just rolled with black tobacco, and asked him most intimate questions of his doings in paris, so that humphrey had either to acknowledge himself a prude or a parisian. "all the same," said barboux, "paris is a wonderful city, _hein_?" "it is," said humphrey. barboux continued: "is it not the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most entrancing city in the world, young englishman?" "all except london," replied humphrey. "rosbif--goddam--i box your nose," laughed barboux. it was a set form of dialogue that took place every night between them, without variation, a joke invented by barboux. a man in an apron--a french version of the type in _the day's_ printing-office--brought in a budget of proofs. "there is nothing that is happening, ain't it?" remarked barboux, who always rendered _n'est ce pas_ in this literal fashion. "apparently not," humphrey agreed, glancing through the proofs. "when do they expect the verdict in the hanon case?" barboux touched a bell. a young man appeared. his hair was fair and long, his clothes were faultless to the crease in the trousers turned up in the english style over patent-leather shoes with the laces tied in big bows. barboux introduced him: "m. charnac will tell you about the hanon case." the young man bowed in a charming manner, and spoke in a soft, delicious french, with a voice that was charged with courtesy and kindness. "they do not expect a verdict to-night, m'sieu. the court has adjourned. i've just had the finish of our correspondent's message." "_merci_," said humphrey. "_pas de quoi_," said charnac, bowing. humphrey rose and bowed with the ultra politeness that was now part of his daily life. they shook hands. "_enchanté d'avoir fait votre connaissance_," and charnac bowed once more. "_enchanté_," mumbled humphrey. barboux was at the telephone, saying impatiently, "ah-lo.... ah ... lo." humphrey put on his hat, barboux extended his left hand--the greatest sign of friendship that a frenchman can give, since it implies that he knows you too well for you to take offence at it. "_À demain_," said humphrey, as he went away. when he came back to the office, work began in earnest. first of all he had to select from the budget of news on his table those items that would be most acceptable to english readers. that was no small matter on days when there were many things happening. it required sound judgment and a knowledge of what was best in news. then there was always the question of the other correspondents of london newspapers: what were the other fellows sending? he and dagneau talked things over, and, finally, when they had decided what to transmit to london, the work of compiling the stories began. it was necessary to build up a coherent, comprehensive story out of the cuttings before him, in which all the points of the different papers should be mentioned. dagneau helped him, making illiterate translations of leading articles, that needed revising and knocking into shape. perhaps, even at the eleventh hour, a telegram might arrive from the london headquarters, setting them a new task, rendering void all the work they might have done. after two hours' writing humphrey laid down his pen. "come along, my lamb," he said to dagneau; "let us go to dinner." then they put on their hats and coats and went to boisson's, a few doors away in the rue le peletier, where père boisson presided over a pewter counter, spread with glasses and bottles, and mère boisson superintended the kitchen, and henri, the waiter, with a desperate squint, ran to and fro with his burden of plates, covering many miles every night by passing and repassing from the restaurant tables to the steamy recesses behind the door. this was the part of paris life that pleased humphrey most. they received him with cheery _bons soirs_, and henri paused in his race to set the chairs for them, and arrange their table. yards of crisp bread were brought to them, and a _carafon_ of the red wine from touraine, whither m. boisson went on a pilgrimage once a year to sample and buy for himself. little french olives and _filet d'hareng saur_; soup with sorrel floating in it; fish with black butter sauce; a _contre-filet_ or a _vol au vent_ deliciously cooked; roquefort cheese, and, to wind up with, what m. boisson called magnificently _une belle poire_--this was the little dinner they had for something under three francs, and, of course, there was special coffee to follow, and, as a piece of extravagance, a liqueur of _mandarin_ or _noyeau_. "this is better than fleet street," said humphrey, inhaling his cigarette and sipping at the excellent coffee. boisson in his shirt-sleeves and apron came over to them and spoke to them with light banter. he also had a joke of his own: he conceived it to be the highest form of humour to interject "aoh--yes--olright," several times during the conversation. madame boisson waddled towards them, with an overflowing figure, and said, as if her future happiness depended on an answer in the affirmative, "_vous avez bien diné, m'sieu_." the smell of food was pleasant here: there was no hurry; men and women concentrated all their attention on eating and enjoying their meal. the light shone on the glasses of red and white wine. it was a picture that delighted humphrey. and dagneau was telling him of his adventures on the previous night with a little girl, the dearest little girl he had ever met, kissing the tips of his fingers to the air, whenever his emotions overcame him ... and humphrey smiled. this was a side of paris of which he knew nothing. his thoughts went back to london where elizabeth lived, beautiful and austere. "i must write to elizabeth to-night," he thought. at nine-twenty dagneau caught the eye of henri and made an imaginary gesture of writing on the palm of his left hand. "that's the way to get a perfect french accent," he said to humphrey. henri nodded in swift comprehension and appeared with a piece of paper on which illegible figures were scrawled. they paid and went away, with the boissons and henri calling farewells to them. happy little restaurant in the rue le peletier! they got back to the office just as the telephone bell was making a rattling din. humphrey sat down and adjusted over his head the steel band that held the receivers close to his ears. then, pulling the telephone closer to him, and spreading out before him all that he had written, he waited. and, presently, sometimes receding and sometimes coming nearer above the hum and buzz that sounded like the wind and the waves roaring about the deep-sea cables, he heard the voice of westgate coming from england. "hallo ... hallo ... hallo.... that you, quain.... can't hear you.... get another line ... buzz--zz--zz ... oooo. ah! that's better." westgate's voice became suddenly clear and vibrating as though he were speaking from the next room. but humphrey could see the little box in the sub-editors' room, where all the men were working round selsey, and the messenger-boys coming and going with their flimsy envelopes; he could see the strained, eager face of westgate, as he waited, pencil in hand ... and he began. he shouted the news of paris for fifteen minutes, and at the end the perspiration wetted his forehead, and westgate's good-night left him exhausted. sometimes, when the wires were interfered with by a gale, the fifteen minutes were wasted in futile shouting and endeavour to be heard in london; sometimes westgate would say bluntly: "selsey says he doesn't want any of that story," when he began to read his carefully prepared notes. those were desperate minutes, shouting to london against time. "all well?" asked dagneau, when he finished. "i suppose so," humphrey answered. "westgate was in great form to-night--he was taking down at the rate of a hundred and twenty words a minute...." he rose and stretched himself. "will you pay the late call at the newspaper offices? i'll be at constans in case anything happens." out again into the bright glamour of the boulevards to constans at the corner of the place de l'opera, in the shadow of the opera-house, to meet the other correspondents, and wait on the events of europe, and drink brandy and soda or the light lager-beer that was sold at constans. it was a place where most of the paris correspondents gathered, and, sometimes, the "special correspondents" came also. they were lofty people, who had long since left the routine of fleet street; the princes of journalism, who passed through paris on their way to st petersburg, to madrid--to any part of europe or the world where there was unrest; war correspondents, and special commissioners; men who had letters of introduction from diplomat to diplomat, who talked with kings and chancellors, and interviewed sultans. they flitted through paris whenever any big news happened, in twos and threes, only staying for a few hours at constans to meet friends, and then on again by the midnight expresses.... they were a jolly lot of fellows who met in those days at constans: o'malley of _the sentinel_, the fair-haired scholar who spoke of style in writing, and could speak french with an irish accent and knew how to ask the waiter to "apporthez des p'hommes de therrey"; punter, who represented the kelmscotts' papers, talked french politics late into the night, and wore a monocle that never dropped from his eye--not even in those exciting moments when michael, his coal-black eyes and hair betraying his ancestry, crossed his path in argument. at midnight dagneau came in with word from the outside world. all was quiet. so humphrey went back to the hotel in the rue d'antin, where he rented a room on the fifth floor by the month for eighty francs, including the morning roll and bowl of coffee. he wrote his letter to elizabeth: he wanted her to come to paris and share his life with him. ii he wanted her very much to share in the delight of those days. it was all so new and beautiful to him, so different from london. he went about the city, sometimes alone, sometimes with dagneau for a companion, to the louvre, where the venus de milo filled him with awe and wonder, or to the luxembourg, with its statuary set among the green trees. in the afternoons, when he had any spare time, he would take a book and read in the tuileries, or on one of the seats in the champs elysées, where the fat norman and breton nurses, with their broad coloured ribbons floating from their _coifs_, wheeled perambulators up and down, or took the children to the punch and judy shows. and on sundays in the season, there were the races at longchamps, with a drive homewards in the cool of the evening, through the bois, where his cab was one of a long line of vehicles making a moving pageant of the human comedy, with laughing bourgeois families riding five and six in a cab, and aristocracy and opulent beauty, artificial and real, rolling by in victorias and electric broughams. those rides down the avenue du bois to the arc de triomphe made him feel very poor: the women, lolling back in silken comfort, seemed lifted above the everyday world, away from all thought of squalor and sordidness. they were the rare hot-house flowers of society; the cold wind of life's reality would wither them in a day. so they passed before him, exquisitely beautiful and remote, looking with languid interest at the rest of the people in the incomparable vanity of their silk and lace and diamonds.... yet again, his work took him behind the scenes of parisian life, into places that are not familiar to the casual visitor to paris. he would sit in the chamber of deputies to make notes of an important debate, or to watch the rigid semicircle of french legislators break up into riotous factions, with the tintinnabulation of the president's bell adding to the din. this would appear in _the day_ with the head-line, "pandemonium in the french chamber." perhaps it was necessary to interview a _juge d'instruction_ in his private room at the palais de justice, or to pass through the corridors of the surété--france's scotland yard--to inquire into a sensational murder mystery. and he found, too, that in paris he had a certain standing as a journalist that was denied him in london. he was registered in books, and the seal of approval was given to him in the shape of a _coupe-fil_, which was a card of identity, with his portrait and the name of _the day_ on it--a magic card that enabled him to do miraculous things with policemen and officials; it was a passport to the front row in the drama of life. there was no need in paris to haggle with policemen, to wink at them, and win a passage through the crowd by subterfuge as in london: this card divided a way for him through the multitude. so that now, when he felt that he had established himself in his career, when his salary was more than adequate for the needs of two, the strong need of elizabeth came to him. the brilliant gaiety of paris swirled about him, and tried to entice him into its joyous whirlpool. he knew the dangers that beset him: he knew the stories of men who had been dragged into the whirlpool, down into the waters that closed over their heads, bringing oblivion. and he looked towards the ideal of elizabeth, as he had always looked towards the ideal of the love which she personified, to save him from the evil things that are bred by loneliness and despair. iii one saturday night, when there was nothing else to do, he went up to montmartre, and walked along the boulevard de clichy, past the grotesque absurdities of the _cabarets_ that are set there for the delectation of foreign and provincial strangers: _cabarets_ that mock at death and heaven and hell with all the vulgarity and coarseness that exists side by side with the love of beauty, art and culture in paris. for a franc you could watch the old illusion of a shrouded man turning to a grisly skeleton in his narrow coffin; or you could see a diverting burlesque of the celestial realms, and observe how sinners were burnt in a canvas hell with artificial flames. humphrey had seen all these during his first week in paris: he had laughed, but afterwards he had been ashamed of his laughter. they were a little degrading.... he passed them by to-night, in spite of the enticing blandishments of the mock mute, the angel and the devil by the doors of their haunts. he wandered aimlessly along this boulevard, where women crossed his path, looking very picturesque, without any covering to their heads, shawls across their shoulders and red aprons down to the fringe of their short skirts. there was something savage and primitive about these women: they lacked the frankness and gaiety of the coster-girl in london; they were beautiful, with an evil and cruel beauty. vicious-looking men slouched from the shadows. their looks could not conceal the knives in their pockets. they were as rats in the night, creeping from pavement to pavement, preying on humanity. the door of a café chantant opened, as humphrey came abreast with it, and the sound of a jingling chorus, played on a discordant piano, arrested his steps. the man who was coming out, thinking that humphrey was about to enter, held the door open for him politely. something impelled humphrey forward. he went inside. the room was heavy with tobacco smoke; it floated in thin clouds about the lights and drifted here and there in pale spirals as it was blown from the lips of the smokers. his vision was blurred by the smoke at first, and, as he stood there blinking and self-conscious, it was as though he had intruded into some private and intimate gathering. it seemed that every one in the room was staring at him. the impression only lasted a moment. he perceived a vacant chair by a table and sat down, with the bearing of one to whom the place was familiar. all around him the men and women were sitting. there was an air of sex-comradeship that, in spite of its frankness, was neither indecent nor blatant. the people were behaving in the most natural way in the world. sometimes a woman nestled close to a man and their hands interlaced; sometimes a man sat with his arm round the waist of a girl. mild liquids were before them--the light beer of france, little glasses of cherries soaked in brandy, glasses of white and red wine. their eyes were set towards the small stage at the end of the room, a narrow platform framed in crudely-painted canvas, representing trees and foliage; while at the back there was a drop-scene that showed a forest as an early japanese artist might have drawn it, with vast distances and a nursery contempt for perspective. his eye wandered to the walls painted with scroll-work and deformed cupids and panels of nude women, so badly done that they appealed more to the sense of humour than to the sexual. the pictures on the walls seemed to leave the men and women untouched; they concentrated all their attention on the entertainment. the only person in the place who showed any sign of boredom was the gendarme who sat by the door, the state's hostage to its conscience. nothing, said the state, in effect, can be indecent if one of our gendarmes is there. this was not one of the _cabarets_ where the poet-singers of montmartre chant, with melancholy face, their witty doggerel or their fragrant pastorals; where people came to hear the veiled obscenities of political satire or allusions to passing events; this was a second-rate affair, a _tingel-tangel_--a species of family music-hall. a waiter in an alpaca jacket, a stained apron wound skirt-wise round his trousers, approached humphrey with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows. he removed empty glasses dexterously with one hand and slopped a cloth over the table with the other. "m'sieu, desire...?" "_un fin_," answered humphrey. the waiter emitted an explosive _bon_ and threaded his way through the labyrinth of chairs to a high wooden counter, where a fat man, with his shirt-sleeves rolled back to his elbow, stood sentinel over rows of coloured bottles. the light shone on green and red liqueurs, on pale amber and dark brown bottles placed on glass shelves against a looking-glass background, that reflected the bullet shape of the _patron's_ close-cropped head. meanwhile the pianist had finished his interlude, and there was a burst of applause as a woman appeared on the stage. she wore an amazing hat of orange and white silk, in which feathers were the most insistent feature. there was something extraordinarily bold and flaunting in her presence. her neck and shoulders and bosom were bare to the low cut of her bodice, and the cruel light showed the powder that she had scattered over her throat and shoulders to make them white and enticing; it showed the red paint on the lips and the rouge on the cheeks, and the black on her eyelashes and eyebrows. the crude touches of obvious artifice destroyed her beauty. her waist was compressed into a painful smallness, and her skirt was flounced and reached only to the knees. she sang a song that had something to do with a soldier's life. "tell me, soldier," she sang, "what do you think of in battle? do you think of the glory of the fatherland and the splendour of dying for france?" and the soldier answers: "i think only of a farm in avignon, and a maiden whose lips i used to kiss on the old bridge; i think only of my old mother and how she will embrace me when i come home." when she sang the simple song, though her voice was false, and her gestures stereotyped, the rouge and the powder and the paint were forgotten for a moment. she was one of those unconscious artists belonging to a people who have art woven into the warp and woof of their daily life. the audience took up the chorus. she nodded to them with an audacious smile. the pianist, with his cigarette stub hanging from his lips, under cover of the volume of voices, forsook the treble for a moment, and reached out with his hand for a glass of beer that rested above the piano. it was the strange, fumbling motion of his hand that caught humphrey's eye, trained to observe such details. he looked closer, and saw that the pianist's eyes were closed, and the lashes were withered where they met the cheek. he was blind; he never saw the faces and figures of the women who sang, he only heard the voices; he could see nothing that was harsh and cruel. and the picture of the blind pianist at the side of the garish stage, improvising little runs and trills and spinning a web of melody night after night, stirred humphrey with an odd emotion. there was a pause. the door opened and closed as people came and went. humphrey sipped at the brandy; the fiery taste of it made his palate and throat smart. the price of the entertainment was one franc, including a drink. suddenly the pianist struck up a well-known air. a slim girl, in the costume of the district, slouched on to the stage, her hands thrust into the pockets of her apron. her hair was bundled together in careless heaps of yellow, her eyes were pale blue and almost almond-shaped, her features finely moulded, with a queer distinction of their own. and when she took one hand out of her apron pocket, he saw that the fingers were long and exquisitely tapered, and tipped with pink, beautiful nails that shone in the light. those finger-nails betrayed her. they were not in keeping with the part. she started singing, walking the small stage with a swaying motion of her body; her young form was lithe and graceful; her movements tigrine. and as she sang her lilting chorus, her pale eyes gazed from their narrow slits at humphrey, not boldly or coquettishly, but with an indeterminate appeal, as though she felt ashamed of her song. "quand je danse avec mon grand frisé il a l'air de m'enlacer je perds la tête 'suis comme une bête! 'y a pas chose--'suis sa chose à lui 'y a pas mal--quoi? c'est mon mari car moi, je l'aime j'aime mon grand frisé." the audience sang the swinging chorus, and she moved sinuously to and fro with the rhythm of it. humphrey sat there, and he seemed to lose consciousness of all the other people in the room--the smell of the smoke, and the jingle of the piano, and the ill-painted pictures on the walls faded away from him; all his senses seemed to merge and concentrate on the enjoyment of this moment. she was singing on the stage for him, her narrow eyes never left him. and her song was a pæan in praise of the brute in man. she acted her song. her face was radiant with the joy of being possessed, and her eyes shone as she abandoned herself to the words: "quand je danse avec le grand frisé il a l'air de m'enlacer...." then her wonderful hands with their glinting finger-nails went up to her head, and she half-closed her eyes, as though she were swooning: "je perds la tête...." now her eyes were opened, and they glared wildly, and her lips trembled, and her slim body quivered with animal hunger: "'suis comme une bête." and now, she smiled, and pride was on her face; one hand rested on her hip, and she swaggered up the stage, as the words fitted into the opening lilt: "'y pas chose--suis sa chose à lui 'y pas mal--quoi? c'est mon mari...." her face became at once miraculously tender. she expressed great and overpowering love--a love so strong that it swept everything before it--a love that was without restraint, passionate, fierce and unquenchable. her arms were outstretched. her dark blouse, opened at the neck, revealed her white throat throbbing with her song: "car moi, je l'aime j'aime mon grand frisé." and when she sang "_je l'aime_," she invested the words with passion and renunciation. they clamoured for another verse, crying "_bis ... bis_," in throaty tones, but she only came on to bow to them, and walk off again with that swaying stride. "_eh, bien!_" said a voice at humphrey's elbow, "she is very good, our little desirée, _hein_?" he turned half round in his chair. at first he did not recognize the immaculately clothed young man, with the fair, long hair, who smiled at him, and then he recollected that they had met in the office of _le parisien_. "m. charnac, isn't it?" humphrey asked. "i didn't know you at once.... yes, she's very good. what's her name?" "desirée lebeau," charnac answered. he looked at humphrey again, still smiling. "do you often come here?" he asked. "this is the first time.... i was wandering about.... i just dropped in." humphrey noticed that charnac was not alone. a pretty girl dressed becomingly in black, with a touch of red about her neck, sat by his side. "allow me to present a friend, margot," charnac said to the girl. "he is an englishman--a journalist," he added. and to humphrey he said: "mlle. margot lebeau. she is the sister of our little desirée." "_m'sieu est anglais_," said the dark-haired girl in a piping voice. "_ah! que ça doit être interessant d'être anglais._" iv the entertainment was near its end. a dainty figure came from the heavy curtains that hung from each side of the proscenium and hid the entertainers from the audience. humphrey recognised desirée, though she had forsaken her stage-costume and wore a simple dark-blue dress, with a black fur boa held carelessly about her shoulders. she came towards them with a smile, stopping on the way, as one or two men, of a better class than the bulk of the audience, hailed her. she bent down to them, and whispered conversations followed. she laughed and slapped the face of one man--an elderly man with a red ribbon in his button-hole. it was a playful slap, just the movement that a kitten makes with its paw when it is playing with long hanging curtains. charnac pushed out a chair for her invitingly. she came to them with a smile hovering about her lips, and a look of curious interest in her pale eyes as she saw humphrey. she shook hands with charnac, and kissed her sister margot, and then, with a frank gesture, without any embarrassment, she held out her hand to humphrey and said: "_bon soir, p'tit homme._" there was a quality of friendship in her voice; her whole manner suggested a desire to be amiable; she accepted humphrey as a friend without question, and, as for charnac, she treated him as if he were one of the family, as a brother. the women in the room stared at the party every few moments, absorbed in the details of desirée's dress, and the men glanced at her with smiles that irritated humphrey. "it is a little friend of mine--an englishman," charnac said to desirée. "an englishman!" said desirée, in a way that seemed to be the echo of her sister's remark a few minutes earlier. "i have a friend in england." she spoke french in a clipped manner, abbreviating her words, and scattering fragments of slang through her phrases. "is that so?" humphrey said. "what part of england?" "manchestaire," she replied. "his name was mr smith. you know him?" humphrey laughed. "i'm afraid i don't--manchester's a big place, you know." "is it as big as london?" "oh no. not as big as london." "i should like to go to london. i have a friend there--a girl friend." "oh! where does she live?" "i forget the name of the street--somewhere near charing cross--that's a railway station, isn't it?" "yes." silence fell between them while a comedian, dressed as a comic soldier, sang a song that made them all laugh; though humphrey could not understand the _argot_, he caught something of the innuendo of the song. strange, that in france and germany, in countries where patriotism and militarism are at their highest, the army should be held up to ridicule, and burlesqued in the coarsest fashion. the song gave humphrey an opportunity of studying desirée's face. he saw that the yellow hair was silky and natural; her eyebrows were as pale as her hair, and when she laughed, her red lips parted to show small white teeth that looked incredibly sharp. she was not beautiful, but she held some mysterious attraction for him. she was of a type that differed from all the women he had met. though her face and figure showed that she was little more than twenty, her bearing was that of a woman who had lived and learnt all there was to know of the world. one slim, ungloved hand rested on the table, and he noted the beauty of it, its slender, delicate fingers, and the perfect shape of her pink, shining nails. in the making of her, nature seemed to have concentrated in her hands all her power of creating beauty. the song finished to a round of applause. "_il est joliment drôle_," said desirée to charnac. "ah! zut ... i could do with a drink." "we won't have anything here," charnac said. "they only sell species of poisons. let's go and have supper at the chariot d'or.... will you join us, mr quain?" why not? it was a perfectly harmless idea. every experience added something to his knowledge. and yet, he hesitated. somewhere, at the back of his mind, a feeling of uneasiness awoke in him. charnac would pair off with margot, and he would have to sit with desirée during the meal. the thought carried with it a picture of forbidden things. conscience argued with him: "you really oughtn't to, you know." "why not? what harm will it do?" he urged. conscience was relentless. "you forget you have a duty to some one." "nonsense," he said, "let's look at the thing in a broad-minded way. it won't hurt me to have supper with them, surely." desirée laid a hand upon his sleeve gently. "_tu viens--oui_," she asked, in a low, caressing voice. their eyes met. he saw the pupils of her narrow eyes grow larger for a second, as though they were striving to express unspoken thoughts. then they receded and contracted to little, dark, twinkling beads set in their centre of pale blue circles. "_oui_," he said, with a sigh. * * * * * they came out into the noisy night of the boulevard. they walked together, charnac and margot with linked arms. the lower floors of the night restaurants were blazing with light, but in the upper rooms the drawn blinds subdued the glare, and transformed it into a warm glow. cabs and motor-cars came up the steep hill from the grands boulevards below for the revelry of supper after the theatre. the great doors of the chariot d'or were continually moving, and the uniformed doorkeeper seemed to enjoy the exercise of pulling the door open every second, as women in wraps, accompanied by men, crossed the threshold. they went upstairs into a long brilliant room, all gold and glass and red plush, with white tablecloths shining in the strong light. in the corner a group of musicians, dressed in a picturesque costume--it might have been taken from any of the balkan states, or from imagination--played a dragging waltz melody. a dark woman sat by them, wearing a spanish dress, orange and spangled, the bodice low-cut, and the skirt fanciful and short, showing her thin legs clad in black open-work stockings. she regarded the room with an air of detached interest, unanswering the glances of the men. she was the wife of the first violinist. charnac led the way to a table; he placed himself next to margot on the red plush sofa-cushions, and humphrey sat with desirée. while charnac was ordering the supper and consulting their individual tastes, humphrey glanced round the room at the men who sat at the little tables with glasses of sparkling amber wine before them, some of them in evening-dress, with crumpled, soft shirt-fronts, others in lounge suits or morning-coats. not all had women with them, but the women that he saw were luxurious, beautiful creatures, with indolent eyes and faces of strange beauty. the lights gleamed under rose-coloured shades on the table, on the silver dishes piled high with splendid fruits, on bottles swathed tenderly with napkins, set in silver ice-pails, on tumblers of coloured wines and liqueurs. "it's pretty here, eh?" said desirée. "it's not so bad. i've never been here before. do you come often?" "oh no! not often: only when margot brings gustave to come and fetch me after i've been singing." she clapped her hands gaily as the waiter set a steaming dish of mussels before them. the house was famed for its _moules marinières_. "i adore them," she said, unfolding her serviette, and tucking it under her chin. charnac ladled out the mussels into soup-plates. their blue iridescent shells shone in an opal-coloured gravy where tiny slices of onion floated on the surface. her dainty fingers dipped into the plate, and she fed herself with the mussels, biting them from the shells with her sharp white teeth. she ate with an extraordinary rapidity, breaking off generous pieces from the long, crisp roll of bread before her, and drinking deeply of her red burgundy. she was simply an animal. margot ate in much the same way, with greedy, quick gestures, until her plate was piled high with empty mussel shells. and, during the meal, they chattered trivialities, discussing personal friends in a slangy, intimate phraseology. the sharp taste of the sauce, with its flavour of the salt sea-water, made humphrey thirsty, and he, too, drank plenty of wine; and the wine and the warmth sent the colour rushing to his cheeks, and filled him with a sense of comfort. the whole atmosphere of the place had a soothing effect on him. the orchestra started to play a spanish dance, and the woman in orange rose from her seat, and tossing her lace shawl aside, moved down the aisle of tables in a sidling, swinging dance, castanets clicking from her thumbs, marking the sway and poise of her body above her hips. it was a sexual, voluptuous dance, that stirred the senses like strong wine. now she flung herself backwards with a proud, uplifted chin. one high-heeled satin shoe stamped the floor. her eyes flashed darkly and dangerously; she flaunted her bare throat and bosom before them; now she moved with a lithe sinuous motion from table to table, one hand on her hip, and the other swinging loosely by her side. there was something terrible and triumphant in her dance to the beat of the music with its rhythm of a heart throbbing in passion. "bravo! bravo!" they cried, as the dance finished. "_bis_," shouted charnac, lolling back in his seat with his arm round margot's shoulder. "she dances well," said humphrey. desirée turned her pale eyes on him. "i can dance better," she said, and before he had realized it, she was up and in the centre of the room, and everybody laughed and clapped hands, as desirée began to dance with stealthy, cat-like steps. her face was impudent, as she twined and twisted her thin body into contortions that set all the men leering at her. it was frankly repulsive and horrible to humphrey; she seemed suddenly to have ceased to be a woman, just as when she had started to eat. she was inhuman when she sang and ate and danced. the blur of white flesh through the smoke, the odour of heavy scents, and the sight of desirée writhing in her horrid dance, sickened him. he saw her white teeth gleaming between her lips, half-parted with the exhaustion of her dance, he saw her eyes laughing at him, as though she were proud and expected his applause, and he felt a profound, inexplicable pity for her that overwhelmed his disgust. she flung herself, panting, into her seat, and pushed back her disordered yellow hair with her hands. "_oh la! ... la!_" she cried, laughing in gasps, "_c'est fatiguant, ça_ ... my throat is like a furnace." and she clicked her glass against the glass that humphrey held in his hand, and drained it to the finish. "why did you do that?" asked humphrey, huskily. "do what?" "dance like that--in front of all these people?" "why shouldn't i, if i want to?" "i don't like it," he said, wondering why he was impelled to say so. "well, you shouldn't have said she dances well," desirée replied. "i must be going," humphrey said. "oh, not yet," charnac said. "let's all go together." "no," he pushed his chair away with sudden resolution. "i must go." "but, my dear--" desirée began. "i must go," humphrey repeated, slowly. it was like the repetition of a lesson. "i must go now." "oh, well--" charnac said. the waiter appeared with a bill. "you will allow me to pay?" humphrey asked charnac. "_mais non, mais non, mon ami_," he replied, good-naturedly. "it was i who asked you to come, wasn't it? another night it will be your turn." "another night," echoed margot, in her high-pitched voice. "_j'adore les anglais, ils sont si gentils._" "and why cannot you stop?" desirée asked. he avoided her eyes. never could he explain in this room, with its scent and its music and its warmth, that turned vice into happiness and made virtue as chilling and intractable as marble. he only knew that he had to go. he made some excuse--any excuse--work--a headache ... he did not know what he was saying; he was only conscious of those narrow eyes beneath pale eyebrows, and red parted lips, and the soft hand that lay in his--the soft hand with the finger-tips as beautiful as rosy sea-shells. they were not to blame; they could not be expected to know his innermost life, nor why it was that he felt suddenly as if he had profaned himself, and all that was most sacred to him. but that finer, nobler self that was always dormant within him, as eager to awaken to influences as it was to be lulled to sleep by them, became active and alert.... there was a hint of dawn in the sky as he came out into the empty street, his mind charged with a deep melancholy. but, as the cool air played about his face, he breathed more freely after the stuffy warmth of the room, and he walked with a firm step, square-shouldered, erect and courageous. v some weeks later there came a letter which brought the reality of things into his own life. it was a short and regretful letter from a firm of easterham solicitors, announcing the death of his aunt. they informed him of the fact in a few, brief, dignified words. there was an undercurrent of excuse, as if they felt themselves personally responsible for the sudden demise, and were anxious to apologise for any inconvenience that might be felt by mr quain. he gathered that his aunt had lived on an annuity, which expired with her; that a little financial trouble--loans to a brother of whom humphrey had never heard--absorbed her furniture and all her possessions, with the exception of a watch and chain, which she had willed to humphrey. the funeral was to take place two days hence--and that was all. the letter moved him neither to tears nor sorrow. his aunt had been as remote from him in life as she was in death. an unbridgeable abyss had divided them. never, during the years he had lived in easterham, after his father's death, had they talked of the fundamental things that mattered to one another. he felt that he owed her nothing, least of all love, for she remained in his memory a masterful, powerful influence, trying to fetter him down to a narrow life, without comprehension of the broad, beautiful world that lay at her doors. he could see her now in her dress of some mysterious black pattern, and always a shawl over her shoulder, her white hair plastered close to her heavy gold earrings, her lips thin and compressed, and her eyes hard-set, when she said, "you must get on." she did not know, when she urged him to go forward, how far he meant to go. her vision of getting on was bounded by easterham--what could she know and understand of all the bewildering phases he had undergone; the bitter heartaches, the misery of failure, and the glory of conquest in a world wider than a million easterhams. but, as he thought of her dead, a strange feeling came to him that now she could understand everything, that she knew all, and was even ready to reach out in sympathy to him. her last pathetic message--a watch and chain! the rude knowledge that he had gained of the secret things of her life--how she lived, her loan to the brother; it seemed that some hidden door which they had both kept carefully locked had been flung open widely--that his eyes were desecrating her profoundest secrets. it was not the first time that death had stirred his life, but this was a sudden and unexpected snapping of a chain that bound him with his boyhood. always he had been subconsciously aware of his aunt's presence in the scheme of things; there had been ingrained in him a certain fear of her, that he had never quite shaken off. behind the individuality of his own life she had lurked, a shadowy figure, yet ready to emerge from the shadows at a moment of provocation, and become real and distinct and forbidding. and now he could scarcely realize that she was dead--that he was absolutely alone in the world, though there might be, somewhere, cousins and kinspeople whom he had never seen. she had not been demonstratively kind to him in life. the watch and chain she left was the first present he could ever remember receiving from her. but he felt that he could not absent himself from her funeral; it would be a sad and desolate business in the easterham churchyard, with not many people there, yet he knew that he could not pass the day in paris without thinking of her, lowered into the grave to the eternal loneliness of death. he sent a telegram to london, and received a reply a few hours later, giving him permission to leave paris, and the next day he travelled to england. the collection of papers and magazines rested unread in his lap. he looked from the window on the succession of pictures that flashed and disappeared--a blue-bloused labourer at work in the fields, or a waggoner toiling along a country lane; children shouting by the hedgerows, and the signal-women who sat by their little huts on the railway as the train sped by. he could not read; sometimes, with a sigh, he sought a paper (france had just caught the popular magazine habit from england), turned the pages restlessly, and, finally, leaning on the arm-rest, stared out of the window.... the shuttle of his mind went to and fro, twining together the disconnected threads of his thoughts into a pattern of memories--memories of his youth and his work and his aunt interwoven with the strong, dominating thought of elizabeth.... his thoughts turned continually to elizabeth; sometimes they spun away to something else, but always they were led back through a series of memories to that night when he had kissed her for the first time. it was odd how this absence from her seemed to have changed her in his mind. there had been an undercurrent of disappointment in their relations, of late. her letters had been strangely sterile and unsatisfying. she had written an evasive reply, after a delay, an answer to his last letter begging her to come to him.... yet he was eager to see her and to kiss her. he felt that she was all that he had left to him in the world: that she and his work were all that mattered.... a garrulous frenchman lured him into conversation during dinner; he was glad, for it gave him relief from the monotonous burden of his thoughts ... and on the boat he dozed in the sunshine of a smooth crossing. once in england again, the delight of an exile returning to his home provided new sensations. the porters were deferentially solicitous for his comfort; the customs officers behaved with innate politeness, and the little squat train, with its separate compartments, brought a glow of happiness to him. he saw england as a stranger might see it for the first time: he observed the discipline and order of the railway station that came not from oppression but from high organization and planning. there were no mistakes made; the boy brought his tea-basket and did not overcharge him; the porter accepted sixpence and touched his hat, not obsequiously, but in acknowledgment, without a suggestion of haggling for more. it seemed incredible that he should find this perfection, where a year ago he could not see it.... there were frenchmen in the carriage, and he sat with the conscious pride of an englishman in his own country. the train moved out, giving a glimpse of the harbour and the sea breaking in white lines over the sloping beach; and then through a tunnel that emerged on fields. the first thing he noticed was the vivid green of the country, and the way it was cut up and divided into squares and oblongs: the small clumps of low-set trees, the fat cattle, and the peace brooding over the land. and then he noticed the little houses, low-storied and thatched, with a feather of blue smoke waving from their chimneys. the whole journey was a series of new impressions that elated him. stations flashed and left behind a blurred memory of advertisements, and names that breathed of yeoman england: ashford--paddock wood--sevenoaks--knockholt; and then the advertisement-boards stood out of the green fields, blatantly insisting on lung tonics and pills, marking off mile after mile that brought him nearer to london. the houses closed in on the railway line; the train ran now through larger stations of red brick, passing the peopled platforms with an echoing roar; other crowded trains passed them, going slowly to the suburbs they had left behind. a new note seemed to come into the journey as the evening descended, and the world outside was populous with lights. the memory of the clean, sweet country, with its toy houses, was wiped away by a swift blot of darkness as the train flashed through new cross, and out into the broad network of rails with which london begins. he saw the factories and the sidings and the busy traffic of trains overtaking one another, running parallel for a space, and then swaying apart as one branched off to the south-eastern suburbs. he saw the smoke hanging in thick clouds on the far horizon; masts and rigging made spidery silhouettes against the sky; and the tall, factory chimneys thrust out their monstrous tongues of livid fire. the city was before him right and left, overgrown and tremendous. they ran level with crooked chimney-pots and the scarred roofs of endless rows of houses. the upper windows were yellow with light, and he caught glimpses of women before mirrors and men in their shirt-sleeves. dark masses of clouds rolled before the moon. something wet splashed on his cheek. a silent englishman sitting next to him, said moodily: "raining as usual. i've never once come home without it raining." he laughed as though it were a bitter joke. fantastic reflections wriggled on the wet, shining approach to london bridge--a swift vision of bus-drivers, with oilcloth capes glinting in the rain, hurrying crowds, and something altogether new--a motor-omnibus. then the train, with a dignified, steady movement, swung slowly across hungerford bridge, and he saw the strong, resolute river, black and broad, flowing to the bridges, within the jewelled girdle of the embankment. the sense of england's greatness came to him, as the landmarks of london were set in a semicircle before him: the tall dome of st paul's, the spires of churches, the turrets of great hotels, grey government offices, culminating in the vague majesty of the houses of parliament. how different the streets were from paris! there was a force and an energy that seemed to be driving everything perpetually forward. this business of getting to dinner--it was about half-past seven--was a terribly earnest and crowded affair. the throng of motor-cars and omnibuses jammed and flocked together in the strand, held in leash by a policeman's uplifted hand, and when it was released, it crawled sluggishly forward. here and there, rare sight for humphrey, one of the new motor-omnibuses lumbered forward heavily, threatening instant annihilation of everything. there was no chatter of voices in the crowd--no gesticulation--the people walked silently and hurriedly with a set concentration of purpose. he went to a hotel in the adelphi to leave his bag. then he came out, pausing for a moment irresolutely in the crowd. it was too late, as he had foreseen, to go to elizabeth. he had made up his mind to see her on his return from easterham. an omnibus halted by him: he boarded it, and as he passed the griffin, he breathed deeply like a monarch entering his own domain, for the scent of the street was in his nostrils and the old, well-known vision of the lit windows passed before him, and a newsboy ran along shouting a late edition. this was the only street in the world, he felt, that he loved; its people were his people, and its life was his life. he turned into the pen club, to friendship, good-fellowship and welcome. and all the old friends were there--larkin, retelling old stories, chander spinning merry yarns, and vernham making melancholy epigrams. willoughby, he learnt, was away on a mystery in the north, and jamieson was at a first night. "by the way," said larkin, "heard about tommy pride?" "no. what's happened?" "he's left _the day_." "sacked?" asked humphrey. larkin nodded. "rather rough on poor old tommy. married, isn't he?" a picture of his first visit to the home of the prides leapt before humphrey's eyes, and the comfort, the cheeriness, that hid all the hard work of the week. the news hurt him queerly. "what's he doing?" he asked. "well, not much. tommy's not a youngster, you know. i suppose the newspaper press fund will tide him over a bit." larkin dropped the subject, to listen to a story from vernham. after all, it was the most casual thing in the happenings of fleet street to them: it might happen to them any day; it was bound to happen to them one day. and there would always be young men ready to take their places. nobody was to blame; it was just one of the chances of the inexorable system which made their work a gamble, where men hazarded their wits and their lives, and lost or won in the game. humphrey knew more than they did what it meant for tommy pride. he heard as a mocking echo now, the old cry, "two pounds a week and a cottage in the country."... "have a drink," larkin said. he became suddenly out of tune with the place. his perception of fleet street altered. he saw the relentless cruelty of it, the implacable demand for sacrifice that it always made. he visioned it as a giant striding discordantly through the lives of men, crushing them with a strength as mighty as its own machines that roared in the night ... a clumsy and senseless giant, that towered above them, against whom all struggles were pitiful ... futile. vi "one lump or two?" asked elizabeth, holding the sugar-tongs poised over his cup of tea. "one, please," said humphrey. "milk or cream?" "milk." she handed him the cup in silence. there was something in the frank, questioning look in her blue eyes that made him avert his gaze. their meeting had not been at all as he had imagined it. he did not spring towards her, boyishly, and take her in his arms and kiss her. he had approached her humbly and timidly when she stood before him, in all her white purity and beauty, and their lips had met in a brief kiss of greeting. her manner had been curiously formal and restrained, empty of all outward display of emotion. and now they sat at tea in her room with the conversation lagging between them. as he looked round at the room with its chintzes and rose-bowls, its old restfulness reasserted itself. but to humphrey it seemed now more than restful--it seemed stagnant and out of the world.... somewhere, in paris, there were music and laughter, but here, in this quiet backwater of london, one's vision became narrow, and life seemed a monotonous repetition of days. he felt moody, depressed; a sense of coming disaster hung over his mind, like a shadow. her quick sympathy perceived his gloom. "you ought not to have gone," she said, softly. "you mean to the funeral?" "yes; you are too susceptible ... too easily influenced by surroundings. there was no need to come all this way to make yourself miserable." "i don't know why i went," he said. "we never had much in common, my aunt and i, but somehow ... i don't know ... i couldn't bear the thought of not being present at her funeral. i had a silly sort of idea that she would know if i were not there." "you are too susceptible," she repeated. "sometimes i wish you were stronger. you are too much afraid of what people will think of you. this death has meant nothing at all to you, but you are ashamed to say so." "it has meant something to me," he said. "i don't mean that i felt a wrench, as if some one whom i loved very dearly had gone ... i felt that when my father died ... but her death has changed me somehow--here--" and he tapped his breast, "i feel older. i feel as if i had stood over the grave and seen the burial of my youth." "it has made you gloomy," elizabeth said. "i think you would have been truer to yourself if you had remained in paris." he reflected for a few moments, drinking his tea. he felt sombre enough in his black clothes and black tie--dreary concessions to conventionality. "ah, but i wanted to see you, elizabeth," he said earnestly. "it's terribly lonely without you." she leaned forward and laid her hand lightly on his, with a soft, caressing touch. "it's good of you to say that," she said, and then, with a frank smile, "tell me, humphrey, do you really miss me very much?" "i do," he said; and he began talking of himself and all that he did in paris. elizabeth listened with an amused smile playing about her lips. he told her of his work and his play, growing enthusiastic over paris, speaking with all the self-centredness of the egotist. "it seems very pleasant," she said. "you are to be envied, i think. you ought to be very happy: doing everything that you want to do; occupying a good position in journalism." he purred mentally under her praise. already he felt better; her presence stimulated him; but he could not see, nor understand, the true elizabeth, for the mists of vanity, ambition and selfishness clouded his vision at that moment. if only he had forgotten himself ... if only he had asked her one question about herself and _her_ work, or shown the smallest interest in anything outside his own career, he might have risen to great heights of happiness. this was the second in which everything hung in the balance. he saw elizabeth lean her chin in the palm of her hand and contemplate reflectively the distance beyond him. he marked the beauty of her lower arm, bare to the rounded charm of the elbow, as it rested on the curve of the arm-chair. so, he thought, would she sit in paris, and grace his life. and then, suddenly, her face became grave, and she said, abruptly: "humphrey, i want to talk to you very seriously. i want to know whether you will give up journalism." he remembered her hint of this far back in the months when she had first allowed him to tell her of his love. he had thought the danger was past, but now she came to him, with a deliberate, frontal attack on the very stronghold of his existence. "give up journalism!" he echoed. "what for?" all the weapons of her sex were at her command. she might have said, "for me"; she might have smiled and enticed and cajoled. but she brushed these weapons aside disdainfully. hers was the earnest business of putting humphrey to the test. "because i think you and i will never be happy together if you do not. because, if i marry you (he noticed she did not say, 'when i marry you'), i should not want your work to occupy a larger place in our lives than myself. because i hate your work, and i think you can do better things. those are my reasons." he stood up and walked to the window, looking out on the trees that made an avenue of the quiet road. a man with a green baize covered tray on his head came round the corner, swinging a bell up and down. "well?" she said. "oh but look here, elizabeth," he began, "you spring something like this on me suddenly, and expect me to answer at once...." "oh, no! you can have time to think it over. you've had nearly a year, you know." "how do you make that out?" "have you forgotten? when you were going to paris--before you were going to paris even--i tried to show you that i wanted you to give up the work. i remember you promised things. you said you'd write books, or do essays for the weeklies...." "but, dear, you can't make a living writing books--unless you fluke, or unless you're a genius; as for essays for the weeklies, frankly, i don't believe i can do them--i'm not brilliant enough." "yes, you are," elizabeth urged. (fatal mistake to make, it smoothed all his vanity the right way.) "i believe in you, humphrey. if i didn't believe in you, i wouldn't be talking as i am now. and, besides, i've told you before, i have enough for us both." though she was offering him freedom; though, if he wished, he could accept her offer and be rid for ever from the torments of fleet street, he could not leave its joys. "you don't understand," he said. "you couldn't expect me to live on you...." "why not? i should be prepared to live on you, if i were poor." "that's different. you're a woman." she laughed. "we won't go into the side-issues of arguments over ethics," she said. "you need not live on me. you told me that you had saved four hundred pounds. if we lived simply that would keep us both for a start, and you could be adding to your income by writing. humphrey, don't you see i'm trying to rescue you. i want you to do something fine and noble; i want you to go forward." "well, i've gone forward," he said. "i've made myself in the street. you don't know what you ask when you want me to give it up. nobody can understand it unless he's been in the game. i can't think what it is--it isn't vanity, because all that we write is unsigned; it's sheer love of the work that drives us on." "but you hate it, too." "we hate it as fiercely as we love it..." he said, simply. "one day we say to ourselves, 'we will give it up.' that's what i say to you, now. i'm going to give it up, one day." "that you have also promised before," she said, in a gentle voice. "let us talk it over between ourselves. why shouldn't you leave now?" he was cornered: he stood at bay, facing her beauty, but behind it and above it he saw all the struggles and endeavour and splendid triumph that awaited him in the restless years to come, when each day would be a battle-field, and any might bring him defeat or conquest. he saw the world opening before him, and far-off cities close at hand; he saw himself wandering through the years, touching the lives of men; a privileged person, always behind the scenes of life, with a hint of power perhaps.... and, in exchange, she offered him peace and rest, both of which corroded the soul eager for war; peace and rest and love, that would be so beautiful until the years made them familiar and wearisome, until he would be forced to go out again into the thick of the battle ... and by that time his armour would be rusty, and the years of peace would have blunted his sword. "elizabeth," he said slowly, "i can't live in a room, now. i can't always look out of the window on the same scene. i must keep moving. each day must bring me a fresh scene, a fresh experience. i have grown so used to change and movement that a week without it makes life dull and unbearable. i'm not fit for anything else but the work i do. i'm born to do that and nothing else. everything in life now i see from the point of view of 'copy.'" he laughed, but there was a sob in his laughter at his shameful confession. "why, even at the funeral, as i stood over the grave, and watched them lower the coffin, i felt that i could write a splendid column about it, and instead of feeling the solemnity of it all, i found that i was watching the white surplices against the green trees, and looking at the faces of the people, and painting a picture in my mind...." he paused. her eyes were downcast, and her fingers played absently with the loops of the chain that hung from her neck. "it's a habit," he went on. "it's grown on me, so that i see life and its emotions as a series of things to be written about. why shouldn't i have thought as i did at the funeral? i have been taught to do it, when i go to the funerals of great men that i have to report. i'm a journalist ... a reporter. i've seen men eat their hearts out in a year, after they've left the street light-heartedly. the reaction comes suddenly. things are happening all around them, and they're out of it. and they creep back, and try to get a job again. that's what kenneth himself will do one day.... i don't want to be one of those, elizabeth. i want to go through with it, right through to the failure at the end of all, and when the failure comes, i'll build up again." she spread out her hands helplessly. "i see..." she said, "i see...." that was all for a moment, and then, again: "if you were doing something worthy, i could understand; if you were producing art, i could understand, too ... but this"--a copy of _the day_ was on the table, and she held it in her hand--"this is unworthy. this is all you produce with your infinite labour." "it's not unworthy ... we have our ideals." she laughed, and her laugh stung him. "humphrey, you have the ha'penny mind that does not see beyond its own nose. you just live for the day itself. oh!" she cried, "if you knew how i hate your ferrol, and all that he stands for: all the ignoble things in life, painting everything with the commercial taint of worldly success. there was a beautiful picture bought the other day for the national gallery. i see it is to be known as the '£ , picture.' that's the spirit behind ferrol ... we might be crying for great reforms--i have not spoken of my work in all this--we might be lifted up with the power at his command...." when she spoke of ferrol, humphrey remembered all that had been done for him. what could she know of ferrol's personality, of his splendid force, of the thousand generous acts that remained hidden, while only the things were remembered that blackened his reputation. his admiration for ferrol was immeasurable. he saw in the indomitable energy of the man something tangible and positive among all the negative virtues of life. ferrol stood for achievement that crowned the indefatigable years. and with it all, this superman could descend from his loftiness and be human and weave the spell of his humanity about the lives of others. "you don't understand ferrol," he said. "very few people do. but he has been kind to me ... there's something in ferrol that draws me to him. one day you will see he will do all that you expect him to do, but the time is not yet ripe for that. and you speak as if ferrol were the only man in england who owned a newspaper. what of the others--have any of them done as much good as he has done?" "whatever good he has done, is done from motives of gain." "i do not look at motives," he retorted. "i look only at the effects of the action. if a bad deed is done from good motives, it does not make the deed anything but bad." they were standing face to face now. "come, elizabeth," he said, moving towards her. "you do not know how i love you, and if you loved me, you would not ask me to give up my work." her face was white and beautiful, and her hand went up to her heart with a womanly gesture. she spoke in a low, deliberate voice. "in all that we have said, there has never been a word of what giving up _my_ work may mean to me. yet you would have me abandon it, and forsake all the good we have tried to build up...." "you would have to give it up, one day, elizabeth. besides, if you like," he said, desperately, "i'll go to ferrol and ask him to remove me from paris back to london. i'll do anything to meet you, i only want to make you happy." "oh, don't keep on saying that sort of thing," she said; "it irritates me. those hollow repetitions of set phrases--just because they're the right thing to say." "i think you are unreasonable," he began. "i have worked all these years for success, and now, just when i've won it, you wish me to throw everything away." "i wish you to do nothing against your will. i thought you would have seen my point of view. i thought you would be ready to share in my work, which is the work of humanity.... i am sorry. you see, we clash. we shall be better alone." he stared at her with dull incomprehension. "we clash. we shall be better alone." the words repeated themselves over and over again in his brain. and his mind suddenly went back to a little room in the strand and the tears of lilian.... "you mean that," he said, slowly. "you mean that." she nodded. "don't you see how impossible it would be?" "you never loved me," he flung forth as a challenge. "you could have helped me and understood me.... i am not so bad as you think i am." a sad smile answered him. "i understand you so well, humphrey, that i know i shall never be able to help you." he looked about him in weak hesitation. "i suppose i must begin again," he said. "you ... you ... all the time it is you," she cried, passionately. "and what about myself; must not i begin over again, too?" "i'm sorry," he said, feeling the inadequacy of his words. he longed intensely to be away from her now, to be out in the open street where he could think. this room was stifling. he went through the horrid methodical business of parting as if it were all a dream. he remembered glancing at the clock in a casual way, and saying, "i'd better be going"; he remembered the ludicrous search for one glove, he murmuring that it didn't really matter, and she insisting on a search with aching minuteness.... he never saw her again; her life had impinged on his, and left its impression, as many others had done. he did not regret her as he had regretted lilian, for she had outraged his self-respect, and left him abashed and humbled. vii he went back to paris, and a week later the trouble broke out in narbonne. at first it did not seem very serious. one understood vaguely that the wine-growers were in revolt. the paris buyers had been adulterating the vintages--making one cask into a dozen--so that they came to a year when there was such a glut of this adulterated wine on the market, that the wine-growers of the south were left with wine to spill in the gutters, and wine to give to the pigs--but without bread to give to their children. then there arose one of those men who flame into history for a few vivid moments. a leader of men, whose words were sparks dropped among straw; who had but to say "kill," and they would kill, until he bade them stop. for a time, in a way essentially peculiar to france, the ludicrous prevailed. municipalities resigned, mayors and all, and there was no giving nor taking in marriage, no registration of births or deaths. odd stories of the despair of love--sick peasantry at postponed weddings--filled the papers; the _assiette au beurre_ published a special number satirizing the situation. it was a good joke in paris--but at perpignan and montpellier twenty thousand _vignerons_ were talking of bloody revolution, and marching with blue and silver banners, and calling on the government to put a tax on sugar, so as to make adulteration so costly that it should be profitless.... and humphrey in the paris office distilled a column a day from the forty columns that the french special correspondents sent to their papers, while dagneau, up at the ministry of the interior, garnered facts and official _communiqués_. work was his salvation and his solace. everything of the past was wiped away from his mind when humphrey worked. the personal things affecting his own private life became trivial beside the urgent importance of keeping _the day_ well-informed. and thus habit had fortified his power of resistance to external matters that might have disturbed a mind less trained to make itself subservient to the larger issue of duty. in a week--a brief week--he had gone through every phase of sorrow, anger, self-pity at his rejection. he thought of writing--indeed, he went so far one night as to compose a letter imploring elizabeth for forgiveness, promising everything she wished ... but, when it was written, he tore it into little pieces. a mood of futile oaths followed. he felt that he had been balked of her by trickery. it led to violent hatred of her cold austerity, her icy splendour. he put away the thought of her from him. after all, what did it matter? they would never have been happy together. always she was above him, distant and unattainable ... yet those fine moments, when she had stooped down and lifted him up, when gold and brilliance took the place of the dross in his mind! how she filled him with dreams of overwhelming possibilities, of ennobling achievements.... below the crust of the selfishness and vanity of his life, there was a rich vein of good and strong desire ready to be worked, if she had only known. there were moments when his whole soul ached with an intense longing to be exalted and free from the impoverished squalor of its surroundings. he knew it, and the thought of it made him unjust to elizabeth. she had not known of those constant conflicts which endured over years that seemed everlasting,--a guerrilla warfare with conscience. they had not mattered. she had given his soul back to him, to do as he liked with it; she had forsaken him before he was strong enough to stand alone.... the telephone bell rang. he adjusted the metal band over his head. "londres," said the voice of the operator. his ears heard nothing but the voice of _the day_ calling to him; his eyes saw nothing but the sheets of writing at his side, and everything else faded from his mind but the news of the night.... * * * * * he put the receiver down, and almost immediately the telephone bell rang, and he heard a voice telling him that it was charnac.... "where have you been?" asked charnac. "one has missed you." humphrey explained his absence. "can you come to supper to-night," charnac called. "your little desirée will be there." his voice came out of the depths of space, calling humphrey to the gaiety of life. "your little desirée...." it brought to him, vividly, her thin, supple figure; those strange blue eyes that looked widely from beneath the pale eyebrows; and the lips of cherry-red. the song that she had sung that night had been lilting ever since in his mind: "... je perds la tête 'suis comme une bête." he saw her in all her alluring languor, secret, and mysterious. and it was the eternal mystery in her that attracted him. for a few moments he hesitated, indeterminately, at the telephone. "_eh bien, mon vieux_," called charnac's voice. "will you come? . at the chariot d'or." "i'll come," said humphrey. it was ten-thirty. ripples of unrest stirred his mind; he felt deeply agitated. he knew that he was on the brink of a new and complex development in his life; and the future stretched before him, vague and impenetrable, full of a promise of mournful and fierce delights, of happiness inconceivable, and sorrow inexperienced. no scruples retarded him now, and the voice of conscience was stilled, but despite all this, an indefinable mist of melancholy clouded his soul. dagneau came briskly into the office. humphrey ceased brooding, and swung round in his chair. "lamb," he said, "i'm going out to supper to-night." "oh! la! la!" dagneau laughed. "who's the lucky lady?" "not for the likes of little lambs that have to stay in the office and keep the fort." dagneau made a grimace. "i suppose it isn't safe for both of us to leave," he said. "no fear," humphrey replied. "there's no knowing what these fellows mayn't be up to in the south. anyhow, if anything urgent happens, come along to me. i shall be in the chariot d'or until one o'clock." dagneau was a good fellow, thought humphrey, as his cab climbed the hill to montmartre. it was jolly decent of him not to mind. he forgot the office now, and thought only of the night's adventuring. there was fully a half-hour to spare, so he idled it away on the terrace of a café sipping at a liqueur. every variety of street hawker came to persuade sous from him: they had plaster figures for sale, or wanted to cut his silhouette in black paper, or draw a portrait of him in pastels, or sell him ballads and questionable books, bound in pink, pictorial covers. the toy of the moment, frankly indecent, yet offered with a childlike innocence that made it impossible for one to be disgusted with the vendors, was thrust before him fifty times. they showed him how it worked, and when he refused, they brought from inner pockets picture-postcards which they tried to show him covertly, until he drove them away with the _argot_ he had learned from dagneau. at the time appointed a cab climbed the steep rue pigalle, and drew up before the chariot d'or. charnac sat in the middle comfortably squeezed in between margot and desirée. they waved a cheery greeting as they saw humphrey, and he helped them down. without any question he linked his arm in desirée's, and led her up the brilliant scarlet staircase to the supper-room. her meek acceptance of him, and the touch of her, gave him a strong sense of possession. this woman acknowledged his right of mastery over her, without a word being spoken, without any pleading, or the bitter pain of uncertainty. from that moment he felt she was his completely and unquestionably. there was no need to woo her and win her; she was to be taken, and she would yield herself up, as women were taken and women yielded themselves up in the earliest days of the earth. they went to their table. he had no eyes for anyone but desirée. she threw off her wrap, with a gesture of her shoulders, and as it tumbled from them, they shone white and shapely, and a rose was crushed to her bosom, making a splash of scarlet on her white bodice. she laughed and looked at him frankly, as if there were to be no secrets between them, and once, while the supper was being ordered, her thin hand rested in his, and he was stirred to wild, delicious emotion. yes, she was all as he had imagined her; she had not changed at all, and her yellow hair and pale eyebrows and thin face culminating in her pointed chin, reminded him of an aubrey beardsley picture--those slanting eyes, and red lips eternally shaped for a kiss, and the slender throat that rippled below the white surface of its skin when she spoke, the thin bare arms, and her hands, balanced on delicate wrists--those hands with their long dainty fingers and exquisite finger-tips. the sight of her inflamed him. their conversation was commonplace. why, she wanted to know, did he run away the last time they met. he lied to her, and pleaded a headache. "and you won't run off this time?" she asked, with a childish note of appeal in her voice. he sought her hand and held it in his own. she drew it away with a little grimace. "you're hurting me," she said. occasionally margot cut into their conversation. she lacked the beauty of her sister, her figure was stouter, and her face was not well made-up. she treated charnac with good-natured tolerance. during the supper--again the famous mussels--desirée asked humphrey many questions about himself--they were not questions which penetrated deeply into his private life, indeed, she showed no desire to pry into his surroundings. she wanted to know his tastes, and his likes and dislikes, and when, sometimes, he said anything that showed that they had something in common, she laughed delightedly at the discovery. her eyes held a wonderful knowledge in them, but the boldness of their gaze did not suggest immodesty to him. her eyes seemed to say: "there are certain things in life we never talk about. but i understand them all, and i know that you know i understand." it made him feel that there was nothing artificial about their friendship; in one bound they had attained perfect understanding, and it was miraculous to him. it was miraculous to him to sit there, with the music surging in his veins, and to look upon this delicately-wrought creature, beautiful, perfect in body, knowing that when he wished he could take her in his arms, and she would give herself to him without any hesitation. she was utterly strange to him, and yet, by this miracle, their lives were already commingled in swift intimacy. he thought of the other two women who had influenced his life: though he had kissed them, and spent long hours with them, they seemed now irrevocably distant from him, and never had he penetrated to the stratum of full comprehension that lay below the surface of misunderstandings.... he looked back on the years that were past, and he could only see himself struggling and pleading and breaking his heart to win that which was won now without any contest at all. was it love or passion that he wanted from them. ah! if we would only be frank with ourselves, and admit that there is no love without passion, there is no passion without love: that by separating passion from love, it has become a degraded and hidden thing. and humphrey wanted love: the desire for love, love inseparable from passion, had made a turbulent underflow beneath the stream of his life. twice he had tried to grasp love, twice it had eluded him. he had been despoiled by circumstance ... cheated by his own conscience. it was miraculous to him now, that he should be able to wrest his prize from life with so little struggle after all. he looked at desirée, and her eyes smiled--how incredibly near they seemed to one another, how the unattainable drew close to him and smiled.... he became aware of his name spoken aloud, and he looked up and saw a waiter looking round the room, with dagneau at his side. dagneau's face was strained and anxious. he seemed out of breath. suddenly he caught sight of humphrey, and hurried towards him. he raised his hat to the group. "pardon, mad'm'selle," he said to desirée, as he put a telegram before humphrey. the blue slips pasted on the paper danced before his eyes. "_qu'est que c'est?_" margot asked, fussily. "ferrol wants you to go to narbonne," dagneau said. "there's been shooting there.... i looked up the trains. you can catch the one o'clock from the gare d'orsay if you hurry." humphrey stared stupidly at the telegram, and desirée touched him with her hand. "_c'est quelque chose de grave?_" she asked. he shrugged his shoulders. "narbonne," he said to charnac, laconically. "_oh! nom d'un nom_--to-night?" asked charnac. "_c'est embêtant, ça._" and, suddenly, humphrey grew peaceful again, and all the turbulence of his thoughts calmed down and flowed towards the one desire that he had made paramount in his life--the desire of the journalist for news, the longing of the historian for history. fleet street called to him from those blue strips with their printed message. "go narbonne immediately cover riots," and the signature that symbolized fleet street--"ferrol"--held in it all the power that had made him a puppet of fate. but narbonne.... from all parts of europe the special correspondents would be converging on the town. there would be great doings to describe, new interests to make him forget rapidly. dagneau helped him on with his coat. "send on my bag," he said, glancing at his watch. "i'm awfully sorry," he added to charnac. "you'll understand. explain to them, won't you? dagneau, stop and finish my supper." he forgot everything else ... what else mattered? "_dis donc_," desirée said, "are you going again?" how surprisingly unimportant she seemed at this moment. her expression was half-suppliant, half-petulant. "if you go," she said distinctly, "i will never speak to you again--never." as if she could hold him back when others had failed! but he was moved to show her tenderness. a momentary pang of regret shot across him because he had to leave her. "don't be cross," he whispered. "i shall be back in three days." she turned her head away impetuously. and he realized that there never had been, nor ever could be, anything in common between them. * * * * * once, when he was dozing in the train speeding southwards to bordeaux, he woke up and laughed as he remembered the ludicrous amazement on the face of desirée as he left her suddenly and gladly to take up his work. viii the matters that occupied his mind belonged only to his work. in the early morning at bordeaux, when he had to change, he bought a budget of morning papers, and read them in the refreshment-room over his roll and coffee. the news was alarming enough: people were fleeing from narbonne and the neighbouring towns. seven had been shot in a riot on the previous night; the soldiery was in charge of the town, and martial law had been proclaimed. the french journalists excelled themselves in superlatives ... their stories were vain accounts of personal emotions and experiences, for it is the fashion with them to thrust their personality in front of the news. thereafter, on the journey to narbonne, humphrey wondered how he was going to get his telegrams out of the town, if it were besieged. he bought a map of the district and studied it: it might be necessary to send a courier to perpignan, or back to bordeaux, or, if things were very bad indeed, there were carrier pigeons; the spanish frontier at port bou was not very far away also ... perhaps, he could find some one to whom to telephone. it was his business to get any news out of narbonne, and there would be no excuse for failure. the people in his carriage were talking of the shooting. "i shouldn't like to be going there," one said. "it will be worse to-night," another remarked. "those southerners lose their heads so quickly." it seemed odd to humphrey that while they were talking of it in this detached way, he alone, probably, out of the whole train-load, was about to plunge into the actualities of revolution of his own free will. for the next few days he would be living with the grievances of the wine-growers, learning things that were unknown to him now. he would have to record and describe all that happened. his was the power to create sympathy in english households for the wrongs of these people starving in the midst of their fertile vineyards. the brakes jarred the carriages of the train. heads were put out of the window. on the up-line a goods train carrying flour had met with an accident. the engine lay grotesquely on one side, powdered with white flour, and the vans looked as if they had been out in a snow-storm. the melancholy sight of the shattered train slid past, as their own train jolted slowly on its journey. "what is it--have they wrecked the train?" some one asked. "no," another said, pointing to a paragraph in the paper, "it was an accident. the engine ran off the metals last night. it's in the _depêche de toulouse_." they all chattered among themselves. it was a trivial affair, then--one had thought for a moment that those sacred narbonnais...! but there was something sinister in that wrecked train with its broken vans and its engine covered in a cloud of white. it seemed to presage disaster, as it lay there outside the door of the town. the train stopped. "narbonne" cried the porters. humphrey descended as though it was the commonest thing in his life to enter garrisoned cities. the platform was full of soldiers, some standing with fixed bayonets, others sleeping on straw beside their stacked arms. officers strolled up and down to the clank of their swords; outside, through the door of the station, itself guarded by an infantryman in a blue coat, with its skirts tucked back, he caught a glimpse of horses tethered to the railings. nobody stopped him but the ticket-collector: in the midst of all this outward display of militarism, the business of the station went on as usual. trains steamed in and departed; expresses pounded through on their way to paris; porters were busy with parcels. the hotel buses were drawn up outside, just as if nothing in the world had happened to disturb the life of the town. he chose the hotel dorade omnibus, and away they went. the streets were lined with soldiers bivouacking on the pavements. the avenue from the station was a long line of stacked rifles, and soldiers in blue and red lounging against the walls, smoking cigarettes, or lying on the pavement, where beds of hay had been made. many of the shops were shuttered. he looked up, and the flat roofs of the houses were like barracks, with the _képis_ of soldiers visible between the chimney-pots. the bus passed an open square--cavalry held it, and another street, broad and long, leading from it, was a camp of white tents. sentries guarded the bridges across the river, and though the main boulevard was free of soldiers, he saw a hint of power in the courtyards of large houses. the walls were placarded with green and yellow posters, addressed to "citoyens," urging them to resist the government. the soldiers read them idly. and, in the midst of all this, the people of narbonne sat outside the cafés in the sunshine, under the red and white striped awnings, drinking their vermouth or absinthe! later, after he had taken his room at the hotel dorade, he walked about the town through the ranks of the soldiers. groups of people stood here and there, with grim faces and stern-set lips; they looked revengefully at officers and mounted police, and whenever a regiment marched into the town to the music of its drums and bugles, it was greeted with hoarse shouts of derision, and mocking cries of "assassins!" at the corner of a street of shops he came upon a little mound of stones set round a dark stain on the cobbled road; a wreath was laid there, and a night-light still burned under a glass cover. a piece of white cardboard, cut in the shape of a miniature tombstone, rested against a brick. he read the ill-written inscription on the card:-- | | ----- | | | | renÉ duclos âgé de ans assasiné par le gouvernement. there were seven other little memorial mounds in the neighbourhood. each one of them marked where a victim had fallen to the soldiers' ball cartridge. one of the cardboard tombstones bore a woman's name. her death was one of the inexplicable accidents of life: she was to have been married on the morrow. on her way she had been carried along in the crowd which was marching towards the town hall ... and in a minute she was dead. these signs of tragedy made a deep impression on humphrey's journalistic sense. he saw that the soldiers had not dared to move the mounds that reminded the people of the dreadful happenings in their midst. and they were surrounded by little silent crowds, who spelt out the inscriptions, sighed, and departed with mutterings. a man with bloodshot eyes, and unkempt hair, his chin thick with bristles, lurched across the road, and stood by humphrey, regarding him with a curious, persistent gaze. humphrey moved away, and the man edged after him. he made for the main boulevards where the crowded cafés gave him a sense of safety. he turned round, and saw that he was still being shadowed. a voice hailed him from a café: he turned and saw o'malley, the irishman of _the sentinel_. "hallo," said o'malley, "been here long?" "just arrived," humphrey said. he was glad to see a friend. that unkempt man who had followed him made him feel uncomfortably insecure. "where are you stopping?" o'malley asked. "at the dorade." "i'm there too: there's a whole gang of french and english fellows here. been having no end of adventures. my carriage was held up outside argelliers yesterday, and they wanted to see my papers. as bad as the flight to varennes, isn't it?" he laughed, and they sat down to drink. the unkempt man took up his position against the parapet of the bridge opposite. humphrey noticed that o'malley wore a white band round his arm with a blue number on it, and his name, coupled with _the sentinel_, written in ink that had frayed itself into the fabric. "you'll have to get one of these," o'malley explained. "it isn't safe to be a stranger here. they're issued by the people's committee to journalists who show their credentials. a lot of detectives have been down here, you see, posing as journalists, and asking questions in the villages, getting all sorts of information; that's how they managed to arrest the ringleaders in the villages." "it was a pretty mean trick," humphrey said. "mean--i should think it was. they nearly lynched harridge, the photographer, yesterday, and they chased another so-called journalist to the river, and he had to swim for his life, while the mob fired pot-shots at him from the bridges. so now they've placarded the town to explain that every real journalist has a white armband with a number on it." humphrey looked at the shaggy man opposite. "good lord!" he said, "that's why that fellow's been shadowing me...." "yes. he's one of the committee's spies." "i'd better get that armband quick." "no hurry. you're all serene in my company. we'll finish our drink and stroll up together." on the way o'malley told him some of the latest developments. the chief ringleader, the man whom the wine-growers hailed as the redeemer, was still at large, and nobody knew where he was. picture-postcards of the bearded man with a halo round his head and a bunch of grapes dangling from a cross that he held in his right hand, were selling in thousands at two sous each. "to-morrow there are the funerals," remarked o'malley. "seven funerals at once. it ought to make a good story." they came to a dingy house, where there were no soldiers. humphrey followed o'malley up a narrow, twisting staircase to a little room. the walls were plastered with the posters he had seen on the street hoardings. five men sat in the room, smoking cigarettes. the air was full of the stale reek of cheap tobacco. they sat in their shirt-sleeves with piles of papers before them. one of them, a gross man with a black moustache straggling over his heavy under lip, spread out his fat hands in inquiry. another, thin, undersized and dirty, with a rat-like face, peered at them with blinking red-rimmed eyes. "what do you want?" he asked, gruffly. o'malley, in his best irish-french, explained his business and presented humphrey. the hollow farce of polite phrases, which mean nothing in france, was played out. they wanted to see his _carte d'identité_ and all the credentials he had. humphrey unloaded his pocket-book on them. finally, they made him sign a book, and they gave him a white armlet; he pinned it round his arm, and walked forth a free man. the unkempt man stood on the opposite side of the street still watching him. and now, as he walked along the streets of narbonne, with the white armlet of the revolutionaries giving him protection, he smiled to see the soldiers guarding the streets. "look here," he said to o'malley, "who's going to give me anything to prevent the soldiers bayoneting me?" "yes--i've thought of that too," o'malley answered. "funny, isn't it, that we've got to fly for a safeguard to the people's committee? by the way, don't you get talking to strangers more than you can help. they're down on spies. i'm going to get my copy off now. see you at the post-office." humphrey went back to the dorade, and wrote his message, a descriptive account of all that he had seen, in abbreviated telegraphese. other correspondents were there, war correspondents used to open campaigns, prepared for all emergencies; others had come from the fleet streets of spain and belgium and germany. there was an american, too, who had travelled from paris: as he had not yet obtained his armband, he remained in the hotel, writing very alarming telegrams. the englishmen dined together--a jolly party--at a large round table, and, afterwards, they all went out to look at the town at night under arms. once, during their walk, the sound of firing came to them, and they ran helter-skelter up the boulevard right into the arms of a young lieutenant, who laughed and told them that nothing serious had happened. he invited them all to a drink in a café, and just to satisfy them, humphrey went reconnoitring and found that all was peaceful. he had no time to think of anything but his work. at midnight he went to bed and slept deeply. * * * * * on the second day the "redeemer," whom every one had imagined to be captured, suddenly appeared in narbonne, and was whisked away in a motor-car to argelliers, his native town. bouvier, of the _petit journal_, saw him, dashed into a motor-garage, and hired a car in an instant. "_viens_," he shouted, as humphrey strolled down the street. "the 'redeemer' has come back. you can share my car." humphrey, knowing nothing except that bouvier was very excited, and that, by a chance, some big news had come under his notice, jumped into the car, and away they whirled into the open country. the southern landscape was vivid in the hot sunshine of the late autumn; they left clouds of dust behind them as the car raced along to overtake the car of the "redeemer." they passed the spacious vineyards, where the grapes grew like stunted hop-fields, twining round their little sticks; they sped through avenues of poplars, and almond trees and ilex; through villages where old women cheered and pointed down the long road. "we're catching him up," bouvier grunted. "they must have heard the news of his coming somehow." a bend in the road, and a bridge with the blue river running beneath its arches; farmhouses and boys driving cattle home; children swinging on a gate, and old men plodding towards the sunset, on sticks that could never straighten their bent backs: the country came at them and receded from them in a succession of pictures framed in the hood of their car. vineyards, and again vineyards, with the ungathered grapes withering in the sun, and people crying to them, "he's come back: the brave fellow." as the road led nearer to argelliers they overtook yellow coaches, full of people, and country carts swinging along. the drivers pointed their whips ahead, and shouted something, but the words were lost in the rush of the wind as the car rushed by them. "the whole countryside seems to know that he's escaped. there'll be thousands in the market place," bouvier said. "it'll be a fine story," humphrey agreed. "those other fellows must have missed it." he was drunk with the excitement and the happiness of hunting a quarry. they came to the market place of argelliers, and the sight amazed him. left and right the people crushed together--a rectangular pattern of humanity. people of all ages had been drawn there by the magnetism of this man who had stirred up the south to revolt. the caps and dresses of the women and girls gave touches of colour to the sombre crowd of men, and, as he stood up in the motor-car for a better view, he saw row upon row of pink, upturned faces, parted, eager lips, and eyes that strained against the sunshine to see the black-clad figure of a man standing on the low roof of the people's committee. boys had climbed the trees round the market place--their gaping faces shone from the dark branches; and on the outskirts of the vast crowd men and women stood up in carts and waggonettes--horses had been harnessed to anything that ran on wheels. there was not a soldier in sight. the sun shone fiercely on the market place of argelliers, where two thousand people were thinking of their wrongs. and the man on the roof talked to them. his voice, strong and sonorous, came to them urging them to be of good cheer. they flung back at him cries of encouragement, and called him by name. "i'm going into the crowd," humphrey said. "better stop here," urged bouvier. "they're an excitable lot." "i must hear what he's saying." humphrey climbed out of the car, and pushed his way into the middle of the crowd. there was a loud shouting over some remark that the speaker had made. he found himself wedged in tightly between heavy, broad-shouldered men, with black eyes and swarthy faces. he heard the man on the roof speak about those who had been attacking him, and a voice close to humphrey yelled, "_la depêche de toulouse_," and immediately another voice cried out, "_conspuez la depêche de toulouse_." he turned at the voice and saw, with a sudden shock, the shaggy-haired man with the bloodshot eyes who had dogged his footsteps that first day in narbonne. their glances met. humphrey thrust back into his pocket the pencil with which he had been making furtive notes. "_conspuez les autres!_" cried the man with the bloodshot eyes, "_conspuez les mouchards_." he was conscious of a new note in the crowd: he saw anger and hatred passing swiftly over all the faces around him. they turned on him with relentless eyes. he saw the shaggy-haired man shouldering his way, and scrambling towards him with crooked fingers that clawed at the air. in one quick second he realized that he was in danger. "_conspuez les autres._" the cry rose all about him swelling to a roar of confusion. "_en voilà un!_" shouted the shaggy man, pointing to humphrey's white armband. they surged against him, and he was swept from his feet. he heard the shriek of women, and the babble and a murmur that ran like an undercurrent through the storm of noisy voices. the black figure on the roof was wringing his hands, and trying to calm the mob. humphrey turned to escape. "what a fool i was to come into the thick of it," he thought. once, in the struggle, he saw bouvier standing with a white face in the motor-car, probably wondering what the row was about. and then, they came at him suddenly and determinedly. remorseless and menacing faces were thrust close to him. he struck out and a thrill went up his arm as his fist met a hard cheek-bone. something fell on his arm with a heavy, aching blow that left it numb and limp, and at the same moment an excruciating spasm of self-pity swept upward from his soul, as he saw, as in a red mist, uplifted, clenched hands struggling to meet him. this was real life at last. he had ceased to be an onlooker; the game was terrible and earnest, and he was, for the first time, the principal figure in the play. his agony did not last long. the hot breath of the men was on him, and the evil, bloodshot eyes of the shaggy-haired man who had denounced him, loomed terribly large, like great red-veined moons. and, in that last moment, before all consciousness went from him for ever, as he swayed and fell before the trampling mob, in that supreme moment when deliverance came from all the tribulations that life held for him, an odd, whimsical idea twisted his lips into a smile as he thought: "what a ripping story this will make for _the day_." the end colstons limited, printers, edinburgh * * * * * transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. hyphenation has been retained as in the original publication. page , in the phrase "every day" a space was kept (every day, it seemed). page , comma erased (among which, "twencent"). page , double quotes added ("we had an awful row.). page , hyphen retained (a bed-sitting room). page , apostrophe added (reporters' room). page , she changed to she (yes, she had remembered him,). page , period added (he began.). page , double quotes added (i know."). page , period erased (to wait..."). page , apostrophe replaced by period (she was now.). page , double quotes added (i wrote about...."). page , double quotes added (thanks for the bob...."). page , period added (of the office.). page , sedn changed to send in (i'll send you). page , single quote added (forgotten by to-morrow.'). page , single quote added (go i.'"). page , question mark changed to period (not as big as london.). page , phaseology changed to phraseology in (intimate phraseology.). page , period added (anything in common between them.). both "latchkey" and "latch-key" were used in this text. this text also uses "countryside" and "country-side", "earrings" and "ear-rings", "lawsuits" and "law-suits", "notebook" and "note-book", "schoolmasters" and "school-masters", "tablecloths" and "table-cloths". this was retained. the trouble with truth by julian f. grow illustrated by lutjens [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of tomorrow december extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] nobody knows where it will end. i only know where it began--in rutlan--twenty-four hours ago! i "the wpa stinks," sara said. now, i've known sara four year. we've been engaged three times and married once--only marriage, not matrimony--so i pretty much know what to expect from her. i didn't speak. she rummaged in her belt pouch and waved something from it under my nose. it was a plastic tube, pointed and dark at one end. "do you know what this is?" she said it loud enough to make people at other tables look away from the program on the rutlan community room cubeo. as it happened, i did know what it was. "sure," i said. "it's a pencil." "a pencil!" she hissed back. "a pencil such as they've been making for, i don't know, maybe three hundred years. plastic and a black core, that's all. an atavistic, human writing instrument. but there is more real, solid news in this one pencil than in all the gadgets and wires and whirling wheels of the whole stinking wpa, your world press association! and in one edition of my poor little _argus_, that funny little country monthly...." fortunately, at this point, the familiar thomas edison pageant broadcast ended and the announcer on the cubeo rang his town crier bell. copies of the northeast region edition of the _sun_ began pouring out of the fotofax slot. as a matter of habit i rose and got a _sun_ for each of us, sara taking hers with a snort, and sat down again as the announcer gave the world press association opening format: "an informed people is a free people," he droned. "read your _sun_ and know the truth. stand by now for an official synopsis of the day's happenings prepared by the world press association." we both got up to go, leaving our _suns_ behind as most in the room later would too. "oh, i almost forgot," sara said, the way she does when she's been thinking about something all day. "that reminds me. i'm pregnant." "ah?" i said. "okay. good." not just marriage this time: matrimony it was. we walked out, and she held my hand, a thing she doesn't normally do. * * * * * on the belt-way to milbry and sara's house, some kiloms north of rutlan, we talked about getting wed. i lay back in the seat of my car and through the roof watched the december snow fall--making plans with only half a mind for moving from my nork apartment, deciding whether to keep both cars, arguing whether the commute to nork took or minutes, choosing a sex for the baby. mostly i was thinking about what sara had said about the _sun_. i'm a reporter, after all. when the car locked onto the exit tramway and started deceleration, i suggested that we go to the _argus_ office first. her apartment was just upstairs anyway. "we had better," i said, "have a little talk." the demand sensor of the radiant heater in front of the _argus_ building was, as usual, out of order, so we didn't linger. sara pressed her id bracelet against the night lock and the door swung open with a squawk that lifted my hair. once when i asked her why she didn't get it fixed, she said it saved the price of a cowbell on a spring. i told her then that vermont had no business in the st century, and she said the st century had no business in vermont, the th had been more fun. fun! she said if i didn't like vermont i could go back to nork, and she gave it the old fashioned pronunciation, newark, i suppose just to irritate me. as i recall, i did go back to nork, that time, but that was a long time ago. this time, anyway, i pushed her gently down into her chair, the worn old oak swivel chair in front of the disreputable old rolltop desk, with that battered old electric typewriter of her father's and her grandfather's. for all i know, her five-great-grandfather elias witherill started the _argus_ with it in , two centuries ago. "you say the wpa is bad," i said. i tapped the typewriter. "there's your real villain. and there--" pointing at the ancient offset press she printed the _argus_ on and waving at the framed, yellowed copy of vol. , no. of the _argus_, hanging on the wall--and "there!" * * * * * it began with the typewriter, i informed her. the printing press came first, but typewriters really did the job. maybe the actual beginning was the manuscript of the ancient monks: impersonal and uniform. but handwriting was hardly wide-spread in the dark ages, so let's take it from the typewriter. handwriting was an individual thing. transcribed speech; and speech is an individual's articulated thought. printing is based on handwriting, but it's stylized and made uniform for mass production. that leaves a big gap between script and print--the difference between personal mental process and a merely mechanical process of duplication. look at it this way. in the days when handwriting was general, a man believed a personal message if it came from someone he trusted. and he'd know it came from that person because he recognized the handwriting, just as he'd recognize the person's voice, or his face. the writing was, in effect, an extension of the reader's own senses or experience, into a distant situation. then with better communications came more handwritings, and more distant situations. then the typewriter, and then the dictatyper. everybody's writing was just like everybody else's, and there was a lot of it. everything was in type, even the identifying name at the end of a personal letter, the autograph ("signature," sara snigged) ... signature, then. for a long time businessmen's letters had been signed by their stenographers anyway. ("secretaries, blockhead," sara muttered, and she sighed.) the point is, i continued, that except for a few cases of eccentricity--i glanced at her belt pouch, with the pencil in it--handwriting had disappeared. the written word--the reader's distant experience--was in type: dictatype, teletype, phototype, printer's type ... newspapers, books, advertising, business letters, memoranda, personal letters, everything. before, people had tended to believe most of what was handwritten, and almost nothing that was in type. with everything in type, they got tired of deciding which to believe and began to believe either every word, or none. it wasn't good. it led to the edict, and of course to the world press association and its relentless search for truth. "gah," said sara. "truth is an overrated commodity. let's go upstairs and get ourselves something to eat." ii her voice was muffled coming from the jon. but i knew she was reading from a document she kept framed there, and i knew well what it said. the edict be it enacted by the unanimous voice of these united nations of america, europe, africa and free asia, in congress this th day of april, that, henceforth: no person, group of persons, organization, or governing body of any town, city, state or nation existing under the articles of this federation, shall print, or cause to be printed, or knowingly permit to be printed, or disseminate or knowingly permit to be disseminated any word, phrase or work, excepting only certain scientific treaties of explicit speculative nature as hereinafter defined by statute, that is not both wholly and in part demonstrably true. "great judah," i heard sara say. "what a disaster!" "stop muttering and come out here," i shouted. "you said food." "i'll be with you in a minute. i'm almost finished undressing." since we weren't expecting company i had already hung up my coverall--a new though serviceable one of diaphragm-weave thermoplast, bought especially for vermont and warranted for degrees below. with or without the chiton and hose she favored over coveralls, sara was a handsome woman. strong, straight and, i knew, a fit mother for our children. but right at the moment, she was angry at me all over again. she strode to the foodbar. "you!" she said, chucking a handful of steakpaks into the infra, twisting the dial. "you and your edict!" she said, hurling potatopaks into a pan of hot water and yelping when the water splashed on her thigh. "you and your stupid, buzzing, clicking, inhuman wpa!" she said, filling milkpaks with water, cramming them into holders and slapping them sloshing down on the table. "you talk about type and belief and truth. truth! you have the gall to keep on parroting those same old defenses about that electronic scrap heap you have the effrontery to call a--a greeley! elias witherill thought horace greeley was a rotten newspaperman, but rotten or not, he was still too good to have that whining junkpile named after him. "what does a tangle of wires know about newspapering. what does wpa know about writing a story? what do _you_ know about news?" "now, sara," i said. "don't now-sara me, dammit. you still fail utterly to realize that news is more than just what happened, when, where, to whom, how and why. it's what might still happen, even what might have happened otherwise or never did happen, if that's part of the story. "the edict forbids every bit of it! "but most important, news is expressed--and this you simply cannot see--expressed in basic human terms, designed to arouse the basic human curiosity or sympathy that makes an abstract description palatable _to people_. if you like, it _tricks_ people into informing themselves. the _sun_, your wonderful _sun_, sticks to facts and statistics, and make a _hurricane_ dull. it doesn't tell about people, it lists numbers! "real news has, by god, heart! without it, a newspaper is just a list, a long, long list that ... nobody ... will ... read!" "okay," i said. "okay! this is better?" i tramped over to a framed _argus_ front page down the wall from vol. , no. , that was dated april , . she started to protest, but i overrode her. "listen to this," i said. and read from a story given prominent play on the page: near-death ... and tragedy "where's tinkle?" her first question death's clammy hand brushed a golden-haired moppet tuesday afternoon. gentlewomen swooned in the crowd that quickly gathered at the corner of south main and elm streets, so near had tragedy come to that little girl, irma littlefield, aged four, daughter of mr. and mrs. adoniram littlefield of elm street, that afternoon. men wept unashamedly when little irma, lying crumpled in the dust, stirred her tiny limbs and opened eyes of deepest blue, even as her shrieking mother flew to the side of her baby. death had passed by irma, yes. yet the uncaring runaway freight wagon that had so nearly snuffed out her brief existence had dealt the child a blow even as cruel, more savage; perhaps as grievous a hurt as would have been the sweet baby's death to her stricken parent, sobbing now with the child's golden head in her lap. for from irma's ashen lips, cold still with the awful nearness of the grim reaper, the first faltering words were, "where's tinkle, my little doggie?" tinkle, a curly-haired mongrel to the unseeing world, nothing to the insensible, crushing wheels of the now-distant freight wagon. tinkle, more than a dog, more than a pet, more than it is given us in our wisdom to know, to that little child. a friend, confidante, companion in all her infant games and journey of the imagination. "where's tinkle?" alas, irma.... "that's plenty of that," i told sara. "is that what you mean by heart? is that what you mean by 'news'? "it wouldn't even rate two lines in your own _argus_ today. "but don't try to tell me that the major newspapers changed from that mawkish, overblown sentimentality about unimportant or nonexistent things. they just printed the same sort of drivel using governments and countries instead of people. they cluttered themselves up with portentous speculation and conflicting interpretation until the actual relation of real events was crowded off the page--because plain facts weren't exciting enough to sell newspapers! "granted, country people are curious about their neighbors, and have activities too small and numerous to make the _sun_. that's why semi-controlled monthlies like the _argus_ exist. but for the important stuff, only the exact truth will do." * * * * * i thought a minute before going on. why can't a civilization that will some day land on the moon, calm an angry woman? i started by pulling sara, struggling, onto my lap. "you think--hold still!--a reporter doesn't have to know much," i told her. she nodded violent assent. "you think all he has to do, all day long, is sit by the scoop and keep flacks and psychos away. you think i just sit there while news goes in the scoop and comes out the fotofax slot. "to some extent, you're right. wpa doesn't encourage heavy thought on the job--just that i be big enough and quick enough to keep some fool from hollering fake advertising plugs or obscenities or nonsense into the mouthpiece, or maybe smashing the scoop the way some try to do. "but i _think_. i take pleasure in thinking, in figuring things out. sure, i keep it quiet, permanent civil service status or not. if i didn't keep my mouth shut i'd never have been promoted from inaplis to wpa center nork. "sara, i am in charge of the no. one scoop in the northeast region for the greeley--all right, the groves-rudermann eidetic integrator. top spot in the guild, sara! because i keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, and i tend my scoop." "but all the while you're faithfully guarding that hole-in-the-wall, you're thinking big fat thoughts," she snarled. but she had nestled into a comfortable position in my lap. "faith and fat, your favorite shock words," i said. "yes, i do think. i think the edict was a good thing. i think the wpa is a good and necessary organization. and i think that cybernetic democracy is the best form of government that men have figured out yet." "speak for yourself," sara muttered. "i don't like being told how to live by a pinball machine." * * * * * don't hurl antiquities at me, i told her. cybernetic democracy and wpa are root and branch of the same tree. the edict set up wpa, and wpa worked, and congris came as a logical development, and it works. the voice came before the brain (sara mumbled something about a cheshire cat, whatever that is) but the point is, now we have both. look, it surely wasn't good the way government was before. stands to reason as long as men are making the laws, a lot of those laws are bound to be stupid, or unfair, or just plain corrupt--like the men that made them. but electrons don't lie, and they can't be bought, and they don't make mistakes. so in every community room throughout the un, there are senators. microphones linked direct by microwave to congris, the biggest cybernetic machine in the world, buried deep in rock somewhere in the midwest. all you or any other citizen has to do is clear your id with the page, there protecting his senator just like i do my scoop, and speak your mind. that complaint, or suggestion or whatever it is, goes straight to congris, and congris tallies it. if enough people have said the same thing, maybe that call of yours is the one that tips the balance: a new general law may be made, an old one changed. why, don't you realize that if enough people asked congris to abolish itself and bring back representative human government, it would? that directive was the first one programmed, even before the civil codes of a hundred thousand big and little governments were fed in, compiled and codified. but it'll never happen. and if congris sees it's got just a local matter, it passes your call down to the district level, and the same computer that settles everything from tax bills to traffic violations to murder may publish an ordinance--and that's that. it's incorruptible, not like man-made law. it's impartial, it's just and impersonal. it's the greatest good for the greatest number, and as sure as beats , there never was democracy purer than we've got now. sara! wake up! * * * * * she sat up yawning, and stretched. "i, and my father before me, have been writing editorials against congris for forty-two years. since ," sara informed me drowsily. "why don't you tell me all about it?" then she sat up, eyes wide with interest. "you are blushing with anger clear down to your navel," she exclaimed. "i never knew you did that!" "and you are flat clear down to yours," i snapped. the words i regretted immediately. they were atavistic, impulsive, and even untrue; a violation of ethics and my reporter's code. "i am not," she said with composure. "but i won't be petty again, so go on, i guess." "well," i mumbled, "all i was going to say is that if it works for government it works for news too." she sat up very straight in my lap and sing-songed like a schoolgirl: "where the objective of cybernetic democracy is justice impartially rendered, the objective of cybernetic journalism and of the world press association is truth impartially told. 'for you will be told the truth, and the truth will keep you secure.' foof." "well, it's--it's true, dammit," i said. "you aren't, you of all people aren't, going to tell me that news isn't just as important as government! "without that fotofax printer in every home and public cubeo set, how are people going to know what's going on, and what laws have been passed? and how well those laws are obeyed? why, without the _sun_ we wouldn't have an informed public. we wouldn't have democracy at all!" * * * * * "you," she said crisply, "are confusing news with the _sun_. news is a description of events, presented with human intelligence in a manner to interest and stimulate other human intelligence. the _sun_ is whatever that monstrous washing-machine decides is proper to have happened, presented in a manner to interest no one except other washing-machines." "very glib," i replied. "but at least you will admit that news is important. then doesn't it seem sensible to give it the same protection that government has? protection from error and stupidity and corruption?" "protection?" she wailed. "it's so protected nobody sees it--nobody sees it--nobody cares! "that hairy old item you read off the wall. you're right, i wouldn't use it today any more than the _sun_ would. but suppose little irma there had been killed by the runaway. we'd both print it.... i'd tell the story, a story that might make just one more parent careful that day and save one more child. the _sun_ would put it in a list, something like: deaths, accidental milbry--littlefield irma: dau/ m&m adoniram l-, elm, struck by wagon elm at s. main. "... and that would be that for a little blonde-haired, blue-eyed, four-year-old statistic! why, suppose...." "supposition!" i interrupted. "you can't waste time with supposition! people are entitled to facts. they get facts in the _sun_. they know that every item in that sheet is written, checked and checked again by the special media circuits of congris we call wpa. those same cybernetic banks that make the laws, trace the lawbreakers, do the thousands of things that make our civilization possible, they filter, sift and sort the news as it comes in from the scoops. "a fireman reports on a fire, a policeman reports on a crime, a doctor a death or a citizen any important event. every bit goes to the greeley and if it's important enough, comes out in the next regional, national or world _sun_. all the fireman or citizen or whatever has to do, is press his id tag to the sensor, for identity, veracity and authority audit, and have a second there for corroboration. "it's the news, straight news, all the news that's important enough to print, and written so it can be understood...." "by a washing-machine," sara broke in. "sterilized, deodorized, dehumanized news--and still it stinks." "dehumanized! certainly it's dehumanized! there's none," i said emphatically, "of that so-called 'human element' about it! why, the whole point is to eliminate human error, human prejudice, human partiality, human ignorance!" sara sat up suddenly, driving her rump right into the pit of my stomach. "oh," she said, "i almost completely forgot. what do you want for christmas?" torn between pain and exasperation, i believe i kept myself in check admirably. from clenched teeth i informed her i was intelligent enough not to exchange unwanted gifts of equal value, moral enough to abhor crimmus. all i could ever want, i said, was not to be bludgeoned in the belly with a butt. i asked her to please get up, and she did, cheerfully. iii driving down to nork the next morning, i dropped off the feeder tramway onto the fast belt south. hanging from the feeder hook, waiting for an open space in the line of cars, it occurred to me a lot of people were on the road, both nork-bound and northbound to montral. "crimmus shopping," i said aloud, remembering, and swore mildly at the slip. while the day--tomorrow, it was--still meant something to some, it's not the kind of rational deformity you generally talk about. sara would, of course. but i long ago faced the fact that sara's a romantic. as neuroses go, that's a mild one, and didn't even call automatically for correction. all that it meant was that she was restricted to the c population zones that she wouldn't leave anyway, and a little outside special tutoring in the realities for our children. it wouldn't even affect my job or civil service rating. still, if vermont were ever zoned population b, there might be trouble. she wouldn't leave milbry. oho, i thought to myself, locking onto the nork belt and double-checking the destination coordinates, i am lapsing into speculation--risky ground, for a reporter. the code expressly forbids speculation, and with reason. speculation uses an inadequate number of arbitrarily chosen half-truths to shape conflicting possibilities, all but one of which time must prove to be false. truth is only what has already happened. conjecture is a laboratory matter for trained scientists to dabble in, under laboratory controls. judging from the scarcity of scientific news these days, conjecture wasn't working there either. having neatly boxed myself into an uninformed generality, i grimaced, took a dozer and slept all the way to nork. back in my stag cubicle at the dorm, i fingered my chin in what must have been pure atavism; it wasn't even close to time for a depilatory booster. sara--sara, sara, sara--once urged me to skip the pill some month and grow a beard, a mustache or something, like her four-great-grandfather isaac, elias witherill's son. the one that was a war major, in . i told her it was an aberration for her to have our sort of relationship with a grandfather image, and besides a beard did mean body hair in general and that itched. she said, well, i could instead get a false beard, like santa claus, and then we had a really big argument about what sorts of vulgarity were amusing, and which were not. that broke off our second engagement, i think it was. yes, the second. now she was pregnant, on purpose, we were going to get wed, and i had just seven minutes to get to work. * * * * * my scoop is in the usual sound-proofed, glass-walled isol-booth you'll see anywhere in nork. the fact that it is in a plaza at the th level and thus under the open sky, a thing that bothers a lot of nork people, is to me more than mitigated by the view from the vestibule. you can see, beyond the liberty statue international memorial floating in new york bay over the former site of times square, to the long island shore at mineola and up into conicut. today there wasn't time to look around. i formally relieved vern, the late-nightside reporter, and had barely punched my id against the time clock when the district reporter's face came on the viewer for visual check. "reporter one-c ben marli. us- - gn / deck ," i said. the face nodded, faded. vern was still there when the viewer went blank. most of us punch in exactly on time and punch out exactly four hours later, to the minute. vern always comes on early and leaves late because, i think, his father was convicted of advertising under the edict, and vern is still trying to clear the family number. "quiet night, ben. just one accident," he said. i was leafing through the little pile of dupes--simultypes of the stories that had gone into the scoop, with the ibems of the source and his or her second--and was seeing this for myself, so i just grunted. then one, the accident he'd spoken of, brought me up sharp. on the face it was a straight item: the source, retailer mark neman, us - - cc, a visitor to nork, had told of an accident involving one housewife ela brand in a store on the th level, unnamed, of course. she fell on an antique glass bowl, which broke and cut her neck severely. the store's security guard substantiated the story, adding that the woman had nearly bled to death from a severed carotid artery before arrival of the store doctor. he had been delayed by the nearly unheard-of circumstance of the birth of twins in the store's infirmary. first aid by an unidentified passerby saved the accident victim's life, according to both source and second. the doctor was unable to perform as second because, while the victim was physically able to go on her way after normal treatment, she had had to be clinicked for "irrational grief reaction" over loss of the bowl she had fallen on. even so, the novel injury, rare these days, would have made it a play story in _sun_ editions across the nation, at a quiet time like the end of the year. "vern, vern," i said. "don't you know a plant when you hear one? surely you should recognize a flack's work, if anybody could," i told him. maybe it was unkind to talk about flacks, when his father had been one; but any time the truth hurts, it's the pain of healing. "it's a pretty elaborate plant, but phony as faith," i said more gently. "that bowl fairly screams 'gift.' are you forgetting tomorrow's crimmus, and that all over the country flacks are pulling tricks like this?" vern, pale, said defensively, "ben, look. the source's id checked without a hitch. he's a retailer in dals, tex. the guard's cleared too. the doctor verified by phone, from the clinic. you going to tell me that a doctor would lie or be mistaken about an accident like that, or that it could be faked in a crowded store, or that any woman'd risk bleeding to death for flack money? "i know the flacks are out in droves. but this has got to be a legitimate story." "it's a phony," i said. "the gift is just too integral. don't be slow to punch the button on a deal like this." iv it _was_ a phony of course. despite vern's failure to signal for a double-check, the wpa had delayed publication and run the circuits. similar but not identical stories had gone into scoops in major cities, all at the same time today; each involved a near death or disaster, with a reference to a recognizable gift that couldn't be edited out. in each case the source was a retailer visiting that city--and yet the stores and retailers matched up perfectly. in our particular "accident," the woman turned out to be a clandestine actress--they had all virtually disappeared after the edict, needless to say--hired for her ability to fall and fake injury convincingly. she hadn't cut herself on the glass, only burst a hidden capsule of her own blood drawn off weeks before. the actual gash in her throat was made with a shard of glass by the "unidentified passerby"--really the flack himself--when he saw the store doctor coming. the artificially-stimulated birth of twins that had delayed the doctor, had also been part of the plant. the doctor was found innocent. the guard, only true victim of the plot, was cited as unobservant but not held for correction. the flack, the actress, the mother of the twins and the visiting retailer were, before my shift was half over, sentenced for conspiracy to deceive and falsely advertise in violation of the edict, as were the culprits in the other plants. their conviction was the play story, all editions in the : hours _sun_. all that, to remind people about gifts, and crimmus. the wpa had exposed the plot, and printed the truth about it as no human news-reporting agency could have. even so, i wondered, if, despite the edict and wpa, the flacks hadn't gotten their crimmus reminder before the public, after all. i stared in at the scoop. physically, the scoop is just a short, thick tube projecting from a blank wall; it ends in a round orifice covered by a grille, and is adjustable to the height of the speaker. below it is an id sensor plate, and above it, the viewer and the preamble to the edict. the scoop isn't large. but it gives man a voice no man ever had before: it could bring his words almost instantly to men throughout the world. it is the ultimate in the communication that mankind has sought down from the dawning of intelligence. only one condition must be met, and only one thing those words must, according to the edict, be: "... wholly and in part demonstrably true." * * * * * think about it a minute. in the earliest days, communication was between two men only. if the first lied, only two people, the liar and the victim, were affected. later, as civilization developed through improved communication--more abstract lingual concepts, systems of writing, methods of transportation--a word could travel faster and farther, and affect more and more people. the numbers hearing a man's speech and being touched by his words grew at the same time larger and closer to him, as his methods of addressing them went farther and farther out. great truths were produced by closer collaboration, as communications improved. but with imperfect regulation, great lies went out too, magnified by the same communications. one man's lies could poison an entire nation, and afflict the entire world. it had to stop and, after the third war, the edict stopped it. just as cybernetic democracy brought true justice to government, the incorruptible and infallible machines brought just truth to communication, through control of mass media. of course it meant the end of written and portrayed fiction; for who could tell when a fiction, faultily understood would be believed, and a lie derived? of course it meant the end of competitive advertising and, to a large extent, competing products. one depilatory is not truly, demonstrably better than another. no car is superior to another in appreciable degree. and no institution requiring false images of such superiority can contribute to a civilization facing reality. if a product can't be sold on the basis of true fact, it has no place in the market. of course it meant other necessary changes in the economy; for without predictions of mythical profits or hypothetical success, banned by the edict, who would invest? what human could surely forecast profits or success? congris now decides such matters, and the result has been a stable economy. of course it meant alteration of personal relationships. all too often the so-called "love" of one another was founded on deliberate deception, or self-delusion fostered by fiction. "love" letters, and with them the extravagant posturings of romance, ceased almost to exist, through postal censorship under the edict. all but known truth was eliminated from schoolbooks, to the detriment only of the romanticized, and thus probably false, past. surrounded by fact, human relationships have become factual. hypocrisy, deceit, exaggeration are against the law. granted, the per capita ratio of marriages, and weddings once a desired child is to be born, have decreased. but so have the divorces, both overt and covert, that once resulted from disillusion. in the same way, parents and children assess their true feelings toward each other and, sometimes, rearrange themselves--or on application are rearranged. it makes for a far more practical allotment, often, than the hit-or-miss distribution of children previously. life, freed from the phantoms and fairies inspired by spurious children's tales, by adult daydreams, deception and delusion, is less complex, more direct than it was years ago. it permits a far greater attention to the details of present existence; for once you realize how little good it does to dwell on an unknowable future, the immediate and provable present becomes important indeed. if sometimes this present seems to lack a luster that older people say they remember, at least no flaws have been concealed by that luster. at last mankind can see exactly what he is, and where he stands. myth, prediction, speculation, promise, aspiration, hope: these fog the mind with illusion and paralyze the hand with doubt. the present suffices for itself. v all the wrong things were in the face of the man i saw approaching now, through the tube from the elevator. you know how you can spot the dreamers? i could see it on this one yards away, and i swore, because it was almost time for my shift to end. he came on, hurrying with that expression in his eyes, a little girl trotting after him. they were father and daughter. both had the look, though he seemed a little old to have a young child. he passed the outer gate well enough, fumbling his id against the lockplate and fidgeting during the seconds it took for preliminary verification to come. the lock clicked and he burst in, pulling the girl after him. "we wish to report ..." he began. i waved at him to shut up. "name, number and duty," i said. "that's the routine." of course the information had typed out from the banks before he got in. "oh. i'm sorry." i think he really was. "my name is karl onlon, professor of elementary biology, downstairs." that meant he tended a teaching machine at the center mid-town branch of the university. "number ... my number is--" and he peered at his id "--ah, us - ce." the point of asking for name, number and duty is to let the source cool down a bit. he had, a little, so i said, "okay, what's your story?" "we wish to report signs of the presence of a herd of small ruminant animals in central park memorial plaza," he said. he waved toward the patch of white-mottled brown about a kilometer away, where dirt and rocks and a whole lake had been raised to rooftop level for an open-air park. naturally, that was done when pointless things were still being done. "what you tell me doesn't matter as far as appearing in the _sun_ is concerned," i told him. "but i have to know details before i can pass you in to the scoop. the world press association decides on the stories." he nodded. "you are the source?" "ah ... actually, no," onlon said. "i'm the second. my daughter gini--" he'd been standing with his arm around the little girl, and squeezed her shoulder "--is the, uh, source. but she is a very sensible person, and i will vouch for--second--anything she tells you." truly, i was already getting a little uncomfortable with this pair. the girl hadn't said anything, but she stood looking grave and important, and something else too, up at her father. open pride, it looked like. yet sometimes she almost smiled. he was earnest enough, except when he looked down at her. i was weighing all this while i listened with half an ear to the story. this wasn't a flack, or a flack's trick. that i was certain of. you can tell. deviates don't come in father-daughter pairs, so it wasn't an obscenity kick. and this wasn't a scoop-smash. i didn't think it was a news story, either. but onlon seemed quite convinced that this pack of animals that left the tracks was rare, not only in nork but anywhere. the tracks were distinctive, he said. and the girl, whose voice matched her face, grave yet with a kind of ... happiness in it, did seem sensible. so i passed them in, to the scoop. odd, i thought of sara as i did it. "i don't think this will make the paper," i warned them. "children don't make good sources. and your being her father weakens the second. this herd, or whatever it was, could have been a dog or rat pack ... there still are some in central park. but the greeley'll decide. go on in." as the glass door swung shut behind them, he held it and said, "they're early, you see." and i swear the little girl giggled. i watched her reach up to the sensor plate with her id. * * * * * they weren't in the scoop cubicle long, for ron obrin, my relief, reached the top of the elevator just as the girl started to talk into the scoop, and he was opening the vestibule door when the pair came out. ron was, of course, on the dot of noon. the father was talking to the girl as ron checked in at the time clock. "there, gini, i promised you, and we tried," i heard him say. she thanked me, still grave and almost smiling, and he thanked me, and they left. i was glad to see them go. "quiet morning, ron," i said. that reminded me of vern, and vern's blunder, and suddenly that made me edgy. i went in to the scoop and tore off the dupe of the onlon report. the first warning i had was the slug, "church," stamped at the end of their transmission on signal from the greeley. it meant the greeley had evaluated the transmission and referred it to the editorial level. and that was wrong, way wrong. every trade has its vulgar and, some would say, irreverent catchwords. actual churches had become pretty rare as congris took over more and more direction of public life. you can depend on advice you get from a cybernetic system that doesn't stop eating if you stop asking. so as religion dwindled, in the wpa we came to call the greeley's editorials "sermons," and the ratiocinating levels of the greeley, "church." it's rather juvenile, i suppose. still the onlon transmission was slugged "church." i looked at the father's second report, and saw why. "the story i told to gain entrance here was a joke," he had said. "there were no tracks of tiny reindeer in central park memorial plaza ... at least none whose tracks i saw.... "please ... whomever this may concern ... do not blame the reporter who let us in ... he is trained only to recognize cold truth and cold lies ... and has no experience with jokes ... which are neither ... i fully understand that ... in our society ... a joke is a lie and a crime ... i think that is a true crime ... thank you.... "and ime sorry...." bad, bad, bad for me. beyond a possible editorial about these "jokes," the church would ignore the matter. but the fact i had passed a lie would show on my performance audit, and it wouldn't look good; even so, the treatment i got from civil service would be a lot gentler than the things i was thinking about myself. i doubted that onlon would even get more than a reprimand--he apparently meant no harm. he would be separated from the child, of course. as for the girl's transmission, it was shocking and stupid. i jammed the dupe in my belt-pouch, and went out without a word to ron, to start the trip to sara and vermont. * * * * * i was poor company when i got there. sara tried every trick she knew to find out what the trouble was, for naturally i told her there was trouble. but i couldn't yet make myself tell her how i'd been duped, by a professor and a child. finally she dragged me off to the milbry community room to, as she said, "dissolve my unwept tears in humanity's soothing sea." knowing full well it was crimmuseve didn't help me a bit. as i feared, the gaiety of crimmus was rank in the room: a lot of excited talk, snatches of humming. and even, when the fotofax bell sounded, somebody said, "ring out, wild bells," and a few people laughed out loud. though most looked around guiltily. i got up automatically to get our copies of the _sun_ as the cubeo announcer went into the wpa opening format: "an informed people is a free people. read your _sun_ and know the truth. stand by now for an official synopsis of the day's happenings prepared by the world press association." that was the standard formula. but then he departed from standard, and it rattled him. i sat next to sara and watched, interested. "i have been directed," he said, "to call your full attention to the editorial on the front page of your _sun_." good grief, i thought: church! surely not the onlon thing! the announcer looked around him rather wildly, then blurted: "i now turn you over to the orator, for a direct-voice proclamation of this editorial." the vocal unit of church, highest level of the wpa and the actual voice of congris! the last time it spoke, years ago, it was the pan-asian war--this couldn't be the onlon thing. the announcer's image faded from the cubeo prism and was replaced by a soft light, and an organ note as the local station engineers patched to the nationwide wpa circuit. everyone in the room stared into the light, even sara, waiting for the voice. when it came, deep and resonant, i could feel it in my own chest. i could feel too the tension go out of sara, and feel the sigh she and everyone else sighed, at the end of waiting. the voice said: "i speak to you about the question asked by a little girl. i answer her, but my answer is for all children, and women and men, and for all time...." i almost shouted aloud, in sheer disbelief. it wasn't war, it wasn't even onlon's joke--it was that silly thing from onlon's daughter! * * * * * i grabbed the dupe up out of my belt-pouch, and read along with that deep, throbbing voice: "i am eight years old. some of my little friends say there is no santa claus. papa says, if you see it in the _sun_, it's so. please tell me the truth: is there a santa claus?" and the voice read off the name the way the girl, with her grave little voice, would have formally given it: virginia o'hanlon. but what could the church in all dignity say, to nonsense like that? "virginia," said the voice, "your little friends are wrong. they have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. they do not believe except they see...." i was stunned. the broadcast is a hoax, i thought; a flack's trick, or an incredible act of sabotage on an entire social system. barely conscious of sara sitting raptly beside me, i tried to make sense out of that deep organ note sounding through the roaring in my ears. "yes, virginia, there is a santa claus," it was saying. "he exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist.... how dreary would be the world if there were no santa claus! there would be no child-like faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. the eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished...." i turned to sara, tried to speak. she turned to me, eyes shining, and raised her fingertips to my mouth, then went back to the light, and the voice. over the buzz i heard: "... there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance can push aside the curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. "is it all real? ah, virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. "no santa claus? thank god, he lives! and lives forever! a thousand years from now, virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood." the echoes of the voice seemed to ring even after the light had faded and left a roomful of people staring at the place where it had been; then looking up, with widening eyes, into the faces of others. "i'll be damned," sara whispered. "i will be damned! or just maybe ... maybe not, after all...." as i said, i don't know where it will end. nobody does. end scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. the bread line [illustration] the bread line a story of a paper by albert bigelow paine [illustration] new york the century co. copyright, , by the j. b. lippincott co. * * * * * copyright, , by the century co. to those who have started papers, to those who have thought of starting papers, and to those who are thinking of starting papers. contents chapter page i the first dinner ii frisby's scheme iii a letter from the "dearest girl in the world," otherwise miss dorothy castle of cleveland, to mr. truman livingstone of new york iv some premiums v a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland vi cash for names vii a letter from miss dorothy castle of cleveland to mr. truman livingstone of new york viii the course of events ix in the sanctum x a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland xi the gentle art of advertising xii a letter from miss dorothy castle of cleveland to mr. truman livingstone of new york xiii the hour of dark foreboding xiv a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland xv final straws xvi at the end of the rainbow xvii a telegram from miss dorothy castle of cleveland to mr. truman livingstone of new york xviii grabbing at straws xix a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland xx the bark of the wolf xxi the letter livingstone read xxii the bread line xxiii the last letter--to mr. and mrs. truman livingstone, old point comfort, virginia the bread line i the first dinner this is the story of a year, beginning on new year's eve. in the main it is the story of four--two artists and two writers--and of a paper which these four started. three of them--the artists and one of the writers--toiled and dwelt together in rooms near union square, and earned a good deal of money sometimes, when matters went well. the fourth--the other writer--did something in an editorial way, and thus had a fixed income; that is, he fixed it every saturday in such manner that it sometimes lasted until wednesday of the following week. now and then he sold a story or a poem "outside" and was briefly affluent, but these instances were unplentiful. most of his spare time he spent in dreaming vague and hopeless dreams. his dreams he believed in, and, being possessed of a mesmeric personality, barrifield sometimes persuaded others to believe also. it began--the paper above mentioned--in the café of the hotel martin, pronounced with the french "tang," and a good place to get a good dinner on new year's eve or in any other season except that of adversity, no recollection of which period now vexed the mind of the man who did something in an editorial way, or those of the two artists and the writer who worked and dwelt together in rooms near union square. in fact, that era of prosperity which began in new york for most bohemians in the summer of ' was still in its full tide, and these three had been caught and borne upward on a crest that as yet gave no signs of undertow and oblivion beneath. but barrifield, still editing at his old salary, had grown uneasy and begun to dream dreams. he did not write with ease, and his product, though not without excellence, was of a sort that found market with difficulty in any season and after periods of tedious waiting. he had concluded to become a publisher. he argued that unless publishers were winning great fortunes they could not afford to pay so liberally for their wares. he had been himself authorized to pay as much as fifteen cents per word for the product of a certain pen. he forgot, or in his visions refused to recognize, the possibility of this being the result of competition in a field already thickly trampled by periodicals, many of them backed by great capital and struggling, some of them at a frightful loss, toward the final and inevitable survival of the richest. as for his companions, they were on the outside, so to speak, and swallowed stories of marvelous circulations and advertising rates without question. not that barrifield was untruthful. most of what he told them had come to him on good authority. if, in the halo of his conception and the second bottle of champagne, he forgot other things that had come to him on equally good authority, he was hardly to be blamed. we all do that, more or less, in unfolding our plans, and barrifield was uncommonly optimistic. he had begun as he served the roast. previous to this, as is the habit in bohemia, they had been denouncing publishers and discussing work finished, in hand, and still to do; also the prices and competition for their labors. the interest in barrifield's skill at serving, however, had brought a lull, and the champagne a golden vapor that was fraught with the glory of hope. it was the opportune moment. the publication of the "whole family" may be said to have dated from that hour. barrifield spoke very slowly, pausing at the end of each sentence to gather himself for the next. sometimes he would fill a plate as he deliberated. at other times he would half close his eyes and seem to be piercing far into the depths of a roseate future. "boys," he began, in a voice that was fraught with possibility, and selecting a particularly tender cut for perner, who was supposed to have an estate somewhere, "boys,"--he laid the tempting slice on perner's plate, added a few mushrooms, some brown gravy, and a generous spoonful of potato, then passing the plate to perner and beginning to fill another,--"i've been thinking of--of a--of the--greatest"--pausing and looking across the table with drowsy, hypnotic eyes--"the greatest scheme on--_earth_!" amid the silence that followed this announcement he served the next plate. then van dorn, who had been acquainted with him longer than the others, spoke: "what is it this time, old man?" barrifield turned his gaze on van dorn and laughed lazily. he was handsome, rather stout, and of unfailing good nature. he pushed back his blond hair and rested his gray, magnetic eyes steadily on the artist. then he laughed again and seemed to enjoy it. van dorn, who was slender, impulsive, and wore glasses, laughed, too, and was lost. barrifield handed him a filled plate as he said: "you're just right, van, to say _this_ time--just right. there have been--other times; other--times." he was filling the third plate. he paused and laughed till he shook all over. "van remembers a pictorial syndicate he and i once started," he said to livingstone, as he handed his plate. "we spent nearly--nearly a thousand dollars and a lot of time--that is, van did--getting up some stuff, and then sold one picture to one paper for three dollars!" he leaned back in his chair to enjoy a laugh, in which, this time, all joined. "and never got the three dollars," added van dorn, at last. "and never got the three dollars," echoed barrifield. "it was a beautiful scheme, too; van knows that--beautiful!" at which statement all laughed again. barrifield began to furnish his own plate now, and became serious. "this scheme is different," he observed at last; "it's been tried. it's been tried and it hasn't. the scheme that's been tried"--he helped himself to the rest of the mushrooms and gravy--"we'll improve on." the others caught the collective pronoun, and began to feel the pleasant sense of ownership that comes with the second bottle and a scheme. "our scheme will beat it to death." he lowered his voice and shot a cautious glance at the other tables. "boys," he whispered, "it's a _high-class weekly_ at a _low price_!" he looked from one to the other to note the effect of this startling announcement. it was hardly manifest. the three seemed to be eating more or less industriously and without much care of anything else. they were thinking, however. "it's a field," observed perner, at last. "_barri_field," said van dorn, who sometimes made puns. barrifield became excited. he did this now and then. "field! it's _the_ field," he declared fiercely--"the only field! everything else is full. there's a ten-cent monthly in every block in new york! and"--whispering hoarsely--"even then they're getting rich! rich! but there's only one high-class family weekly at less than four dollars in the country, and that's a juvenile! what i propose"--he was talking fast enough now--"is to establish a high-class family weekly--for the whole family--at _one dollar a year_!" he paused again. his words had not been without effect this time. the three listeners knew thoroughly the field of periodicals, and that no such paper as he proposed existed. his earnestness and eager whisper carried a certain weight, and then, as i have said before, he was strangely persuasive. perner, who had once been engaged in business, and had, by some rare fortune, kept out of the bankruptcy court, was first to speak. his "ten years' successful business experience," which he referred to on occasion, gave his opinion value in matters of finance, though at present he was finding it no easy problem to keep up with the taxes on a certain tract of vacant property located rather vaguely somewhere in the southwest and representing the residue of his commercial triumphs. he was a tall, large-featured man, cleanly shaven, and, like van dorn, wore glasses. "can you do it, barry?" he said, looking up with an expression of wise and deep reflection. "won't it cost you more than that to get up the paper?" "that," observed barrifield, calmly, "is the case with every great magazine in the country. the paper and printing cost more than they get for it." "they make it out of the advertising, you know," put in livingstone, timidly. livingstone was younger than the others, and had a smooth, fresh face. "of course," snapped perner; "i know that! but they've got to have circulation before they can get the advertising, and it takes time and money--barrels of it--to get circulation." "we'll furnish the time," suggested van dorn, sawing at his meat, "if barry'll put up the capital." barrifield looked up quickly. "i'll do it!" he announced eagerly; "i'll do it!" the others showed immediate interest. barrifield looked from one to the other, repeating his assertion as if signing a verbal contract. then his gaze wandered off into nowhere, and he absently fed himself and waited for the spirit to move further. "i'll furnish the capital," he continued deliberately, at length, "and it won't be money, either." the three faces watching him fell. "that is, not much money. it'll take a little, of course. i think i know where i could get all the money i want--a dozen places, yes, fifty of them. but this isn't a money scheme. if it was i could get it. i know any number of men, capitalists, that would jump at it. but that isn't what we want. we want men who know what a paper is, and can do the work themselves." "we want a good advertising man first," said perner the businesslike. "that's good sense," assented barrifield, at which perner felt complimented and began to assume proprietary airs. "those things we can hire," barrifield continued. "we shall want several men in clerical and executive positions. the general direction and management of affairs we shall, of course, attend to personally. we could get a business manager with all the money we need if we wanted him, but he'd be some fellow with no appreciation of the kind of a paper we intend to make, and would try to cut down and stick to old methods until he choked the plan, just as many a good plan has been killed before." the third bottle of champagne had been opened. "that's exactly right," declared perner, as he lifted his glass, while the others nodded. "half the periodicals running to-day are starved and killed by the business office. why, macwilliams of 'dawn' told me yesterday that he couldn't buy that easter poem of mine just because there had been a kick down-stairs on the twenty-five he paid me for the christmas thing, and--" "what's your scheme, barry?" interrupted van dorn, who did not want perner to get started on the perennial subject of editorial wrongs. barrifield filled his glass and drained it very slowly. then he set it down and wiped his lips with his napkin. the waiter brought coffee and cigars. he selected a long, dark panetela, and lighted it with the air of one making ready to unburden himself of deep wisdom. "did any of--you--fellows," he began, puffing the smoke into the air and following it with his eyes, "ever hear of a man named frisby? did you, perny? did you, stony?" dropping his eyes from one to the other. "i have," said van dorn. "runs a paper called the 'voice of light,' with prize packages and the worst illustrations in the world." "that's the man!" assented barrifield. "old friend of mine. yankee by birth, and one of the keenest publishers in the country. that paper, the 'voice of light,' has a circulation of nearly _one half-million copies_!" "he ought to get better pictures, then," grunted van dorn. "exactly!" nodded barrifield. "and that's one place we'll improve on frisby's scheme." "i didn't suppose religious papers ever had schemes," observed livingstone. barrifield grinned. "did you ever see a copy of the 'voice'?" he asked. "i have," said perner. "it offers twenty-five dollars' worth of books and a trip to the holy land for one year's subscription." "that's it! that's the paper!" laughed barrifield. "but our paper won't be a religious paper, will it, old man?" asked livingstone, anxiously. "not in the sense of being ecclesiastic. it will be pure in morals and tone, of course, and, at the same time, artistic and beautiful--such a paper as the 'youth's friend,' only larger in its scope. it will, as i have said before, appeal to the whole family, young and old, and that is another improvement we'll make on frisby's scheme." "what's the price of frisby's paper?" asked perner. "two dollars a year. poor matter, poor pictures, poor paper, poor printing, poor prizes, and two dollars a year. we'll give them high-class matter, high-class pictures, fine printing, beautiful paper, splendid prizes, all for one dollar a year; and that's where we'll make the third and great improvement on frisby's scheme." "but how'll you do it without money, barry? that's the improvement we want," laughed livingstone. "that," said barrifield, letting his voice become a whisper once more--"that isn't an improvement. _that's frisby's scheme!_" ii frisby's scheme barrifield lighted a fresh cigar and blew more smoke into the air. "frisby told me himself," he said drowsily, and apparently recalling certain details from the blue curling wreaths. "i lent him money and helped him into a position when he first came here, and he's never forgotten it. he held the position five years and learned the publishing business. then he started the 'voice of light.' he did it without a dollar. he told me so." livingstone leaned forward eagerly. "but i say, old man, how did he do it, then?" "nerve. nerve and keen insight into humanity. the 'voice of light' had been started by some fellows who had spent all their money trying to build it up on the old lines and failed completely. they had tried to sell out, but nobody would have it. they had no assets--nothing but debts. "then they tried to give it away. they tried a good while. frisby heard of it at last, and went over and said they might give it to him. they did it. he didn't have a dollar. "he had some good clothes, though, and he put them on. he put on the best he had, and he went over to the printers. the 'voice' owed them a good bill, and they were glad to hear the paper had changed hands. their account couldn't get any worse, and frisby's clothes and manner indicated that it might become better. he told them he contemplated getting out at once a special edition of a million copies. he intimated that if they couldn't handle such a number of papers he would be obliged to arrange for them elsewhere. they almost hugged frisby's knees to keep him from going. he didn't have a dollar--not a dollar. "then he went across to an advertising agency and engaged a page in the 'great home monthly' and a page in the biggest sunday-school paper in the world. he asked them the discount for cash, and their special figures to compare with those of other agencies. they looked at his good clothes and sized up his talk, which was to the point and no waste words. they booked his order for four thousand dollars' worth of advertising--quick, before he changed his mind. he didn't have a dollar. he told me so. "he went up to the cambridge bible company--biggest bible concern in the world--and asked for cash figures on a quarter of a million bibles. they thought he was crazy at first, but they made a figure before he went away that was less than a third what the same bible sold for at retail the world over. they told him they had only half the order on hand. he said that those would do to start with, and that he would let them know when to begin delivering. he would send over a check when he wanted the first lot. they said that settlement on the st of each month would do. he did that all in one day,--he told me so,--and he didn't have a dollar--not a dollar." barrifield paused and looked from one to the other to note the effect of his statements. the three listeners were waiting eagerly for more. livingstone and van dorn were watching his lips for the next word to issue. perner was gazing into his glass, but there was a slight flush and a look of deep reflection on his face. barrifield maintained silence, and the sense of his importance grew powerfully with each second. by and by his eyes half closed and drifted vaguely into the unseen. livingstone promptly recalled him. "but go on with the story, old man. what was the next step? it's no fair play to get us all worked up this way and then go to sleep." barrifield chuckled lazily. "that's all," he said; "the rest is mere detail. frisby went home and got up copy for his advertising. he gave the bible as a premium. it was a three-dollar bible; sold at three dollars the world over, and you know there's not supposed to be much profit in bibles. frisby filled up the pages he had engaged, offering in glowing terms the bible and the paper both for two dollars. he got the indorsement of the rev. montague banks, whose name is familiar to every man, woman, and child between the oceans, and he sold over _one hundred thousand bibles during the first six weeks_! _one hundred thousand! he told me so!_" barrifield's voice dropped to an intense whisper as he made this last statement, and the effect was tremendous. the others stared at him, at the ceiling, and at each other. they repeated the figures, and added under their breath various exclamations peculiar to each. livingstone, who did not swear except when he pounded his finger or stumbled over a chair in the dark, only said: "by gad! old man, by gad!" "in one day," continued barrifield, leaning half across the table and emphasizing each word with a slight motion of his head, "in one day he got in six thousand dollars cash! think of it!" the others _were_ thinking, and thinking hard. perner was first to venture an objection: "but that was a religious paper, barry, with a bible for a premium. we could hardly expect--" "that's just where you're wrong," anticipated barrifield. "ours will be religious in tone, too, and a home paper besides. it will go to every household that frisby's would reach, and to thousands besides who are not of any particular denomination. we also will offer bibles, but we will offer other things too. we will offer watches and cameras, and premiums for boys and girls--dolls, fishing-tackle, and guns--" "i should think," interrupted van dorn, dryly, "that with a gun and a bible we might gather in the most of them." "now you're talking sense!" said barrifield, excitedly. "we'll get all of them. we'll capture the whole country. frisby had a quarter of a million circulation in six months. we'll have half a million circulation in three months. mark my words--half a million in three months!" "but the price, barry! a dollar a year and a premium." perner was still unsatisfied. "how are we going to do it?" barrifield regarded him in a superior way. "the paper itself," he said, "will cost us less than fifty cents a year, even figuring on a basis of only a quarter of a million circulation. most of the premiums can now be bought for less than the other fifty. those that can't we'll give just the same, only we'll add on the difference in the form of postage and packing. nobody ever thinks of objecting to a slight additional charge for postage and packing." he drew forth a paper on which there were figures. a round of chartreuse was being served, and in its yellow radiance all difficulties dissolved and all things became possible. he laid the sheet down where every one could see it more or less distinctly. "the white paper," he continued, "will cost less than four cents a pound--less than one half-cent for each copy. the paper is always the big expense. every publisher will tell you that. the paper for quarter of a million copies will cost twelve hundred and fifty dollars, the presswork about five hundred dollars. everything else will cost less than another five hundred, so that a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars a year will more than cover the cost of getting out the paper; but say it costs that,--we want to figure full, you know,--and then another hundred and twenty-five for premiums, or quarter of a million in all, which will be covered by actual subscription money, to say nothing of advertising returns, which ought to at least, counting three pages a week, be not less than one hundred and fifty thousand the first year, and that will be clear profit to be divided. i've figured it down to that to be on the safe side. with half a million circulation, of course, it would be twice as much and no extra cost except for presswork and white paper. i tell you, boys, it's the greatest scheme ever conceived." he ran the items over glibly and pushed the paper across the table for each to examine in turn. the figures were beautifully made, and seemed to add correctly. if there were a few minor items, such as postage, clerk hire, and cost of circulation, omitted, it was probably because they were too insignificant to be considered. the general feeling was one of elation. in the spell of silence that lay upon them each began to dream on his own account, and to build a castle about which shimmered the radiance of easily acquired wealth. in livingstone's face there was a look that did not appear in the faces of his companions. it was not more eager, perhaps, but it was also tender. he was ten years younger than the others. affluence meant much to all of them, but to him it meant something different--something of which the others did not know. "but we'll have to have a little money to start on, won't we, old man?" asked van dorn, at last, reflectively, of barrifield. "why, yes; i suppose a few hundred will be needed at the start to pay such little bills as may be presented. we want to impress everybody with the fact that we pay cash, don't you see? and discount everything. by paying the first bill the minute it's presented we'll establish the necessary credit, of course, and the next bill will be held till we call for it. frisby didn't have a dollar,--not a dollar,--but then, the 'voice of light' was established, and possibly had some slight income, besides certain fixtures and connections, all of which we would have to secure, and probably at some cost. i could invite in all the money needed--all we need. of course, it would be better if we could handle everything ourselves and not feel under any outside obligations. i could manage a fourth of it all right, or even a third--" he hesitated and looked dreamily across the table at the others. perner was first to speak. "i'm like frisby," he laughed. "i haven't got a dollar--in money." he made this statement in a manner that indicated he might have vast possessions in real properties or stocks. "i suppose i could manage a sixth, though, some way," he concluded suddenly, as if to regain a hold on a golden opportunity that was about to slip from his grasp. the glamour of prospective riches was upon them. van dorn, remembering an old schoolmate who had prospered in commerce, stated incontinently that he could borrow anything from two dollars up to two thousand if he only had a mind to ask for it. livingstone added hastily that he would take the other sixth interest, even if he didn't have quite enough money saved to pay for it right away. at each of these statements barrifield assured them that they were talking sense, and that they were as good as millionaires already. the "whole family" had become definite. the friends were in high spirits as they rose to leave. the waiter who helped them on with their coats was liberally remembered. it was eleven o'clock when they stepped out into the winter night. barrifield, who was a married man and a suburban brooklynite, took the south ferry car at broadway. the other three set their faces north in the direction of their apartments. van dorn was a widower, perner a confirmed bachelor, and livingstone also unmarried. they were untrammeled, therefore, as to their hours and habits. as they marched up broadway they laughed a great deal. they were prone to see the humorous side of life in all its phases, and the new paper with its various premium combinations furnished a novel source of amusement. it may be that the champagne stimulated the tendency to mirth, for the three became really hilarious as they proceeded. on the corner of tenth street they halted. across the way there was a long line of waiting men that extended around the corner in either direction. "what's that?" exclaimed perner. "why, don't you know?" said van dorn. "that's the bread line. they get a cup of coffee and a loaf of bread every night at twelve o'clock. old fleischmann, who founded the bakery, made that provision in his will. they begin to collect here at ten o'clock and before, rain or shine, hot or cold." "it's cold enough to-night!" said livingstone. they drew nearer. the waifs regarded them listlessly. they were a ragged, thinly clad lot--a drift-line of hunger, tossed up by the tide of chance. the bohemians, remembering their own lavish dinner and their swiftly coming plenitude, regarded these unfortunates with silent compassion. "i say, fellows," whispered livingstone, presently, "let's get a lot of nickels and give one to each of them. i guess we can manage it," he added, running his eye down the line in hasty calculation. the others began emptying their pockets. perner the businesslike stripped himself of his last cent and borrowed a dollar of van dorn to make his share equal. then they separated and scoured in different directions for change. by the time all had returned the line had increased considerably. "we'd better start right away or we won't have enough," said livingstone. he began at the head of the line and gave to each outstretched hand as far as his store of coins lasted. then van dorn took it up, and after him perner. they had barely enough to give to the last comers. the men's hands stretched out long before they reached them. some said "thank you"; many said "god bless you"; some said nothing at all. "there's more money in that crowd than there is in this now," said perner, as they turned away. "that's so," said livingstone. "but wait till a year from to-night. we'll come down here and give these poor devils a dollar apiece--maybe ten of them." livingstone's face had grown tender again. in fancy he saw them returning a year from to-night with ample charity. and another would come with them--one who would make the charity sweeter because of bestowing it with fair hands. iii a letter from the "dearest girl in the world," otherwise miss dorothy castle of cleveland, to mr. truman livingstone of new york "my dear old true: i have both laughed and cried over your letter, and i have thought, too, a great deal. it was awfully jolly to think of you and those good friends of yours dining together on new year's eve, and there is only one way i would have had it different, and that way would have seemed selfish on my part, and unfair to the others, too. "i do wish i might have been near by, though, unknown to you, and heard all that passed, for i know you only told me the good things the others said, and not all the best things--those you said yourself. or, if you did not say them, you thought them, and were only restrained by modesty. "i suppose you will get over that by and by, when you are as old as perny and barry and van (you see, i am beginning to feel that i know your friends, and call them as you do); only i hope you won't get entirely over it, either, for do you know, true, that is just one reason why i love you--i mean because you are fine and manly and modest--just old true, that's all. and when i came to where you gave the money to the shivering men waiting for bread, i knew just how you felt, and i couldn't keep back the tears to save my life. "and i know it was you, true, who proposed it, though you didn't say so, for it is exactly what you _would_ do; and when you told how they put out their hands for the money, and some of them said 'god bless you,' and how we would go there together in a year, and with perny and van, too, and give them all something again, and perhaps more,--a great deal more,--i wanted to put my arms about you, true, and give you a good hug, and tell you how noble and generous you are, and how i wish i were more like you, for your sake. "what a wonderful plan that is of mr. barrifield's! do you know, it quite startles me; it seems like some fairy tale. and as for the figures, they fairly make me dizzy. mr. barrifield must be a very remarkable man to conceive such an extraordinary idea; and how fortunate for him that he has such men as you and van and perny to help him! between barry and perny with their business and literary ability, and you and van to look after the pictures, i am sure you will get out a beautiful paper, and one that ought to succeed. it seems like magic that it could be made to do so without great capital at the start, but, of course, mr. frisby did it 'without a dollar,' so it is possible, and barry's plan certainly is plausible and fascinating. then, too, if it should not turn out exactly as planned, he can always get those capitalists to come in, you know; and while i suppose you would be obliged to take a very small share then, it would be better than failure. "you see, true, i have been thinking, as i said at the start, and i am with you, of course, heart and soul, in whatever you undertake; only, do you know, true, i can't make myself very enthusiastic about it. i mean i don't feel about it as i do about your work, and as i felt when you wrote me that you had got into the big magazines, and had been given a serial to illustrate by the greatest of them all. i hardly slept a wink that night, i was so happy for you and for myself and for everybody. i am glad of this, too, but it is in a different way. "i know it is hard to save when money is earned with one's hands, for it comes little at a time, and if the paper prospers it will be easier for you afterward. but, somehow, premiums and showy offers in big type don't seem to fit in with my thought of you, and the bible premium especially doesn't appeal to me entirely. i suppose it is all right, and perhaps, as you say, a great many people will get bibles who never had them before; but to me there is something almost sacrilegious in the thought of using the bible as a means of making the paper sell. you know, true, i am not very strait-laced about such matters, either, and, after all, of course, if mr. frisby used it, and with the sanction of the rev. montague banks, it must be all right. but you know also, true, that it isn't for money or luxury that i care,--i have had plenty of such things,--and it is just for your own dear, trusting self, and your aims and triumphs, that i love you. "your bohemian life there with perny and van has always seemed so delightful to me. you are all such good friends, and it must be beautiful to do your work together, and then go out and see the different phases of living and dying, and the struggle of existence, without the cares and worries of business. i have pictured you so often sitting about the fire at evening, smoking your pipes and dreaming the dreams that are only of your world, and happy in that comradeship which only men ever understand and feel for each other. then i have tried not to be jealous of the others, and to make myself believe that by and by, when i came, it would not be so hard for you to give them up, and that sometimes i would let you go back to them, and then for the evening you could forget that i had ever come into your life and changed it all. "you must let me say all this, true, because i feel it, and know, in spite of your noble letters to me, that it _will_ make a difference, and that your life will never be quite the same afterward. and that is why i feel about the paper as i do, too, i suppose, for i feel that it will in some way rob you of the quiet happiness and the serene sweetness of art that you now enjoy, and for which i have been more than once tempted to give you up and go out of your life for your own sake. only, true, i am weak and human, and can't let you go as long as you, too, are weak and human enough to love me and to make us both believe that i will be a help and an inspiration to you by and by. "as i read over this letter now, it seems to me neither very cheerful nor encouraging, and not at all the letter i started out to write. but if i should write another i fear i should not improve on it, and anyway, true, you know it is from the heart, and that always and always my heart is _with_ you and _for_ you in whatever you do or undertake. write to me as often as you can, and tell me the good things that happen, and the funny things, too; for i enjoy them all, and your letters are precious to me beyond anything that the days bring. go right on, true; don't let anything i say make you hesitate for a moment. i am away off here, dreaming idle dreams, while you are there and see and know. i am sure you will do what is best--you always do; and remember that, whatever comes, i am, now and forever, your "dorothy." iv some premiums it was decided to make perner the editor. this decision was reached during a lunch on twenty-third street, where the proprietors of the "whole family" met one day some weeks after the initial dinner. a number of brief and informal meetings had been held, and a liberal amount of talk expended, besides the continuous discussion and badinage in the studio where livingstone, van dorn, and perner still worked, though in a manner disheartening to their publishers. the idea of starting a vast enterprise with little or no capital had in it something very fascinating to the bohemian temperament, while the consideration of its unique phases and the more or less appropriate premiums to be offered, afforded never-ending amusement. work lagged, while hope tinted the air rose-color, and the god of mirth perched by the side of venus milo on the mantelpiece. livingstone, it is true, had begun, and with fine enthusiasm at first, a picture of the bread line as they had seen it on new year's eve. the sketch was on canvas, and strong in composition and feeling. the others came over and stood one on either side of him and said so. they said so more than once, and with various degrees of emphasis. perhaps this satisfied livingstone, for after that his interest in the undertaking became that of a spectator also. the canvas stood on an easel in one corner, and served as a diversion when the "whole family" topic was for the moment exhausted. but one day barrifield came over just before noon, and announced that they should organize forthwith. he had been investigating certain premium articles, a number of which he had in his pockets. he said it was necessary to have some definite address, and whoever was to be editor should be chosen, that he might begin to cast about for desirable features. so they drifted over to the twenty-third street place to "eat things and talk," as livingstone said. they had done a good deal of this lately. while they were waiting for the dishes, barrifield began emptying his pockets. he produced first from his vest an article that caused livingstone to whisper: "i say, old man, put that clock out of sight. you can hear it all over the place." barrifield stared at him reproachfully. "that," he said, with great deliberation, "is a watch." "i wouldn't have believed it," said van dorn, taking it in his hand. "i thought it was a water-meter." perner held it to his ear. in his youth he had lived on a farm. "twenty-horse-power vibrator," he announced, after listening. "stem-winder and -setter," continued barrifield, undisturbed. "perfect time." the article was passed around. "didn't they have any thicker ones?" asked livingstone. "well, of course," assented barrifield, "it _is_ a trifle thicker than a fine gold watch, but it's a perfect gem in other respects. the manufacturer of it told me he had carried one of them a year, and that it hadn't varied a second in that time." "maybe it was stopped," suggested van dorn, but barrifield ignored this libel. "every boy will want one of the 'whole family' watches," he went on. "we can sell a barrel of them in every town." "how many of them come in a barrel?" interrupted livingstone. barrifield leaned across the table. "and i can buy them," he said eagerly, "i can buy them for seventy-five cents! think of it! seventy-five cents! a five-dollar watch, given with the finest weekly paper ever offered, for only one dollar a year!" "how will you do that?" asked perner. "that leaves us twenty-five cents for the paper." "why, you know, we'll add something for postage and packing, as i said before." "yes, and it will take something. by the time you get a box on that thrashing-machine, properly nailed and mailed, it will cost twenty-five cents." perner's business experience was manifesting itself. "oh, pshaw, perny!" protested barrifield, "it won't cost half so much. we can get boys and girls for three dollars or so a week to attend to all that." perner closed his eyes for an instant and saw in fancy an army of youthful clerks packing various premiums for mailing. then, remembering the difficulty with which he had managed even a small business with less than a dozen assistants, he sighed. he knew that big businesses really _were_ conducted, and with a science and precision that was a constant source of wonder to him. perhaps barrifield knew the secret of their management. "even if it did cost that," proceeded barrifield, "think of the quantity of them we will sell, and the immense circulation it will give us. we could afford to lose a little on each and make it back on the advertising." perner knew nothing of advertising, except that a certain paper received five thousand dollars a page for each issue, and barrifield had assured them that the circulation of the "whole family" would be more than twice as great. he subsided, therefore, while barrifield drew from his overcoat pocket a flat package of considerable size and weight. he undid the strings carefully, and a leather-bound, limp-covered book lay before them. "that," he said triumphantly, "is the bible!" van dorn reached for it and turned some of the leaves curiously. "first one van ever saw," said perner. livingstone took up the book with thoughtful regard. "do you really think we'd better use this as a premium?" he said hesitatingly. "it seems to me that it--that it's too--that it's overdoing it." livingstone's smooth face flushed a little. "i mean that it's been overdone already," he added hastily and with confusion. "oh, my dear boy," said barrifield, "the bible is never overdone. this is a finer one than frisby used, and i can get it for just what the watch costs. the' whole family' and the great instructor's bible, worth both together five dollars, all for one dollar!" "you don't mean to say that _this_ won't cost postage!" said perner. "not a great deal. book postage is cheap,--very cheap,--and think how many of them we will sell and how much good they will do! one half-million bibles and the 'whole family'--" "you didn't bring the gun along, did you?" interrupted van dorn. just then the dishes were served, and the premiums were for the moment put aside. the talk, however, continued. barrifield spoke of other premiums he had been considering and upon which he had secured "special inside figures" on large quantity. he no longer mentioned hundreds and thousands in relation to the new paper. he was reveling in millions that were as real to him as if they were already to his credit at the banker's. presently he reviewed once more the story of frisby and the "voice of light," whose cry in the wilderness had brought fortune so promptly to his aid. he added fresh details recently obtained, and told how during the first month, when he had been waiting for his advertising to appear, he had been obliged to mortgage his household effects at five per cent. a week in order to live. he had received one thousand dollars in the first mail after the advertising appeared. and when that mail was brought in and laid on his desk he didn't have a dollar in his pocket--not a dollar. as barrifield proceeded, any vague doubts of success that had crept into the minds of his listeners disappeared. they began the work of organization forthwith, and van dorn, who had faith in perner's literary judgment, proposed that he be the editor. perner, in turn, proposed van dorn as art editor, with livingstone as his assistant. barrifield was to be nominally business manager, though, for the reason that his present position consumed most of his time, and as the business offices for convenience were to be in the studios occupied by the other three, the management, such as it was, would for a while fall mostly upon perner, who referred once more to his ten years' successful experience, and assumed his double responsibility with some dignity. a consideration of the first number's contents was then taken up, with the result that they were to prepare it mostly themselves. they were on familiar ground now, and perner and van dorn each displayed some evidence of fitness for their respective positions. there must be two stirring serials, one of which they would buy. barrifield knew where one could be had. livingstone could do the pictures for this story. the other would be more in van's line. then they lighted cigars and went back to the premiums, and barrifield launched into the details of his recent explorations and discoveries in the vast jungles of premium land. he had examined and priced everything, from a nut-cracker to a trip abroad. presently he began to spread a number of these things on the table, which the waiter had once more cleared. besides the watch and bible, there was a fishing-kit, all but the rod, which was described fully in a leaflet, a bicycle lamp, a pamphlet outlining a tour through the holy land, sample pages of a cook-book, and a pair of ear-muffs. barrifield arranged these on the cloth, explaining as he did so that a beautiful box kite had been too large to bring, as was also a gun of which he could get a limited quantity--a hundred thousand or so--at a ridiculously low figure. van dorn picked up the ear-muffs curiously. "what do these cost?" he asked. "forty-eight cents a pair by the gross. special inside figure because i told him we would want a quarter of a million pairs." van dorn looked at them a little closer. "the fellow i saw must have stolen his," he said, "for he was selling them yesterday on broadway for twenty-five cents a pair." "impossible, van! they couldn't be the same, you know," protested barrifield, earnestly. "there are many qualities of ear-muffs. these are the very best-double-elastic, wire-set and-bound, storm-proof muffs. they cost forty-six cents to make--the manufacturer told me so. what you saw was a cheap imitation." barrifield put an end to further discussion on this point by calling attention to the bicycle lamp--something new and superior to any in use. he had been attracted by it in a sporting-goods window on nassau street. the price had been steep,--too steep for a premium, of course,--but he had made up his mind that if he could get on the "inside" he would find a price there within their reach. he had got on the inside. he had pursued the elusive "inside" even to hoboken, and captured it there in the very sanctity of the factory--the president's private office. "the president was a fine, big, smooth-faced man with one of these rich, hearty laughs," he explained, "and we had a long talk together. i told him we had a new scheme that would put us in a position to use a quarter of a million of these lamps the first year, and that we had been considering another make--which was true." "it was," said van dorn, "and it would have been equally true to have said that we've been considering every known article of commerce, from a mouse-trap with two holes to a four-masted schooner." "that caught him right away," continued barrifield, regardless of this interruption. "he said he wanted to get started with a new thing like ours, and that he was going to let us on the inside. he had a talk with the manager, and came back and made me a net cash price of eighty-seven cents! think of it! eighty-seven cents for a two-dollar lamp! given with the 'whole family' one year--fifty-two weeks--for one dollar and one new subscriber!" perner the businesslike was calculating. "that would be two dollars we would get in all," he said, "for two subscriptions, two premiums, postage, and handling. counting, say, seventy-five cents for the other premium, and twenty-five cents for postage and handling, we would have just thirteen cents left for our two subscriptions." "by gad!" said livingstone, weakly. "but the advertising is where we come in," insisted barrifield, eagerly. "and besides, everybody won't take lamps, either." van dorn was smiling queerly. "no," he said; "and if they did we can get them over at cutten & downum's for sixty-seven cents apiece. i saw them there yesterday." "not this lamp!" protested barrifield. "i'll bet ten dollars it was a cheap imitation. i'll write to president bright to-night about it. he's a fine man. he'd take some stock in the 'whole family' in a minute, if we'd let him. it couldn't have been this lamp!" "maybe not," assented van dorn; "but they had a big card up, saying 'bright & sons' stellar, sixty-seven cents,' and the lamps looked just like this." the others said nothing, but their confidence in barrifield's purchasing ability had received a distinct jar. presently perner noticed the head waiter watching them intently. he was about to mention this when the minion walked over and spoke to barrifield in a whisper. barrifield grew red and began to drag the things together as the waiter moved away. "what's the matter? what did he say, barry?" asked van dorn. at first barrifield did not answer. then the humor of it seized him, and he chuckled all over, growing even redder as he hid away the things. "come, old man, what did he say?" urged livingstone. barrifield could hardly steady his voice for laughter. "it's too good to keep," he admitted. "out with it, then," said perner. "why," said barrifield, "he said that they had sample-rooms up-stairs, and that it was against the rules to show samples here in the dining-room." "hoo-ee!" shouted van dorn. "that calls for something." "by gad! yes," said livingstone, "it does!" it was well along in the afternoon when the friends left the place, and perner, van dorn, and livingstone returned to their apartments. they went over at first and stood for some moments before the picture of the bread line. "why don't you finish it, stony?" asked perner. "finish it up and sell it for enough to pay your part in the 'whole family.'" "good scheme-- i've thought of it," confessed livingstone. "do you suppose there are any publishers in that line?" mused van dorn. livingstone laughed. "i say, fellows, let's take a walk up fifth avenue and pick out the houses we're going to buy next year!" as they turned to go, van dorn took up a blank piece of drawing-paper and a brush. he worked away a few moments, the others looking on. as they passed out he tacked it to the outer door with pins. then they all faced about, and, standing abreast, read in the fading light of the hall-way: office of the whole family a weekly paper for young and old v a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland my dear, dearest dorry: when i sit down to write to you there is always so much i want to say that i never know where to begin, and in the end i seem to tell you nothing at all except that i love you, which you have heard so much i am always afraid you will grow tired of hearing it again. then i turn cold at the thought, and rewrite the letter to leave out some of the times, but before i am done i find them all in again somewhere else; so it is no use, you see, and i generally send the first letter, after all. then, when it is gone i want it back, though i don't know whether i want it to take out some of the times i've said it, or to put in some more that i didn't say. "oh, dorry dear, i do love you, and often when i have thought of you in your beautiful home surrounded by luxury, and then remembered that i have asked you to leave it all and cast your fortunes with a chap whose fortunes depend on the whim of the public and the fancy of the art editor, it has made me feel so guilty that i have more than once put into those letters i didn't send something about letting you take it all back and not allowing you to make such a sacrifice for me, even though you are true and noble and willing. "and then i didn't send those letters, and i'm glad now that i didn't, for the hard days are going to be over soon, and i feel that i shall be able to offer you comforts that will, perhaps, keep you from regretting altogether those you have left behind. i am glad you are so enthusiastic too, now, about the paper, though you didn't feel just that way at the start, and after i got your first letter i had to talk the scheme all over again with barry and perny and van to get back my courage and to be sure the bible premium was all right. "you know, dorry, that money is a great thing, or at least you don't know, because you never had to do without it, but it is, and especially here where it is so hard to get, and where it takes so much of it to live even respectably. all that you have so often said about the bohemian life is fine and beautiful, and true in a way, too, but there are unpleasant phases of it as well. the struggle is very hard sometimes, and even perny and van, who do not need much money, and who will never be anything different from what they are now, even they are glad that they will be worth a million at least by this time next year. "perny has some property out west that he'll be able to hire somebody to take off his hands then, and van wants to buy another old bureau that we saw yesterday at an antique-shop, though he already has two, and nothing in them except fishing-tackle that he gets every spring before it is time to go, and never uses. then, van thinks he'd like a house to keep his bureaus in, too, and perny wants a place where he can have whatever he likes to eat, and a lot of people to help him eat it, while he recites his poetry to them. "you _know_ what i want a house for--a house that shall be a home for you and for me, and where, in the soft light of dim, quiet rooms, i shall sit by you and talk and listen while time slips on. do you remember how the time used to fly when we were together? it seemed always as if some one must be turning the clock ahead for a joke. i am going to make a picture some day of two lovers, and on the mantel above them cupid laughing and turning up the clock-hands. we will make that picture together next year, for you will slip in and look over my shoulder, and you will take the pen or the brush and touch here and there; and the editors will like my pictures better because of those touches; and when they are printed in the books and papers i will sit dreaming over my own work because it will not be all mine, but part dorry's, too. "i have never told perny and van anything about you, because i have never quite found the opportunity to do it in the way i would like. but i think sometimes they suspect, for the other day, when we went out to look at houses, perny said he didn't suppose i'd want my house very close to two old hardened sinners like them. then we came to a vacant lot that was just about large enough for three houses, and i said we wouldn't buy houses at all, but would buy the lot and build there side by side and just to suit us. and i said we would have our studios on the same floor of each, and opening through into each other as they do now, and that perny's should be between, because we both illustrate his work sometimes, and that then we would be able to hire editors to run the 'whole family,' and we would work at the kind of work we liked to do and at no other. and i said that evenings we would sit together and talk just as we do now, and you would be there, too--though, of course, i didn't say that, but i know they understood and liked it, and you would like it too, sweetheart, for you have said so. "and then van said, 'bully, old man!' and perny didn't say anything, but he put his arms over van and me when we came to the stairs, and we went up and took a look at my picture before dark. perny wants me to finish it and sell it to get the money to put into the paper, and says he is going to buy it back with the first returns that come, to hang over his desk when we get into our new houses. but he isn't, because we are going to give it to him, you and i, when you come, and then we will all go together and try to make the originals of it happier because we are so happy ourselves. the money i have been saving will be enough, i am sure, to pay my share in starting the paper, for we will only have a few little engraving and composition and stationery bills and postage, and maybe some salaries to pay, before the returns begin to come in. but i am going to finish the picture anyway, so's to have it ready, and perny and van both say it is the best thing, so far, i have ever done. we don't any of us work as much as we did, but then it has taken such a lot of time to plan for the paper that we couldn't, and, after all, a few dollars invested that way now will count so much for us all by and by. perny is working at editing, too, a good deal, and van and i help. we have already got some 'copy' at the printer's, and van and i have designed some department headings and a title-head that i will send you proofs of as soon as we get them engraved. we are going to have a beautiful paper, and if we can only get presses to print them fast enough when the first issue goes out in november, we will have two or three million circulation anyway by the first of the year. "i _know_ we will now, even if i have ever had any doubts of it before. i know, because we have a new scheme that simply _cannot fail_. i can't tell you just what it is in this letter, because i don't altogether understand it myself yet, but van does, and perny, for it is van's scheme this time, and perny helped him work it out. we are going to 'spring' it on barry to-morrow night, and it simply beats the premium idea to death, so perny says, and he didn't sleep a wink all night thinking about it, nor van either, and they have been explaining it to each other all day until i don't know 'where i'm at'; but they do, and they are sitting outside now, smoking and figuring up how many people there are in the world who read english. it is called cash for names, and will catch them all,--every one,--so perny says; and as soon as we get it type-written i will send you a copy, so you can see just how great it is. "and now, dorry dear, i haven't told you anything at all, though i have written a long letter, and there is so much you would rather hear than all the things i have said. when i write i only think of you, dorry, and how i hunger to see your beautiful face, and how long the time will be until i shall take you in my arms and never let you go again. oh, sweetheart, i never, _never_ could give you up, unless, of course, something dreadful should happen, such as my going blind or being run over and half killed by a cable car, or if the paper should fail and wreck us all, which i know can't happen now. i have thought i ought to, sometimes, for your sake, but i know now i never could have done it, for, sleeping or waking, i am, dorothy, through all eternity, your "true." vi cash for names the air was charged with a burden of mystery and moment when the three who strove together in rooms near union square joined the man who did something in an editorial way at the latter's office, and proceeded with him to the grand union restaurant. "we have a tale to unfold that will make your hair curl," said perner, as they stepped out on the lighted street. "van has had an inspiration. premiums are not in it with this!" "by gad, no!" agreed livingstone. "it's the greatest thing yet!" "good!" shouted barrifield, above the crash of the street. "good!" van dorn modestly remained silent. perner made an effort to keep up the conversation, but the roar of the cobble made results unsatisfactory and difficult. it was a good mile to the grand union, but barrifield explained _sotto voce_ as they entered that it was the only place for steamed soft clams in town. soft clams appealed to perner, and any lingering doubts he may have had of barrifield's ability as business manager disappeared at this statement. livingstone, who was not quite so tall as the others, had kept up with some difficulty, and was puffing a little as they seated themselves at a table in one corner. "i know now what it means to start a paper," he observed reflectively. "it means first to walk a good ways and then eat something. that's what we've been doing ever since we started." "better eat while we've got a chance," said van dorn. "if the 'whole family' fails we'll walk without eating." "we can afford to eat on van's new scheme," said perner. "it's worth it." barrifield laughed comfortably. "what is your scheme?" he asked, seeing that perner was waiting anxiously to unload. "wait," interrupted van dorn. "here's the waiter. let's give the order, and then we'll have a couple of hours to talk while he's catching the clams." perner subsided, and each seized a bill of fare, which was studied with stern solemnity for some moments. dinner was a matter of perhaps more respectful consideration with these rather prosperous bohemians than even the new paper, which they still regarded, and possibly with some reason, as a sort of farce, or than the muses, whom they were inclined to woo somewhat cavalierly. "i should think two portions of clams would be enough," suggested van dorn, at length; "then we can have something solid in the way of meat and things." perner protested. "oh, pshaw, van! i want a full portion myself, and barry wants one, too; don't you, barry?" barrifield, who had come from a coast where pie and clams are the natural heritage, suggested that, as the portions here were something less than a peck each, they might compromise on three. this perner reluctantly agreed to, and the usual extra sirloin with mushrooms was added. pie was then selected by perner and barrifield, and various delicacies by the others. "a large pot of coffee," concluded van dorn. "ale with the clams," suggested livingstone. the others nodded. "martinis first," interrupted perner. then to the waiter, "four martinis--and don't be all night getting them here." "rochefort, and panetela cigars with the coffee," supplemented barrifield. "cigarettes for me," corrected livingstone, "turkish sultanas, small package, gold tips." there was a note of gold in the atmosphere. the order was not prodigal, but there was an unstinted go-as-you-please manner about it which made the waiter bow and vanish hastily. barrifield turned to perner. "now," he said, "what's your great scheme?" perner had already drawn a folded type-written sheet from his inside coat pocket. "it's van's idea," he said, with becoming modesty. "i may have elaborated it some and put it into words, that's all. but it's simply tremendous! premiums have been done. cameras and watches have been given with twelve papers of bluing or needles, but this thing has never been done by anybody--at least, not in this form." "that's right!" said livingstone. "no, sir, old man; i don't believe it has," confessed van dorn, with some reluctance at doing justice to his own conception. barrifield looked from one to the other with large expectancy in his eyes. "let's hear it," he said anxiously. perner unfolded the paper and glanced at the tables about them to see that no one was listening. then he began to read in a low, earnest voice: "cash paid for names! "twenty-five cents for each! "the proprietors of the 'whole family,' the greatest and most magnificent weekly paper ever published, make to the whole english-speaking world the following unheard-of offer. "i got that style of eloquence from frisby's advertisements," perner paused to explain. "it catches 'em, you know." the others nodded. perner continued: "to any one, old or young, in any part of the globe, who will send us a list of twenty names of men or women, boys or girls, likely to be interested in the most beautiful, the most superb, illustrated family weekly ever published, we will send our marvelous paper, the 'whole family,' for four consecutive weeks free of charge, and we will pay the sender "twenty-five cents in cash for each name "added to our subscription-books on or before november , . remember, there is no canvassing! you select twenty good names and send them to us by letter or postal card. we do the rest. if you pick names of twenty good people we will get twenty subscribers, and you will get "five dollars in cash for five minutes' work, "besides our matchless paper free for one month! remember! five dollars for twenty names--no more!" perner finished reading and looked steadily at barrifield, as did van dorn and livingstone. barrifield was reflecting deeply with closed eyes. "they send in the names of twenty people," he meditated; "we mail sample copies to them, and pay the sender twenty-five cents for each one that subscribes. we don't pay till they subscribe, do we?" "why, no, of course not!" perner was slightly annoyed that barrifield did not catch the scheme instantly, though it had taken him and van dorn two full days to become entirely clear on it themselves. "you see," he continued, "we'll send sample copies to each of these names for two weeks. the sender of the names will also be getting his sample copies, and knowing that twenty-five cents is to come from every subscriber, he'll talk up the paper among others. he'll be an agent without knowing it. the unpleasant feature of soliciting subscribers will be all done away with. he'll pick the best names, of course, in the first place--people that he knows are dead sure to take the paper. we'll get up a paper they can't _help_ taking. he'll get five dollars in cash, and we'll get twenty subscribers to the 'whole family.'" "twenty-one," corrected van dorn. "the sender of the names will subscribe, of course--he'll have to, as an example to the others." "perny's going to send him a special confidential circular," put in livingstone, "thanking him for his interest and calling him 'dear friend.'" "and a hundred thousand people will send lists," said perner. "a hundred thousand lists with twenty names to the list will be two million names. every one of them will subscribe--every one of them! but say they don't--say, to be on the safe side, that only _ten_ of them subscribe before november ; say that only _five_ of them do. there's one half-million subscribers to start with--one half-million subscribers on the first day of november, when we mail our first regular subscription issue! what do you think of that?" it was just the sort of scheme to appeal to barrifield. as the fascination of it dawned upon him he regarded wonderingly each of the conspirators in turn. "i think," he said at last, with slow emphasis and gravity, "i think it simply _tre-mendous_!" van dorn's eyes glistened, and livingstone leaned forward as if to speak. perner could scarcely keep his seat. "wait, then," he said jubilantly, "wait till you hear the rest of it! that's only the beginning. listen to this!" "'sh!" cautioned van dorn, glancing at the tables near them, some of whose occupants seemed attracted by the evident excitement of their neighbors. perner had drawn forth a second paper, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "this," he said, "is the second chapter and contains the climax. the one i just read will appear in outside papers before our first issue is out. this will appear in our own sample copies, and is what will clench and make subscribers of every name that comes. listen! "cash paid for names! "pots of gold! pots of gold! no work! "any boy or girl, man or woman, in any part of the world, who shall become a subscriber to the 'whole family'--the greatest, cheapest, and most beautiful weekly paper ever published--may send, with his or her subscription price of one dollar, a list of twenty names of those most likely to be interested in this marvelous home paper, and receive "twenty-five cents in cash for each and every name "added to our subscription list before december of the present year. by selecting the best names before they are taken by others, and subscribing _now_, you are certain to get your money back and a snug sum for christmas besides! don't wait a moment! select sure winners and send them to us with the small subscription price of a dollar! you get five for one in return, and the most glorious paper ever printed besides!" perner paused and looked straight at barrifield. the big blond dreamer was regarding them in a dazed way. "that means," he said at last, huskily, "another list of names with each of our half-million or million subscriptions, and then--" "and then," said van dorn, unable to hold in another second, "sample copies and the same inducements to the new names for another month, and the same to the names these send for still another month, and so on until we have the whole english-reading world on our subscription list, and there are no more names to send, except as people are born and grow up. there are fifteen million english-speaking families in the united states, not to mention canada, england, australia, new zealand, india, and south africa, and we'll have them all in a year! in a year! every one of them!" "in a year!" said perner. "we'll have them in _six months_! less! why," he continued excitedly, "even starting with but a single unit and doubling, you get a million with twenty multiplications, and starting, as we will, with half a million or more names to begin with, and getting twenty new names for each on the next round, and so continuing, we'd have--allowing that only one fourth of them subscribe--we'd have fifty million subscribers--if there were that many in the universe--in three rounds! six months! why, in less than a month people will be scratching the world with garden-rakes to find anybody that isn't already a subscriber, and even in china and the interior of africa the 'whole family' will have become the great civilizer and diffuser of the english tongue." livingstone's face flushed and paled by turns, and his eyes sparkled. "by gad, yes!" he said. "by gad!" it was the last word. in the contemplation of this stupendous proposition no one could utter another syllable. the martinis came on just then, and went down with a hot sizzle. barrifield was first to recover his voice. he was slow and deliberate again, though still gasping a little, perhaps from the cocktail. "of course you know, fellows," he said, with an air of profound reflection, "that this plan is going to take a little more money. it involves sending out a large number of sample copies, and there'll be some little clerk hire and postage to pay before the money comes in. it won't be much extra, of course,--a few hundred dollars, perhaps,--but we must be prompt paying our help. and then, we want to have a bank-account. frisby's scheme didn't call for any outlay, you see, until the money began to come, and frisby started without a dollar. he didn't--" "yes, i know," interrupted perner; "but frisby's scheme was new then, and might not work so well now. we've got another and a better one than frisby or anybody else ever had before. even if it does take a little more money at the start, any one of us can earn more in a week than it takes to pay all the clerks we'll need." "why, yes," said livingstone; "and we'll do most of the paper ourselves, so we'll save that." "we've got a great combination, boys," said barrifield--"great!" in the brief lull that followed this statement, which so fully expressed the feeling of all present, perner took occasion to go somewhat into detail. "in the first place," he said, "we're going to be flooded with names. we'll have our paper all made up and start the presses running at the rate of a hundred thousand a day the week before our advertising appears--not sooner than that, because we want money to be coming in as soon as possible after the papers are printed." perner paused to appreciate the admiring glances of the others. his ten years' business experience was crystallizing itself into a beautiful system. "we'll have our clerks," he continued, "all ready with the books--a book for each state--to enter the names as soon as the answers begin to come. we must have one distributing clerk with a little post-office arrangement to assort the letters and cards into states and give them to the others. these will enter them and turn them over to another set of clerks, who will address wrappers from the letters and cards themselves. then the wrappers will go to another set of clerks, who will wrap the papers and mail them." the admiration for perner grew. it seemed simplicity itself. "one hundred thousand a day," he continued, "will give us two million papers in about three weeks. that'll be the first round of the first issue. before those are half out we will be getting subscriptions like hot cakes, and we'll have to double our force to handle them. but subscriptions mean money, and with twenty or thirty thousand dollars a day coming in, we'll have money to double them up with." "if the subscriptions don't come it will double us up," laughed van dorn. as for barrifield, he seemed stupefied. he had started the wind, but the cyclone it had grown to was whirling him along faster than he could follow; also the memory of frisby and bibles still clung to him somewhat, despite this new and startling method of taking fortune by storm. he started to speak, but perner, who had taken on fuel enough for a long run, was too quick for him. "when the first round of the first issue has been going out one day," he said with conviction, "those subscriptions will begin to come. each subscription will bring twenty new names, and that'll mean another round of the first issue, and the checking off in the books of the people that have subscribed, showing just who sent them and what he is entitled to in cash." "we'll send it to him in a check," said van dorn. "checks always look well." "then," continued perner, "when these new names begin to come, we'll commence on the third round of the first issue to the names they send, and so on to a fourth and even a fifth. we must send as many rounds of the first issue as possible, for it contains the first chapters of our serials." "that's so!" interjected livingstone, "it does!" "of course, our first and second issues," perner went on, "will have to be dated ahead, because we'll start on them about the st of october. but the third issue can come in in regular place, and by the time we get to the third round of the first issue, and the second round of the second issue, and the first round of the third issue, we'll have all the names in this country; and by the second round of the third issue they will all be on our subscription books, and we'll have--even counting that only one out of four families subscribe--we'll have four million subscribers, and at least three million dollars in the bank to get out the paper with for a year, to say nothing of the advertisements, which will bring in on a circulation like that at least twelve thousand dollars a page, or, allowing three pages, about one million eight hundred thousand dollars a year in round numbers." the clams had come and gone, and the meat had been served. barrifield made a feeble attempt to do the honors, and livingstone shaped his lips as if to speak. neither effort was successful. the four sat silent, looking far beyond the fear of penury and the dreams of avarice into a land where mountains were banked with jewels and all the rivers ran gold. indeed, the face of livingstone seemed glorified by a sort of ecstasy. the revulsion fell first upon van dorn, and wakened in him that spirit of the ludicrous which was never far distant from any of them. "it's all right, of course," he began with assumed gravity. "we're certain to be millionaires when we get to going, but what i want to know is whether, in the meantime, we can stand off the printer." the others laughed. "you see, i know printers," continued van dorn. "i had a cousin who was a printer, and i've seen fellows try to stand him off. he nearly always had his sleeves rolled up, and when a man came to stand him off, he used to walk back to the sink, with the fellow following and talking; and my cousin would wash his hands under the tap while he listened, and then wipe them on the towel that hung over it. you never saw a printer's towel, did you? well, it isn't a very cheerful thing, and my cousin was just about as cheerful as it was. he'd stand there and listen, and wipe and listen, and not say anything, while the fellow'd talk and talk and look at that towel that hadn't been washed since the shop opened. then he'd look at my cousin and say some of the things over again in a discouraged sort of a way, and commence to miss connection and slip cogs, and pretty soon he'd sneak off, and my cousin would give one more wipe on the paleozoic towel, and then walk back and say a few things to the press-boys that would knock chunks out of the imposing-stone. now, what i want to know is if we can go to that fellow with his sleeves rolled up and get the second round of the first issue or the first round of any old issue without the money down." van dorn's remarks slackened the tension somewhat, and after considerable banter all around, perner explained that they would only want accommodation on a hundred thousand copies or so of the first round of the first issue for a few days until subscriptions began to flow in. frisby, he reminded them, had found no difficulty in getting a million copies without a dollar, and perner felt sure that, with the present competition, almost any of the big printing-houses would hug their knees, as barry had put it, to get the work. there would be some small bills for stationery and composition right at the start, perhaps some for the engraving. these they would discount and settle on presentation. "we'll have to pay our advertising man's salary, too," he said, "and with this scheme we want to get a good, energetic man and start him out soliciting at the earliest possible moment. he can get enough contracts on the basis of even a million circulation to pay for all the rounds of the first issue, and we can use those contracts as a basis of credit, too, if we have to." this remark created a visible sensation and a fresh regard for perner's business experience and energy, which was gradually becoming the backbone of the whole enterprise. barrifield meantime had pulled himself together and was smoking with his usual deliberation. "boys," he said, "we've got the biggest thing on earth. we could win either way, hands down--either with premiums or cash for names. but we want to be certain--certain! we don't want any possibility of failure. and to make assurance doubly sure, i am in favor of using both." this made something of a sensation. perner showed combative tendencies. "we can't afford it, barry," he said with conviction. "we are already giving twenty-five cents out of our dollar to the fellow who sends the names, and if we give even fifty cents more for a premium we'll have only twenty-five cents left." barrifield leaned back and closed his eyes. "we could afford it," he said, "if we didn't have five cents left. counting even only a million and a half a year return from the advertising, we could, by producing the papers in such quantity, still pay all expenses and have a hundred thousand or so apiece left at the end of the year. it isn't a good plan to try to make too much the first year. it invites competition. i believe in going moderately and being sure--don't you, fellows?" turning to van dorn and livingstone. van dorn looked over at perner anxiously. "i shouldn't wonder if barry was right, old man," he said in a conciliatory tone. "we don't have to pay for premiums, you know, until we have money coming in to do it with," added barrifield. "that's so," said livingstone,--"that's so! we'll have both! suppose we go now, fellows," he added, rather anxiously; "i've got a letter to write." "stony's always got a letter to write," commented van dorn. the others nodded, but said nothing. they arose from the table in vast friendship with each other. the repast had been bountiful. in after days it was referred to as the great dinner. also--sometimes--as the last dinner. vii a letter from miss dorothy castle of cleveland to mr. truman livingstone of new york dear old true: i am simply in a whirl. the copies you sent of the 'cash for names' circulation plan have set me to going till my feet no longer seem to touch anything. i have covered all my stationery with figures, and my desk fairly reeks with millions. you know i never cared much for figures before, and i was never very good at them when we went to school together, especially fractions; but there are no fractions about this--it's all just tens and hundreds and thousands and millions,--a perfect wilderness of decimals,--and i enjoy them so much that i get up early in the morning to play with them. i have taken all the figures you sent me, showing the cost of paper and printing and so on, and calculated over and over, and then divided by two, and sometimes three to be on the safe side, and even then i don't know what we shall do with all the money. "i'll tell you, true--we'll build things. we'll build hospitals and asylums and libraries, and first of all we'll build a great place where those poor men who now get a cup of coffee and a loaf of bread can get a good warm meal and have a bed to sleep in afterward. and we'll build one like it for poor women, too. and then, by and by, we'll build a great, beautiful place where artists and writers, when they get old, can live in ease and comfort, and not have anything to pay unless they are able. not in the way of charity, i mean, but as the just reward that wealth owes to those who have given their years and strength to make the world better and happier. only, wealth never understands and realizes its debt. but we will, true, because we know, and van and perny will help, and barry, too. and then, when we have grown old, perhaps we will go there to stay. i am not quite sure about that, but it would be beautiful, i know, for it would be like the houses we are going to have side by side, only on a larger scale; and then, it would be in the country, where there are green fields and fresh air and big trees and clear brooks. we will have beautiful grounds reaching in every direction, like those around windsor castle, that i once saw when in england. and everybody will do as they please, and read and write and paint what they like, or sit in the sun and shade, and so drift out of life as gently as the brown leaf falls and floats out to the eternal sea. "i do not mean to grow poetic, true, but i have always thought about such a place as that, and to me it has seemed just as i have tried to make it appear to you. i know you will understand, too, and your artist fancy will conceive things of which i do not even dream. i never hoped that it could be possible for me to realize this vision, though it has always been very near my heart, and once i even spoke about it to papa. but then, he isn't rich like that, and, besides, our family is large and the boys have to be started in life. "i was perfectly crazy at first to tell papa about the 'cash for names' plan, and should have done so if you hadn't pledged me to solemn secrecy. of course, i know how dangerous it would be for any other paper to find it out before you get started, but i know papa would not tell a soul if i told him not to. only i am glad now that i couldn't, for he is so conservative, you know, in his business methods that i am sure he would have laughed at the plan, and perhaps proved to me in some way that it wasn't practical-- i mean, of course, he might have _made me_ believe it wasn't practical, for he knows so much about business and is always so matter-of-fact that i can't argue with him at all. then i should have been discouraged and uneasy, instead of overflowing with happiness and dreams. "i am glad you are going to have a good man to solicit advertising right away; and how fine it is that he can get those cash contracts before the paper starts, so you can have ample means right from the first! it all seems so simple and easy now that i wonder people have not done these things long ago. but it is always that way--the simple things are the great ones and the last to be found out. it isn't often, either, that those who discover them get the benefit, and that seems too bad; but it is a comfort to feel that at last genius is to have its just reward, especially when it is the genius of those near and dear to us, and when through it so many others will be benefited and made happy, too. "i am awfully interested in what you have told me now and then about your picture of the bread line, and the little sketch you made of it on the margin of your last letter is delightful. i hope you will not let it go unfinished, though i know, of course, you are very busy and have so much to think of. but painting will be a rest to you, sometimes, and a change; and then, i like to think of you at your work, too. besides, it must be completed when i come, you know, and that will be--well, no; i'm not quite ready to fix the exact date yet, because, you see, you will have so much to do for a while, even after the paper is started, that i think we would better wait until it is fairly under way before you try to leave, even if that should not be much before the holidays. "we can wait and see, and when the time comes i shall be ready, for papa doesn't believe in grand weddings, nor i, either, and i shall have very little preparation to make. some day, when the 'second round of the third issue' is off, and the 'first round of the fourth issue' is started, when the subscriptions are whirling in like snowflakes through which you are gliding smoothly and well to fortune, then you may write to me, true, that you are coming, and i will be ready. i know that june is the month for weddings, but it is always june in the heart where love is, and, besides, new york is at its best in winter and spring, and when summer really does come we can go where our fancy takes us. "true, when you went away, and we said to each other that we would wait until you had made a place for yourself in the world,--until you had 'arrived,' as you called it,--the time of waiting seemed long. that was three years ago, but, after all, they have been swift, sweet years, even though we have not seen each other often. for little by little and step by step you did 'arrive,' until we both knew you had the solid ground of success under your feet. the joy of battle made the days go quickly to you, while the joy of watching you has been sweet to me. so you will not be impatient now, for this new triumph which will come still more quickly will make the weeks go even faster, and while it is not my best ambition for you, and only a means to an end, i still rejoice with you and am proud of you in it all. good-by, true. "with all my love, "dorothy. "p.s. papa just came in with the little roll from you containing proofs of the title and department headings. they are beautiful. he noticed all the pages on my desk covered with figures, and asked me if i were estimating the cost of a new easter bonnet! "dorry." viii the course of events matters seemed to start with an exasperating lack of rapidity--so much so that in midsummer perner declared they seemed considerably farther from the first issue now than they had been on the night at the hotel martin. it is true, he had a "dummy" put together, all blank except the first page and the department headings, while at the printer's there was almost enough matter to fill the blank columns, if only stony and van would talk less and complete the drawings they had started. he said despairingly one morning to barrifield, who had dropped in for a moment: "we ought to be running a semi-annual instead of a weekly. i think we could just about get out two issues of the paper in a year." barrifield assured him that they were doing beautifully, and that matters would go like clockwork when once they got started. for himself, he declared that he was getting along swimmingly, and displayed a number of more or less impossible premiums which he had pursued by mysterious and exciting methods to that guarded and hidden chamber which he still referred to in hushed tones as the "inside." he had also made a discovery in the way of an advertising man whom he described as being the very man for the place--in fact, a jewel! "recommended by jackson, of the jackson & marsh advertising agency," he announced triumphantly, "and by rushly, of the 'home monthly'--been with them two years and had the benefit of rushly's training. says bates--that's his name--is a great hustler." "why doesn't he stay with the 'home,' then?" perner spoke rather impatiently. "no chance of advancement. rushly is head man there and certain to stay. bates wants to begin with a new paper that is sure to go. i was talking to jackson to-day about what we were going to do and he mentioned bates. jackson, by the way, thinks our scheme great. he'd take stock in it in a minute if we'd let him." "did he say so?" "no; of course he couldn't do that, but i could tell by the way he talked. there'll be no trouble, though, about getting all the time of him we want on our advertising." "did he say that?" "no; i didn't ask him. but he was as friendly as _could_ be, and gave me a lot of good advice about advertising and advertisers. he said we ought to have a man like bates, and then put those matters entirely into his hands. i gathered from him that there was a sort of an inside circle that worked together, and that unless a man was in it he didn't have much show." "bates is in the ring, of course." "of course! and in addition to securing advertising contracts for us, he can place our ads too. jackson said he would do better for bates on a cash discount than he would for anybody." "but i thought we were going to get credit?" "of course, until the advertising is out. that's cash, you know, and when it's out we'll have money coming right in to pay for it. that's the way frisby did." "did you mention that to him?" "why, no; but--well you know i look prosperous. that's what frisby did, too, and he didn't have a dollar. jackson said bates could also help out with the business management." perner brightened. barrifield rose to go. "we can't get him any too quick, either," he added. "you've got your hands about full. i can see that!" in fact, perner was beginning to look worn. it had been decided some weeks previous that a time had arrived when one of them must devote himself wholly to the affairs of the forthcoming publication, and as perner was to be editor as well as manager _pro tem._, besides having but little cash to put in, as he had confessed in the beginning, he was selected for the sacrifice. a stated salary was agreed upon, which amount was to be applied each week on his stock subscription in lieu of cash. how he was to live on the comfortable-looking, though intangible, figure that he passed each saturday to his credit on stock until such times as returns began to assume definite form, he did not, with all his business experience, pause to consider. he began at once the task of shaping their more or less formless fancies, and the equally difficult one of subsisting on the returns from certain labors already concluded and disposed of to those periodicals here and there which, in some unexplained manner, have assumed the privilege of holding matter to suit their convenience and paying for it on publication. these checks fluttered in now and then, and were as rare jewels found by the wayside. he was still confident of success. if his enthusiasm and flesh had waned the least bit, it was because realities hitherto unconsidered were becoming daily more assertive and vigorous. of these there were many. from the moment of his return from breakfast--two hours earlier than he had ever thought necessary in the old days--there were men and also women waiting to see him. the fact of the "whole family" had become known, even as the hunted stag becomes known to birds of prey in the far empyrean, and solicitors of all kinds had begun to gather at the first croaking note of rumor. there were those who wished to advertise it upon illuminated cards set in frames to be placed in country hotels and railway stations; there were others who would announce it by a system of painted signs sown broadcast on the fences; and still others who for a consideration would display the good news upon dizzy mountain cliffs and the trees of the mighty forest, where even the four-footed kingdoms might see and rejoice at the glad tidings. of those who solicited for publications there were a legion. monthlies and weeklies of which perner had not even heard marshalled their clans and swooped down in companies, battalions, and brigades. all of these he could turn over to bates when he came on: the printers, engravers, contributors, and the people with circulation schemes were enough for him. as to the latter contingent, van dorn and livingstone relieved him somewhat, and rather enjoyed doing so. it was in the nature of a diversion to them to listen to these wordy emissaries of the east wind, who unfolded more or less startling schemes that ranged all the way from a house-to-house canvass for subscribers, through various voting contests, up to the securing by lobby an act of congress adopting the paper as the official organ of some forty millions of school-children. it was more pleasant to listen and to discuss with this garrulous advance-guard of fortune in her various guises than to pursue her more ploddingly at the easel. this gave some relief to perner, though, on the whole, he would have preferred seeing them at work. livingstone, it is true, did work feverishly at his painting now and then, for as much as an hour or more at a time, and between him and van dorn the various headings and one or two other drawings had come into being. but there was still much for them to do, and their seeming inability to get down to business, now that matters were really under way, was sometimes, as he had hinted to barrifield, altogether discouraging. later in the day he abused them roundly. "how do you expect we are going to get out a paper once a week?" he asked. there had come the lull which precedes lunch-time, and perner was standing in his door and glaring at them with undisguised scorn. his disarranged hair and the light on his glasses gave him the appearance of a very tall beetle. "once a week! do you know what that means? it means not once a year, nor once a month, but every seven days! here we've been going nearly seven months, and you haven't got pictures for one issue yet! how in the world do you expect to get out from six to eight pictures a week for the next issues? that's what you've got to do, you know, until we get started and money is coming in to buy outside work with. even then we can't depend on that for the class of stuff we want. you could do it, too, without turning a hair, if you'd just puncture a few of these wind-bags that come along, and get down to work!" "oh, pshaw! perny; there's plenty of time," said van dorn, pacifically. "stony and i are committee on circulation." "that's so," said livingstone. "we had one man to-day who wanted to put copies of our first issue into seventeen million packages of starch for distribution throughout the entire civilized world. van told him it was a stiff proposition." "he didn't see the joke, though," complained van dorn, in a grieved voice, "and he looked at us pityingly when i told him we had a better scheme." "you didn't hint at what it was, of course," said perner, anxiously. "not much! he'd have gobbled it up in a minute if i had." perner dropped into a chair and stretched out his feet. "when bates comes we'll turn a lot of these fellows over to him," he mused aloud. "the rooms below us are empty. we'll get them and put him in there. then we can all get down to work." "those rooms will more than double the rent, won't they?" asked van dorn. "yes; but we can't have that gang up here, even if it trebles it. we're not going to have any too much money, either, to run us through. the engraving bill came in to-day, and the letter postage is no small item. there'll be a bill for composition on the st, and it'll be a good deal, because we've changed the style of type so often. then, bates's salary will commence right away, and he'll probably have to have a stenographer, and an allowance for incidentals, and a desk and some other furniture. you see, frisby had a lot of things when he took the 'voice' that we'll have to buy, and it's like building a house--it always takes more than you expect it to. of course, when we once get started we'll have money to throw at the birds, but, whatever frisby may have done, it's beginning to be pretty clear to me that we'll have to throw a good deal into other places before that time comes. you and stony had better be hustling on a little outside work, too, so, in case of another assessment--" they drifted over to the continental for lunch, where presently barrifield joined them. the continental was handy and it was also cheaper than some of the places they had heretofore frequented. barrifield was aglow with a sort of triumphant excitement. "i've just seen bates," he began, as he seated himself. "great! told me more about advertising in five minutes than i ever dreamed of. i could hardly get away from him." "why didn't you bring him along?" said livingstone. "well, you see," said barrifield, lowering his voice, "he'd been out hustling all the morning, and he'd had a drink or two,--they have to do that, you know,--and i didn't know but he'd want to talk too much. he's all right, though. the smartest man i ever knew couldn't do business well until he'd had a few drinks." "that's so!" assented perner. "there's lots of people that way. when's he coming?" "monday. and i engaged a circulation man, too." barrifield paused to note the effect of this remark. the others were regarding him questioningly. they had not calculated on an expense in this direction for the present. "he doesn't cost anything, either," he added triumphantly. the look all around became one of pleasure. barrifield explained. "an old war-horse," he said. "been circulation manager for some of the greatest publications in the country. retired from the business years ago. been speculating more or less since, and not doing much of anything lately. great traveler, and used to write, too. money probably to live on now, and wants to get back into the smoke of battle for the mere joy of the thing. he happened into the 'home' office while i was there, and heard we were starting the 'whole family.' said he'd be delighted to come and help us out until we got to going, and then we could do what we wanted to with him. i closed a bargain on the spot. he can take a big load off of you fellows. great, isn't it?" "bully!" said van dorn. "i suppose he'll want to buy some stock later on, though." barrifield looked wise. "that's what i suspected," he admitted. "well, if he does us a good turn now, we might let him have a share or two later, eh, fellows?" the others assented eagerly. they were not to be outdone in liberality. they knew nothing of this new acquisition, but barrifield's description appealed to them. "we'll put him down-stairs with bates," reflected perner. "what's his name, barry?" asked van dorn. "hazard--colonel hazard. officer in the civil war. all the big battles. if we got pinched before the returns come he'd loan us money, too." "that's good," said perner. "we may need it." they studied the bill of fare intently. "they serve all portions for two here, don't they?" asked perner, rather cautiously, at last. a waiter standing near by replied in the affirmative. "that soup looks good," suggested van dorn. "creme of tomatoes with rice. suppose we try two portions of that?" livingstone hastily referred to the price, which he was gratified to find was unusually moderate. "by gad, yes," he said. "tomato soup--that's it! it's good and substantial." "filling," agreed van dorn. "and corn-beef hash," said perner. "i haven't had any corn-beef hash for a dog's age." "let's see," said livingstone and van dorn together. there was another hasty and surreptitious reference to the price. "hash, that's it!" suddenly exclaimed barrifield, who had also been studying the various economies set forth on the rather elaborate list. "nice brown hash without the poached egg or any trimmings. just good, plain, old-fashioned hash! two portions of soup and two of hash will make a lunch fit for a king. it makes my mouth water to think about it. what shall we have to drink?" "i find it interferes with my work, afternoons," said perner. "nothing for me." "me, too," agreed van dorn. "i'm going to do without even coffee in the middle of the day." "same here," said livingstone. "how about pie?" suggested barrifield, wistfully. perner's eyes, too, grew hungry at the sound of the word, but he maintained silence. a peculiar smile grew about van dorn's mouth. "they won't serve two portions of pie for four of us, i suppose," he said. there was a laugh in which all joined, and the flimsy wall of pretense was swept away. "let's own up, boys," said barrifield, "it's a matter of economy just now with all of us. we'll be lunching at del's this time next year, but for a few months we want to go a little slow. let's have pie, though, once more, anyway." ix in the sanctum perner's days were not without compensations. there was correspondence with certain celebrities whom they had decided to engage for the coming year, and to be addressed by these as "dear mr. perner," and even as "my dear perner" more than once, was worth the foregoing of certain luxuries of a grosser nature. then, too, the news of the "whole family" had gone abroad among the bohemians of the town, and the poet and the fictionist unearthed from the dark corners of their desks--technically known as their "barrels"--the sketches, poems, and stories that had already (and more than once, perhaps, as editors came and went) gone the hopeless round from franklin square to irvington-on-the-hudson. they shook the dust from these, cleaned them carefully with an eraser, and brought them to perner's door. they were a merry crowd, these bohemians, and most of them perner knew. he had waited with them in editorial anterooms, had striven hip to thigh with them in the daily turmoil of park row, and in more convivial and prosperous moments had touched glasses and nibbled cheese with them at lipton's or in perry's back room. it was really rather fine, therefore, to have become all at once a potentate before whom, with due respect, they now dumped the various contents of their several "barrels." he informed one and all graciously that contributions would be promptly passed upon, and such as were selected promptly paid for, speaking as one with ample means in reserve. he knew, of course, the venerable character of most of these offerings,--he could detect a renovated manuscript across the room in poor light,--but he also knew that some of his own most successful work had become much travel-worn. he was willing to wade through the pile of chaff in the hope of discovering a gem, and, besides, the dignity of an editorial desk with heaped-up manuscript was gratifying. also, the bohemians were entertaining. they knew the peculiarities of every editor in town, and exchanged with perner characteristic experiences. among them was a stout, middle-aged man named capers. he was partly bald, with a smooth baby face that gave him somewhat the appearance of cupid, and, with his merry disposition, made him seem much younger than he really was. "well, i've just had a round with jacky," he said, as he came in one morning, puffing somewhat after the long climb. (jacky was the name by which a certain very prominent and somewhat difficult magazine editor was irreverently known among the bohemians.) "it was a pretty stiff tussle, but i landed him." perner's face showed interest. jacky, to him, had been always a trying problem. "how was it?" he asked. "what did you land him with?" "christmas poem--twenty-four lines. wrote it for an autumn poem--twelve lines in the first place. too late for this year." "you could change it, of course, easy enough." "changed it right there. put the golden apples and brown nuts in a pan on the table instead of on the sear and yellow trees. then i showed it to him again, and he said he didn't care much for nuts and apples anyway, so i took 'em out, and put back the trees, and hung tinsel and embroidered slippers on them. i had to add four more lines to do that, and spoke of the holidays connecting the years like a 'joyous snow-clad isthmus' to rhyme with 'christmas.' he liked that pretty well, but thought it ought to have a little more atmosphere, so i put in at the beginning a stanza with a star in the east in it, and another at the end with christmas day as a star in the heart of humanity--sort of a reflection like--" "that was good--tiptop!" "yes; he took it then. he said, if he didn't, i'd keep on adding to it and break up the magazine. now, perny, i'll tell you, i've got a poem that runs right straight through the year. every stanza is complete in itself, and i can give you any kind of a cut you want. you can have it all as it is, or i'll take out the bones and trim it up for you, or you can have slices out of it here and there at so much a slice." perner took the manuscript and ran his eye over it casually. "that's a good thing on september," he said. "the figure of the goldenrod like a plumed warder closing the gates of summer is striking. we don't publish till november, though." "that's all right! what's the matter with making it chrysanthemum--a royal goddess at the gates of fall?" "why, yes; i suppose that will do." perner handed back the sheet, and capers immediately set about recasting his stanzas. perner had been too long in literature himself to be shocked by this phase of it. he was only amused. furthermore, he was fond of capers, as was every editor in town. they knew him to be far more conscientious in his work than most of those who affected the poetic manner and dress. these and others were less entertaining. some of them perner would rather not have seen. there was the faded, middle-aged woman whose poor, impossible manuscript was offered to him with hands made heavy by toil. there was the pale, eager girl who trembled before him until perner himself was so disturbed that words meant to be kindly and encouraging became only rude and meaningless. there was the handsomely dressed woman of fashion, who, with the air of a benefactor, laid before him stories of bad execution and worse morals--stories to which was attached neither the author's signature nor stamps for their return. then there was the sharp-featured woman with spectacles, who regarded him severely and proceeded to read her poem aloud. once this contributor brought a song, and insisted on singing it to him, much to the enjoyment of van dorn and livingstone in the next room. there were men who tried him, too: men who brought bad pictures and a recommendation from their instructors; men who were worn and threadbare, and smelled of liquor and opium; men, and women, too, who offered their ancestry, or their relationship with better-known people, as an argument of their ability; men who accompanied their contributions with a card bearing a picture of themselves as well as their names, and on the reverse side local press notices complimentary to their talents. all of these, however, were the exceptions. for the most part, the bohemians were sensible, cheerful people who had adopted the uncertain paths of art, and were following them, in storm and sun, bravely and perseveringly, to the end. they were nearly always light-hearted--on the surface, at least,--and bore away their unaccepted offerings or left others with equally good nature. now and then a new aspirant came, in whose work perner recognized the elements of success. toward these his heart warmed, and out of his well of experience he gave to them an abundance of encouragement and priceless counsel. indeed, this was a keen enjoyment to him. his own struggle, begun somewhat late in life, had not been altogether an easy one, and there was delight in renewing each step of his success. there was regret, too--regret that the old days of freedom, and nights without responsibility, were over. still, it was something to be the editor of a great paper, and then, by and by, there would be for him--for all of them--the comforts of wealth, and with it time in which to do only such work as gave them most pleasure. the strain was rather hard now, sometimes, and might become even harder before the final triumph. but the end of their rainbow was drawing each day nearer, and in the summer dusk, under their open skylight, the friends still drowsed and talked far into the night of pots of gold. x a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland "my own dear dorry: when i wrote to you last we had just arranged to have bates come and colonel hazard. well, they are both here now, and it is a perfect circus. bates came a few days before the colonel. then when the colonel did come bates regarded him in some way as a rival, and because he isn't dressed very well tried to intimidate him. bates is like all solicitors,--at least, all that we have seen,--full of talk and rather overpowering in his manner; but the colonel is a white-haired old army officer, and can put on some dignity, and talk some, himself. perny had to go down and straighten them out, and now they've got the door locked between them. they are all right, though, both of them, i suppose, in their way. i don't care for bates-- i don't like his way, though perny and barry say that some of the smartest men they ever knew were like him. but the colonel is an old brick. he's traveled all over the world and been in about all the battles that ever were fought. he's been in a lot of different kinds of business, too, and has made a great many people rich. i don't think he's very rich now himself--at least, he doesn't look like it, though, of course, you can't always tell. i know he's expecting money in a few days, for i lent him a dollar this morning until it comes. i'm going to get him to pose for me, if he will, for he's a perfect type for the bread-line picture if he only won't get any new clothes. i'm almost afraid to ask him, though he's so good-natured i know he can't refuse. he's a boon to perny, for he talks to all the people with circulation schemes and keeps them down-stairs, so van and i can get out the rest of the pictures for the first issue and begin some for the second. bates takes care of the advertising solicitors, too, which is a help, though he worries perny a good deal trying to find out how much money we've got. he made up to the colonel yesterday and questioned him on the subject. the colonel told him we had _millions back of us_. of course, we've never told the colonel about frisby, and he doesn't know any more than bates, or just how _far_ back of us the millions are any more than we do, but wasn't it a jolly answer? the colonel is always amusing, while bates never is. bates wants a lot of things, too, and we've got new tables and letter-presses and chairs that all cost a good deal more than you'd think for. you've no idea how things count up, and now, with bates's salary and the stenographer's and double rent, it really almost scares me sometimes. still, frisby did it without money, though, of course, he had some things that we have to buy, and then he got credit, too. we'll either have to do that soon or make another assessment, for there is something new that we have to buy every day. "you should see our new mail-box. the colonel bought it--that is, he had it made to order, because there were no ready-made boxes in the city, he said, big enough to hold our mail when our advertisements come out, and i suppose that is so. but it really is very large, and it has an opening in it big enough to take in almost any size package. we put it down-stairs by the door, and people come all the way up the outside steps just to look at it. i don't know what they think it is--perhaps a receiver of old clothes and things for charity; at least, some must have thought so, for there was a pair of little worn baby-shoes in it the other day, and yesterday a hat. you see, it says 'the whole family' on it in big black letters, and i suppose people think it means contributions for all ages. i took the baby-shoes to use as models, and the colonel is wearing the hat. it is pretty good and better than the one he had. van says if the paper fails we'll have to depend on our mail-box for support. "of course, that was in fun, for the paper can't fail now. bates says he's already got contracts enough made and promised to fill up nearly all the space in the first issue. he says we must advertise more ourselves than we calculated on, as that helps us to get ads in exchange, and i suppose that is true; and then, as soon as our advertising is out, we'll have money coming in right away to pay for it. that is what they call 'cash terms.' i am learning a good deal about business, and even perny, who, as you know, was in business once for ten years, is learning some things, too. you see, the publishing business is different. i never realized it so much before. "we have lots of advice. people come in every day to tell us how to run the paper, and yesterday a little boy about ten years old walked in and said to perny: "'i'll tell you what you want in that paper: you want a chapter every week that tells boys how to make things.' "wasn't it jolly? perny is going to have it, too. then, he's going to have another one like it for girls, and correspondence, and cooking receipts, and agriculture, and puzzles, and games, and sciences, and school features, besides all the stories and articles. i tell you, we've got our hands full--at least, perny has, and, of course, we help him plan and talk about it. "the colonel helps, too, and he is a good hand. then, when we are tired, he tells us his adventures. he's a great traveler and has written articles and stories. he knows egypt and the holy land like a book. bates also comes up and talks evenings, when we want to be alone. i suppose we ought to listen to him, for he talks business, but he is an awful bore, and we don't care much who his contracts are with, if he's just got them. i'd put a good deal more faith in bates if he had different ways, but, of course, everything can't be pleasant. van tried to seem interested, the other night, and asked bates to let him see his contracts. then he became quite offended. he seemed to think we doubted his having them. we don't want to get him mad, for the advertising is where our profit comes in, and i suppose bates is a great hustler, only i wish he'd hustle and be satisfied without telling us over and over about lawson's baby powder, and the slick shaving stick, or the h. m. rolled oats, double column agate every other week, and a lot more things, till we're stone-blind and black in the face. "and now, dorry dear, i tried to write you all the news, as you wanted me to, and i haven't told you once in all these pages that i love you. i do, though, dorry, and it breaks my heart that i am not going to see you this summer. of course, as you say, i ought not to leave now until the paper is out, and must be economical; but it is very hard, and if you were not so taken up now with the paper yourself, i should be tempted to drop everything and come away. there are drawbacks, after all, in having a great responsibility like this, but, of course, when it gets to going i suppose we'll have leisure, and next summer we'll have a steam-yacht of our own and go around the world together. then we'll come back and begin building the houses and all the different institutions you have planned. you are very noble, sweetheart, to be always thinking of others. it will be beautiful to be rich for that reason, if for nothing else. for my part, any condition of life would be happiness with you at my side. god bless you, dorothy! "your "true. "p.s. the colonel was just in, and i made this sketch of him. he's going to pose for me, too, in the bread line. he looked a little queer when i asked him, but he laughed the next instant and said he would. isn't he fine? "true. "p.p.s.--bates was in, too. he was flourishing a paper triumphantly and saying, 'you fellows don't think i have any contracts, do you?' he said that two or three times, and then sat down and told us all over a lot of stuff we've heard before--at least, it sounded like it. when he went out he accidentally dropped the paper on the floor. perny picked it up and looked at it. it was a contract for a two-line cosmetic ad in two issues for two dollars! perny figured up and found that it made our space worth less than five hundred dollars a page, or about seven thousand dollars a year in all, when we had been figuring on a million or so. perny is going to investigate to-morrow. "t." xi the gentle art of advertising to the proprietors of the "whole family" the discovery that mr. bates was over-fond of strong liquors was not altogether in the nature of a surprise. indeed, this weakness was rather condoned at first as being one believed to be common to some of the brightest minds. barrifield, it will be remembered, had put it in this way about the time of bates's engagement, and in his opinion had been ably seconded by perner, against whose judgment neither van dorn nor livingstone had, at this period, dared to oppose themselves. it will be seen from his letters to miss castle of cleveland, however, that livingstone's faith in the bibulous solicitor of advertising was by no means complete; also that mr. bates had become to all of them the unmitigated bore which the man of his temperament and habit is more than likely to become toward evening after a day of persistent enterprise. could they have seen the following letter, prepared and forwarded by mr. bates during one of his more lucid intervals, the faith of all might have crumbled somewhat sooner than it did: office of the "whole family" a weekly paper for young and old new york, august , . _to richard cleaver, c/o jackson & marsh adv. agency, new york,_ friend dick: i have gone into this business as deep as possible, and as near as i can find out these fellows have got some money. i don't know how much yet, but at least they pay salaries regular and any bills that come. there is a broken-down old stuff here by the name of hazard. he calls himself colonel, and has been mixed up in all kinds of wild-cat enterprises for the past forty years. he knows something about running a paper of the vintage of ' and they think he's a great man. he says they're backed by millions, but probably knows no more about it than i do. whatever they've got, they are "lambs," and one of them, livingstone, is a regular infant in arms. they're going to lose their "bundle," of course, whatever it is, and we want to get as much of it as we can and as quick as possible. here's what _you_ want to do. go right to the "family friend" people and tell them that the "whole family" is placing a big lot of advertising and will cut into them in great shape. the "friend" will give you a lot of advertising to place for them, for they are always "leery" of competition. i have already told these chumps that they will have to do a lot more advertising than they counted on in order to get ads themselves. they are going to let me pick the places, and you can stand to win on my picking places where the commission will be worth something. you can't do that so well with the "friend" people, of course,--they'll pick for themselves,--but whatever we get from that end will be just so much to the good, and we'll divide profits in the middle. now about the money here. tell jackson to present his bill before he turns their copy in. they will have to pay then if they have got any money, and if they haven't we'll find it out. they can't kick, for they've talked cash all the time, though they seem to think that means when the advertising is out, and i'll let them keep on thinking so awhile longer. now, dick, we ought to get a pretty good thing out of this by making it cut both ways, and i want you to attend to your end all o. k. you hustle the "friend" folks and i'll "round up" these duffers. then i'll come down in a day or two, and we'll go out where we can have a quiet drink and talk it over. your commissions ought to swell up pretty well this month if we work this through properly, and mine ought to help out my salary here, which i shall go on pulling as long as their "dough" holds out to burn. oh, but these fellows are a lot of jays! they instructed me when i came to take ads on the basis of a million circulation _at least_, and to charge _ten dollars a line_ for space. how's that? i'm doing it, of course! yours, joe. about the time, possibly, that mr. bates was preparing this letter, the proprietors of the "whole family" were gathered about a table under the studio skylight in earnest discussion. in the center of the table lay a large and loud-voiced watch, a small, inoffensive-looking camera, a savage-looking gun, and a rather showy bible. after much argument they had finally agreed upon these articles as their premiums, as well as upon the necessity of following up their "cash for names" announcement with premium offers both in their own and other periodicals. they were gathered now to prepare the copy for this advertising. perner was performing the mechanical labor, while the others assisted him with appropriate adjectives and sentences. "i don't think 'excellent' is a strong enough word for the watch," objected van dorn, picking up the noisy little tin box and regarding it rather sternly, perhaps because it did not suggest something more gratifying to the ear. perner scowled and scratched his head. "i don't think so myself," he admitted, "but i've used up everything else on the paper. i've said 'splendid,' 'magnificent,' 'grand,' 'glorious,' and all those. there isn't anything left that i can think of. get my thesaurus, stony, off the desk in the next room, and turn to 'beauty.' that'll give us a starting-point." livingstone obeyed, and was presently running his finger down the page. "'gorgeous' wouldn't quite do, would it?" he asked doubtfully. "n-no, hardly. look along a little farther. what comes after that?" "then--let's see--there's 'good-looking,' 'well-made,' 'proper,' 'shapely,' and 'symmetrical.' i don't think much of any of those, do you?" "well, no," reflected van dorn; "however true they might be of the proprietors, we'd hardly want to say that our watch was 'good-looking' and 'proper.'" "how about 'dazzling,' 'showy,' 'majestic,' 'sumptuous'?" "oh, pshaw, stony, give me the book!" said perner, impatiently. "here, barry, you look. these artists don't know any more about a dictionary than we do about a paint-shop." barrifield took the book and examined it a moment in silence. "how would 'elegant' do, and 'superb'?" he asked. "good, but we've used them already on the paper." "'delicate,' 'dainty,' 'refined'--" livingstone looked down at the fat-bellied, moon-faced time-piece and laughed. van dorn took it more seriously. "too tappy," he said. "we want to land on the solar plexus every time. why not call it 'world-beating,' or--" "now you're talking sense!" interrupted barrifield. "that's better than a dictionary. 'the great, world-beating "whole family" watch! stem-winding and -setting! full-jeweled! diamond balance! eighteen--'" "hold on, barry; i can't get it down." perner was scribbling rapidly. "and what does 'diamond balance' mean?" "never mind what it means. it sounds rich, and that's what we want." "don't you think we ought to have in something about the escapement?" asked livingstone. "all watches have escapements, don't they?" "why, yes," nodded van dorn,--"cylinder escapement--duplex action--" perner interrupted: "oh, nonsense, van! it's the camera that has duplex action." "'tisn't, either--it's the watch!" "oh, well, let's give it to the camera, anyway," compromised barrifield. "we've got enough for the watch. how does it read now, perny?" perner added a few more lines to what he had already written, then, leaning back in his chair, read slowly and with emphasis: "our magnificent premium offers "in addition to giving you our superb paper at the unheard-of price of one dollar a year for fifty-two issues, we make to the _entire world_ the following supreme premium offers: "i think," perner paused to comment, "that that goes a few degrees better than frisby. here's what he says." he picked up a copy of a paper that gave evidence of having had much careful reading and even commentary study. "never mind frisby," objected van dorn. "we know that by heart. let's hear what you say." "all right," cheerfully assented perner. "offer no. "our splendid paper, 'the whole family,' for one year, fifty-two issues, and our great world-beating, stem-winding and -setting, cylinder-escapement, diamond-balance, crown-jeweled watch! worth, both together, five dollars in gold! given by us, until present limited quantity is exhausted, for the mere ridiculous bagatelle of "one dollar! "and twenty-five cents to pay for postage and packing." perner paused and caught his breath. then he added: "the last line, of course, will be in small type, so it won't seem to count. it's the dollar that will catch them. and what do you think of 'crown-jeweled'? wasn't that an inspiration? you see, 'full-jeweled' means a certain number, and we don't want to deceive anybody, while 'crown-jeweled' means just jewels, because any kind of jewels are suitable for a crown." perner regarded them triumphantly. barrifield and livingstone murmured assent. "yes, that was a great stroke," agreed van dorn; "but i object to the 'mere ridiculous bagatelle.'" perner looked injured. it was evident that he valued this form. "you see, they'll think it means another premium--something they don't get," van dorn continued. "yes; sounds like a game i used to have," suggested livingstone. barrifield nodded dreamily, while perner scratched out the offending words. "you fellows are such good hands to find fault with what i do," he complained, "why don't you do something yourselves?" "give me the pencil and paper, then," commanded van dorn. perner surrendered the articles with dignity, and for some moments the artist wrote busily. "now," he exclaimed at last, "how does this sound? "offer no. "paper, same as you had, perny, and "our marvelous cracker-jack, kodak, double-rack, swing-back camera--" "bully!" shouted livingstone, "that's a regular college yell!" "of course--that's what we want!" van dorn acknowledged eagerly. "that'll make every college boy want one!" perner assented, but he did not look altogether happy. perhaps he felt that he had been defeated by a maker of pictures in what was properly a literary undertaking. "now let barry and stony do the gun and the bible," he said wearily. "i'm tired." the door opened just then, and colonel hazard entered. in spite of his disreputable clothing, he possessed considerable dignity and a manner calculated to inspire in those about him something akin to confidence. it was, perhaps, this very quality that had been from time to time the downfall of himself and others. the stream of pactolus had flowed often at his touch, though only to waste its golden waters in treacherous sands and unseen pitfalls. nevertheless, he had retained what was even more precious--hope and unfailing good nature. it is true bates had provoked him to wrath, but then, bates's manner had been exceptional. "you're just the man we want to see, colonel," called van dorn, as he entered. "we're getting up our ads. come and help us." the colonel was always willing and courteous. he cleared his throat and came forward smiling. "certainly, gentlemen. i think i may really be able to assist you somewhat. when i was business manager of the 'family post' in its palmy days i always arranged my own advertising copy. i remember once of running the circulation up something like two hundred thousand on a single feature i introduced. also, when i was editor-in-chief of the 'saturday globe' they often came to me for such things. it is quite an art, i assure you. may i be allowed to consider what you have already done?" the work, so far as completed, was exhibited and read aloud for his delectation. "very good, gentlemen, very good indeed," he assented, when they had finished. "you have also made careful selection, no doubt, of the periodicals in which these advertisements are to appear. a great deal depends on the choice of proper mediums. for instance, you would not wish to offer the gun in a ladies' journal, nor, from a business standpoint, the bible in a sportsmen's magazine, however commendable such a course might appear from a moral point of view. you see, gentlemen, i speak from long and dearly bought experience, and these matters are worth considering." "but bates attends to all that," said perner. "he knows the best places to advertise better than we do, and can get better prices. wouldn't you think so?" the face of the colonel grew almost stern. "i do not wish, gentlemen, to interfere in any of your plans," he said with some dignity, "and you must excuse me if i do not coincide with your opinions concerning my colleague, mr. joseph bates. he impresses me as merely a boasting, unscrupulous fellow when he is sober, and a maudlin ananias when he's intoxicated. in neither condition do i consider him trustworthy." "by gad! nor i, either!" declared livingstone. "oh, come, now," protested barrifield, laughing lazily. "you fellows are down on bates because he drinks. why, some of the smartest men we ever had in this country were the hardest drinkers." "rather in spite of it than because of it, however, i fancy," smiled the colonel. "if i were employing men i should hardly regard inebriety as an evidence of either superior intelligence or moral integrity. personally, i have no respect for my colleague,--no respect whatever,--though, as long as he remains such, i shall treat him with the courtesy due to his position." there was something about the colonel's manner that commanded sufficient respect for himself to prevent the laughter which his appearance and remarks might otherwise have encouraged. with his assistance the proprietors of the "whole family" proceeded with the descriptions of the gun and the bible. they had finished and colonel hazard had arisen to go when bates himself entered. he was unsteady on his feet, and paused for a moment to regard the colonel with drunken scorn. then he made a motion toward a chair, lurched heavily, barely saved himself by grasping the table, and stood swaying like an inverted pendulum. the colonel hesitated for an instant, then with a deft motion he pushed a chair behind the oscillating figure. "allow me, mr. bates. good evening, gentlemen." and with a stately bow he passed out just as the helpless bates sank into the chair thus thoughtfully provided by his enemy, and was saved. once in the chair, he partially recovered and found speech. "no r'spect f'r that chap!" he said thickly, shaking his head, "no r'spect wh'tever. he's 'n old stuff--'at's w'at he is--no r'spect wh'tever." "oh, come, bates, brace up! if it hadn't been for the colonel you'd have been on the floor! brace up, now; we want to talk business!" perner spoke sharply, and it had the effect of bringing the solicitor partly to his senses. the proprietors of the "whole family" had been indulgent heretofore--even submissive; he could not afford to disturb these conditions--not yet. barrifield and van dorn also regarded him severely. livingstone, disgusted, walked over to the window and looked down on the street. "we have been getting up our ads," continued perner, "and we want them placed right away. we've left the selection of the places to you, but if you're going to attend to it you've got to brace up and answer some questions. what we want to know is whether this advertising is going to pay us--pay right away, i mean--so enough returns will come in to cover the investment as soon as it's out." the effect of this on bates was certainly remarkable. by the time perner had finished speaking, except for a slightly heavy look in his eyes and a trifling uncertainty as to consonants, you could hardly have told he had been drinking. "gen'lemen," he said with great conviction, "there is no question about it. i've been in the adve'tising business ten years, an' i know what i'm talkin' about. you've got a beautiful paper, gen'lemen, beautiful. i sat up t'll one o'clock las' night reading it. all it wan's is adve'tising. no question about it, gen'lemen." barrifield looked across triumphantly at van dorn. bates was all right when it came to business. they read him the advertisements, of which he approved heartily. later, he began telling them of some vast sum appropriated by an artificial food company for advertising purposes and of which he would secure for them a handsome slice. perner listened a moment; then he drew a paper from his pocket. "oh, by the way, bates," he asked, "what does this mean? this contract you left here last night reads, 'two lines, two insertions, for two dollars.' what does that mean?" bates stared a moment; then he took the paper and pretended to examine it very carefully. a moment later he chuckled. "why, yes," he owned, "that's so. i never noticed that b'fore. s'pose i got to writin' twos an' couldn't stop. should have been 'forty' in the blank b'fore 'dollars.' have it fixed t'-morrow." he pocketed the contract and rose to go. barrifield and perner again looked across at each other with satisfaction. bates took a step toward the door. then it was observed that his self-control had been but temporary, or perhaps had not extended to his legs. he staggered, reached for the knob, missed, and plunged helplessly into the corner in a heap. they helped him up, brushed him, and steadied him down-stairs. as they came back to the studio van dorn remarked disgustedly: "well, smart men that drink, or no smart men, i wouldn't hire another man like that." "but wasn't it wonderful how he braced up when it came to talking business?" insisted barrifield. "yes; he's all right on business," agreed perner; "but i am with van on the drink question." "i'm with the colonel," said livingstone. xii a letter from miss dorothy castle of cleveland to mr. truman livingstone of new york "my dear true: your last letter, and package containing 'dummy' of the first issue of the 'whole family,' so far as complete, came last night. i have read every word in it--the 'whole family,' i mean (and your letter, too, of course)--over and over. i think it splendid (both splendid). the stories and drawings are all of the very highest order, if i am any judge, and the 'make-up' and all beautiful. (i am talking of the paper this time.) there is a little typographical error on the fourth page,--in the second column, just below the first paragraph,--but i know perny will find that before you go to press. of course, i think your drawings are the best, but van's are fine, too. i think all of you ought to be proud of such a beautiful first issue, and i am sure you will be able to keep up the standard, for, as barry told perny, it will go like clockwork when you get to going. "you mustn't get discouraged, true. your letters, lately, have been rather blue sometimes, and i know just how you feel. but, whatever you do, stick it out to the end. don't think for a moment of giving it up; don't do it, true, after putting in as much thought and time and money as you have already. for, after all, as you once said, true, money is a great thing,--a lot of money,--you can do so much with it; and now, when we are almost at the turn of the tide, is the very time to pull hardest and get over the bar. even if it takes every cent you can scrape together to pay you through, put it in, and if it takes more than that i can buy a share and put in a little, too, for i have five hundred dollars that papa gave me last august when i was twenty-one, and i will have five hundred more soon, because i am not going away at all this summer, and papa is going to give me, in money, what it would cost. "i thought of going at first, and then i kept putting it off from week to week, and remembered you working away there in the heat for me, and i made up my mind at last that i wouldn't go, either. besides, our home is cool and beautiful, and i am alone, and can do as i please, and not have to dress and go and be torn to pieces. next summer we will go together. "so you see, true, i will have a thousand dollars of my own, and if your assessments take more than you have i will send it to you, and you can invest it for me. i had intended to buy things for our house with it, but we won't need it by that time, and the success of the paper now is the all-important thing. i did not care so much at first, but now it has gone along so well, and with all the new plans and such a beautiful paper as you can get up, i want to see it make the success and fortune for you that i am sure it must. besides, true, won't it be fine to own our interest together? "i know, of course, that there are many unpleasant things about it,--some, i suspect, that you don't tell me of,--and that it isn't altogether the money that bothers you; but you must put up with the burden and suspense a little longer, and with bates, who must be a dreadful nuisance, though he surely means well and works hard to get so much advertising. i should love to meet the colonel. the first little sketch you sent me of him i have pinned up over my desk, and when i read your letters about him i look up at it and laugh and imagine just how he looks and acts. what a beautiful model he must make for the picture, and how glad i am you are working at it so enthusiastically again! perhaps that is one reason why you are less interested in the paper, and worried over the annoyances that must always come with the more practical pursuits of life. "you see, true, i think a good deal about all these things, and i realized even from the first that a nature like yours is not at all suited to hard and shrewd commercial enterprise, though this is not quite that, either, and the hard days will soon be over. work right along on the picture, true, but don't think of giving up your interest in the paper. the picture will rest and comfort you now, and the paper will furnish the means of rest and comfort by and by. then, when that time comes, perhaps i shall be able to add happiness to your life, too, and together in our beautiful home we will add happiness to the lives of others. good-by, true. stick fast, and remember that i am "always your "dorothy. "p.s. true, i can send the money any time, and you must let me do it if you find it will be needed. i do not offer it as assistance, but _claim the opportunity of investment_. "dorry." xiii the hour of dark foreboding with the first days of september the tension became more severe. bills sprang up from every quarter like mushrooms, and while no one of them was very large the accumulation was considerable. the humors of the enterprise were not altogether lost sight of, however, and still furnished some relief, though there was a manifest touch of bitterness in many of their whimsicalities. there were moments of individual doubt and discouragement also--not as to the final outcome, but as to their ability to exist until such time as the crumbs which they were sowing so lavishly upon the outgoing waters should return in good brown loaves. indeed, these were likely to be needed presently, for they were economizing at every point, and the dairy lunch and cheap table-d'hôte places served most frequently their needs. there were no more go-as-you-please dinners, and those of the past were remembered with fondness and referred to with respect. it may have been that this system of diet resulted in clearer mental vision, or it may have been that perner's early business training really manifested itself feebly at last, and set him to thinking logically. whatever it was, he suddenly came out of his den into the studio, one afternoon, looking rather pale and startled. he had been through a hard day with printers and engravers, as well as voracious collectors, whose bills had an almost universal habit of error on the wrong side. the others knew the conditions and did not suspect anything unusual when he flung himself down on the turkish couch and stared up at the skylight. then at last he said: "boys, it's a failure. it won't work!" the others looked around quickly. "what is it? what's a failure?" they spoke together. "the 'cash for names'; it's a fallacy." "how? why? won't they do it?" this from van dorn. "oh, yes; _they_ may, and will, probably; but _we_ won't!" "oh, pshaw! perny, what are you talking about?" van dorn was becoming a little impatient--it was his scheme. perner rose to a sitting position on the couch. "why, look!" said he. "we send the paper free for two weeks to each of the twenty names sent by each subscriber. that's forty papers free for every subscriber that comes." "of course," admitted livingstone; "but some of those twenty names--most of them--will subscribe." "certainly; and each one that does so will send twenty more names, which means forty more free papers--forty papers besides the fifty-two they are to receive afterward, or ninety-two papers in all. ninety-two papers will cost us, mailed, something like seventy-five cents; the premium will cost us at least fifty cents more, even where we charge for postage and packing. then there is the twenty-five cents cash we pay to the sender of names. total, one dollar and fifty cents outlay, for which we receive one dollar cash in return." perner looked steadily first at livingstone, then at van dorn. neither of them answered for a moment, and both became a trifle grave. then van dorn said: "but the advertising, perny--you forget that. even if we do lose money on subscriptions the first few months, we can afford it for the sake of a subscription list that will swell the advertising returns." "by gad, yes," said livingstone. "that's so--the advertising!" perner lay back on the couch wearily. "yes," he admitted; "the advertising ought to help. i keep forgetting that. i wish bates would make a statement, though, of just what he's done in that line. he talks enough and seems to be getting along. he's kept pretty straight lately, too." "why don't you call on him for a statement?" asked livingstone. "well, i have meant to, but he's so peculiar, you know, and i didn't want to offend him." "no; of course, we can't afford to do that now," van dorn agreed. "we're under obligations to bates for placing our advertising with jackson. i don't believe anybody else would have taken it without money down. bates having worked there once is the reason he did it." livingstone was painting on his picture of the bread line. "i've a mind to make one of these fellows look like bates," he laughed, "out of gratitude." "do it," urged perner. "he'll be there some day if he keeps on drinking." "how much advertising did we take, in all?" asked van dorn, presently. perner went somewhat into detail in his reply: "well, you see, we made the 'sunday-school union' a page instead of a half-page so we could get in the big cut of the bible, and we took a half-page instead of a quarter in 'boy's own' so's to get in the gun and the camera, with a small cut of the watch. then we took a page each in two school papers to get in the gun and bible both, and the small cuts of the watch and camera. all these, of course, are in addition to what we had counted on before. it amounts to about thirteen hundred dollars in all." there were some moments of silence after this statement. none of them had any superstition concerning this particular number of hundreds, and the amount was pitifully small compared to the figures they had used from time to time so recklessly in estimating their returns. for some unexplained reason, however, the sudden reality of the sum, and the dead certainty that this was not a mirage of champagne or a fancy of smoke, but a hard, cold fact that had to be met with money, caused the two listeners to have a cold, sinking sensation in stomachs that were none too full. van dorn was first to recover. he said with weak cheerfulness: "oh, well, it isn't a third what frisby took, and he didn't have a dollar." "sure enough!" rejoiced livingstone. "lucky we don't have to pay it now though." there was another period of silence; then he added, "what time is it getting to be, perny?" as there was no immediate answer to this, livingstone wheeled half-way around from his easel for the reply, and saw perner studying somewhat solemnly the dial of one of the fat "whole family" watches. perner usually carried a rather elegant gold time-piece, a memory of his business career, and the only one in the party. livingstone was about to comment on its absence, but was restrained by a sudden delicacy. perner's watch might be out for repairs, or he might be wearing this ridiculous affair out of loyalty to the paper; but these were troublous times, and there was the possibility of still another solution of the matter. "five o'clock," decided perner, at last, "lacking four minutes. i suppose i'm through with the leeches for to-day." the words were barely uttered when the door opened and a boy entered with bills in one hand and a letter in the other. "i spoke a little too soon, it seems," perner concluded, taking the envelop which the boy had extended uncertainly toward each of them in turn. the envelop contained a brief communication--also a bill. perner held the latter in his hand while he ran his eye hastily over the former. then he glanced at the amount of the bill, and van dorn, who was watching him, saw that he was rather white. he turned to the boy quite carelessly, however. "you may leave these. we will attend to them to-morrow." then, as the collector vanished, he looked up at van dorn with, "it's the bill for the advertising. we are to pay before it goes in." van dorn half rose to his feet. livingstone gasped. "listen," said perner, and he read the letter to them: "office of jackson & marsh, etc. "new york, september , . "_publishers of the 'whole family,' new york._ "gentlemen: we hand you herewith net bill of your advertising, cash discount being taken off as per your instructions through mr. bates. upon receipt of your check for the amount we will give our final o. k. to the various periodicals, most of which are now ready for the press. with thanks for your order, we ask, therefore, that you kindly be very prompt, and greatly oblige, "yours, etc., "jackson & marsh. "per c." perner looked up from the letter at van dorn. the artist regarded him a full minute in silence. then he said huskily: "don't that beat hell?" "it does," groaned livingstone. "bully for bates!" xiv a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland "my dearest dorry: i have not written to you as promptly as usual, because there have been other things that had to be attended to a good deal _more_ promptly, and there was an uncertainty about everything lately that made whatever i might say to you more or less guesswork. i mean about the paper. it seems that 'cash terms' doesn't mean when the advertising is out, after all, but _before it goes in_, and this misunderstanding made matters about as lively as anything you can imagine in the financial department of the 'whole family' office for a day or two. i think bates was mostly to blame, but we couldn't say anything to him because it would expose the weakness of our capital; and then, we _did_ tell him that we wanted to pay cash, though i am sure he knew we understood that that meant to pay as frisby did--when advertising came out. "however, we got through with it. we thought at first we'd have to capitalize, but barry sold a small piece of property he had somewhere, and the rest of us skirmished about where we could. i did not let you know, because i have made up my mind to go through with this as i began, whatever happens. it can't take a great deal more now until it begins to come our way, and what you have said about sticking it out is the right thing, and i mean to follow it to the letter. with your money, however, it is different. that is just your own, and as for having an interest in the paper, if i stay by it, as i mean to, and get through safely, as i'm sure i can, you will have that anyway. we are going right ahead now with matter and pictures for the second and third issues, and if it were not for the salaries and rent and incidentals we could feel pretty easy, for barry says he is sure we can get 'the first round of the first issue' from 'the man who stands with his sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on the prehistoric towel while he talks,' without the money down. "that, of course, will be all we need, for as soon as the first few thousand papers are out there will be plenty of money coming in for everything. then we can take it easier, and, as you say, dorry, it is worth putting up with a good deal to be able to have means for everything afterward. we all appreciate that, now, and perny says he is looking forward to the day when he can have some other kind of dessert besides hard-baked, barber-pole ice-cream, which is what they give us at the little table-d'hôte place where we have been eating dinner lately. "the colonel is as good-natured and jolly as ever. he poses for me whenever i want him to, and allows me to lend him a dollar now and then, which i am sure comes in handy, for the money he is expecting hasn't come yet. we give him a little salary now, too, though we had to insist on his taking it. but he is enthusiastic and a great help, and deserves it. he is getting the circulation books ready, and has bought himself some new clothes, though, fortunately for my picture, he doesn't always wear them. "i am still working on it a little every day, and have been down to the 'line' one or two evenings. for some reason, however, the work doesn't seem to have quite the feeling the first sketch had--i mean quite the feeling of forlornness and destitution. van says it's because i've seen the 'line' lately in warm weather, when the men are only hungry and not cold. that must be so, i think, and i am not going to finish it entirely until it gets cold again, so i can get back all that wretchedness we saw on last new year's eve. perhaps that sounds cruel to you, but it is the artist's way to make capital out of the emotions of others, and anyhow, dear, this isn't like 'prometheus bound,' that we used to read at school, for it does nobody any harm and may even do good. "it's likely to be cold and bitter almost any time after the st of october, but it ought to be very cold,--i mean in the picture,--and there should be snow or sleet. i think sleet would be better--a driving, stinging sleet, and a deadly hard look on the pavement where the light reflects. there is something in the way a man crouches and shrinks from sleet that you never quite get any other way. of course, i don't want it to sleet on those poor fellows, but i know it will, and when it does i must be there to see it. "you see, the boys think this is the best thing i have done, and i can't afford to fail on it at the end, though i'd like to have it all done by christmas, and it may not sleet before january, or even then. but i'm not going to worry over it,--think about it, i mean,--for, as i said, i wouldn't really want it to be very cold and sleet at all, if i could help it, only i know i can't. "how good and noble you are, dorry! when i think about your not having gone away this summer on my account, it makes me ashamed of myself, for really we have had a jolly time here in town. van says that even if we never get anything else out of the paper, we have had a million dollars' worth of fun, and it's about so. i am sorry i have ever seemed discouraged or out of patience with things, for it made you have a lot of sympathy with me, and though i liked it, of course, and wanted it, i knew i didn't deserve it at all. "i am glad, though, that the struggle will be over now in a few days. our first advertising--the 'cash for names'--comes out on the th, and the rest--the premium offers--about the th. also in our own sample copies. so you see, before the st of october the wheels will be turning very fast. of course, we may not have quite the great rush we expect, but even if only half it will be enough. "good-by, sweetheart. i wish we might be together these beautiful september days. the parks are fine now in the early morning. next year we will get up and walk out in them together. "with all my heart, "true." xv final straws one morning when the busy writer and two artists who lived and toiled together in apartments near union square--now the offices of the "whole family"--returned to them after a light and wholesome breakfast, they found their stairway full of girls--girls of almost every age and apparently of almost every station in life. there were tall girls, short girls, slender girls, stout girls, girls of every complexion and every manner of dress. also, more girls were constantly coming and pressing their way into the hall. the friends stood aghast. van dorn swore under his breath. "what is it?" whispered livingstone, fearfully. "what have we done now?" a flicker of light flitted across perner's face. "i guess the colonel did it," he said. "he put a line in one of the papers last night for a few girls to help him. i suppose this is the result." "do you call this a few?" gasped livingstone. "well, of course we couldn't tell just how many would come. that paper must have a good many readers. we don't have to take 'em all, you know." livingstone stared at the gathering of the clans helplessly. "no," he commented; "i should think not." then a moment later he added thoughtfully: "i suppose all these girls have to work to live. let's take all of them we can, fellows." and van dorn asked hopelessly: "how are we going to get up-stairs?" they worked their way through, at last, to the colonel's room above. it was filled to the edges, as were the halls and stairways outside. the colonel was already at his desk--his white hair tossed in every direction and a hunted look in his eyes. about him billowed the eager applicants, crowding and forcing their way toward the sheet of paper upon which he was having each write her name and address, both to show the style and rapidity of penmanship, and as a means of finding the ones selected. the friends watched the proceedings for some moments with interest. the girls regarded them curiously. some of them whispered to each other and giggled. van dorn wedged his way to the colonel's elbow and said in a subdued voice: "well, colonel, this beats gettysburg, doesn't it?" the colonel affected a great self-possession. "oh, this is nothing at all," he laughed. "i've been through this all my life. once i engaged five hundred girls. i won't be able to get more than a dozen good ones out of this crowd." "a dozen! i should think you could get a million!" the colonel tipped over an ink-bottle to show his superior calmness, and a black-eyed, rosy-cheeked girl jumped back with a tiny scream. the friends made their way to the room above, where, several hours later, colonel hazard joined them, somewhat pale and worn. he had sifted out ten good girls, he told them, after careful examination of the throng. it was learned later that he had locked the doors below as soon as possible to keep out the hordes that continued to come. indeed, girls came singly and in groups all day. those engaged were familiarizing themselves with the books in which names were to be entered. on to-morrow the first advertising was to appear. barrifield, who was temporarily absent from the city in the interest of his employers, had arranged before he started to have the presses going on the papers. the end was in sight. in fact, answers to their advertisements began to come the next afternoon, and the proprietors were much elated. there were only a few, to be sure,--not enough to cover the bottom of the big mail-box,--but they indicated that their offers had been seen and appreciated. even perner forgot his former misgivings and rejoiced. the answers were coming. the paper was ready for the press. the long-looked-for hour was at hand. at dusk, however, came a slight shock. colonel hazard came up with several letters. he remarked, handing them to perner: "there are some queer people in the world. read one or two of those letters aloud." perner held one of the communications to the light. it said: gentlemen: i inclose you twenty good names of people likely to be interested in your paper. please send me the five dollars as promised without delay. my birthday comes on saturday, and i want it before that time. yours hastily, bessie green. "humph! well named," said van dorn, while the others uttered various exclamations. "well, i'm sorry for bessie, but i'm afraid she'll be disappointed." perner selected another letter. "this is from a boy," he commented; "his name is robert bright. you wouldn't suspect it, however, from his communication. "gentlemen: here are ure twentie naims. now send mi five dollers, and dont be so slo about it or i will have the polese on ure track. i have ben foold one or twise by advertisment fellers but this time i mean to have wat is coming." the exclamations that followed this possessed an added degree of emphasis. perner picked up a third letter. "from a woman," he said. "gentlemen: i am sending the twenty names, and you don't know how grateful i am or how happy it makes me to be able to earn money for my little family, who are in need of the necessaries of life. i hope you can send me the five dollars to-night, and i am sure heaven will reward you for your great undertaking." nobody uttered a word for some moments. then livingstone said: "do you suppose there'll be many letters like that?" and van dorn growled: "some people haven't got the sense they were born with. that advertisement was as clear as sunlight." "it was," said perner; "i wrote it myself." nevertheless, they made up the five dollars between them and mailed a check for it on their way to dinner. the next morning there were more answers in the big mail-box. the bottom was quite covered with postal cards containing lists of twenty names each. also, there was a letter from the man of the rolled-up sleeves, stating that he was prepared to run some twenty thousand copies of the paper, and would start the press upon receipt of a check for the amount. this was a severe blow, but as the amount was comparatively small it was not fatal. besides, they had grown somewhat accustomed to such things. they were not even surprised when their landlord, who, with his family, occupied apartments in the rear, came in to demand his rent in the middle of the month--a thing he had never dreamed of doing since the first year of their occupancy. not that he was at all afraid, he said, but he was only a poor man who sublet to them, and had met with ill fortune. later, the colonel came up with still further strange letters, though none so pathetic as the one of the night before. however, there were other complications. people in small villages were sending lists containing the same names. some of the lists were almost identical. when perner realized this he scowled anxiously, and lay down on the couch to think. "good heavens! fellows," he exclaimed, "we'll ruin the nation!" "what's the matter? what do you mean?" asked van dorn. "why, see here! people will be sending in the same names, and sending each other's names, till they get us so mixed up we can't straighten the thing out in a hundred years! then they'll accuse us of fraud, and blame each other for a lot of things, too. the result will be that they'll get into a fight until the whole nation is in one immense wrangle. we'll ruin the country! that's what we'll do! we'll ruin the country!" perner had arisen and was walking the floor excitedly. "i tell you, van, your 'cash for names' scheme is a fallacy! i said so the other day, and i say so all the more now. i'll admit that i believed in it and abetted it at first. it looked like a big thing, and we all thought it was, but it isn't. in the first place, we can't afford it, as i told you before. in the next place, the people don't understand it, and we're going to be deluged with letters like those that came with the first mail. and even if we could afford it, and even if those letters didn't count, we can't afford to disturb the peace of the whole nation by creating hard feelings in every village and hamlet, that will finally end, not only with the utter ruin of our paper, but in riots and rebellion and government interference, if not in one mighty civil war and the total destruction of the whole english-speaking world!" perner's old manner--the manner in which he had set forth the scheme on the night of the golden dinner--had returned to him. it had returned, but with a difference: then he had been painting the glories of the plan; now he was depicting its horrors. the ten years' business experience had wallowed through a cloudland of dreams, but had materialized in very harsh daylight at last. as for van dorn and livingstone, they sat gloomily silent. the colonel was first to express himself. he said: "i hardly think we need to disturb ourselves so seriously. at the rate the replies are coming i should say that there is no immediate danger of upsetting the universe with our plans. we have received a number, it is true, but unless there is a marked increase to-morrow, i may safely reduce my force of assistants by one half." "you don't think, then, we'll get a hundred thousand lists of twenty names each in reply to our 'cash for names' advertisement?" perner asked--somewhat relieved, it would seem. "i don't think we'll get to exceed _five_ thousand." in fact, they received somewhat less than one thousand, and the original twenty thousand papers were found sufficient. these, though paid for with some degrees of promptness, were not immediately forthcoming. it is the printer's way. the "man with his sleeves rolled up" does not hasten in the process of "wiping his hands on the cheerless towel" even after the requested check has been received and cashed. though pleaded for, argued for, demanded at last violently, the "first round of the first issue" did not arrive until the morning of the th, at which time colonel hazard put on sufficient force to dispose of them in one day. and so the "first round of the first issue" was out at last. also, on to-morrow their premium advertisements would appear. the dice which they had been jingling so merrily for the better part of a year they had cast, finally, on the round green table of the world. xvi at the end of the rainbow they were elated to find a subscription in the big mail-box on the following morning; at least, perner and van dorn were, and livingstone, though less demonstrative, seemed also gratified. few, if any, of the sample copies could have reached their destination, and it must have been an early riser indeed who had already seen their advertising and forwarded a subscription. when the letter was found to be from one dorothy castle of cleveland, the wonder grew. "she must have got hold of an advance copy," commented perner. "you came from cleveland, stony; do you know any castles out there?" livingstone thought hard, and admitted that the name sounded familiar; his people might know her. then there was a careful examination of the precious document by each in turn. "i'll bet that's a bully girl!" decided van dorn, with emphasis. "i can tell by the handwriting." "she is that," agreed livingstone. "let's have it framed and hung up as a souvenir," suggested perner. "give it to me," said livingstone. "i have an idea." perner made a copy of it first for the colonel. his enthusiasm had returned. "she wants a bible," he commented. "i say, fellows, don't you think we'd better have a thousand bibles sent right up? that seems to be the premium they want." "better wait till to-morrow," advised van dorn; "then we'll have the money to pay for them with." this seemed good advice. the rest of the day they spent between the studios and the circulation department below. no further subscriptions were received, however, and though they remarked to each other that of course they did not expect them, it was evident that evening found them somewhat more silent than usual. they were up next morning early. breakfast was a mere form, and conversation difficult. they made a pretense of the usual banter, it is true, but the laughter sounded spasmodic and strange. the long strain upon them had told. perner reached the big mail-box first, and struck it with his foot. it rang hollow. he peered down through the long opening in the top. "empty," he said; "postman hasn't come yet. perhaps there's such a lot it delayed him, or they're sending it in a special sack." "maybe the colonel's already got it," suggested van dorn. they ran up the stairs like boys. colonel hazard sat at his desk, his assistants ranged about a long table behind him. some of them were idle. the others were entering a few belated lists of names. "mail come?" panted livingstone, breathlessly. the colonel nodded. "came just as i did. met the postman in the hall. several lists of twenty names each, and two subscriptions--two very nice subscriptions, gentlemen, one from a sample copy, one from the advertisement in the 'home.' we shall do nicely, gentlemen, when we get to going. it takes patience, of course, and capital; but we shall succeed with time and perseverance." they dragged up the next flight to the studios. when they were inside, and the door closed, van dorn said: "do you know, the colonel's getting so he makes me tired!" "i guess he never heard of a man named frisby," said livingstone. "i'll tell you," said perner, "it's too soon. the paper just got out yesterday. people have to have a chance to read it, first, then to buy a money-order and a stamp. even those that live nearest couldn't get their subscriptions in much before to-night." "but the ones we've already got did," observed livingstone, gloomily. "and frisby got in a thousand dollars the first day after his advertising appeared," remembered van dorn. "oh, well, that probably meant the _second_ day. i'll bet he didn't count the first day at all. of course he didn't." livingstone suddenly brightened. "perhaps that wasn't all the mail; maybe they're bringing the rest of it in a sack." there was a perceptible revival at this suggestion. perner even became merry. "maybe in pots," he said,--"pots of gold!" and van dorn, looking out of the window, remarked: "we're like frisby in one respect, anyway. he didn't have a dollar when his first subscription came--not a dollar!" but the sack did not appear--nor the pots. neither did they receive any further subscriptions on _that_ day. by night it was almost impossible to see humor in the situation, which shows that the bohemian spirit must have reached a very low ebb indeed. on the following morning they did not think it worth while to go to breakfast, but waited at the foot of the stairs in a body for the postman. he came after what seemed an endless period, and brought quite a bundle of mail. there were a number of twenty-name lists and a quantity of circulars, also one subscription. even the colonel appeared somewhat depressed at this falling off of a clean fifty per cent. in the returns, while the proprietors ascended to the floor above in silence. perner fell into a chair and rocked gently. van dorn stared out of the window, as was his wont. livingstone walked over and stood before his picture of the bread line. all at once perner began to laugh violently. the others turned and stared at him. he rocked harder and laughed louder. the faces of livingstone and van dorn became really concerned. the latter said soothingly: "oh, come, old man, that won't do. you're overworked and nervous. you must take it calmly, you know." but perner only rocked and laughed more wildly. finally he gasped out: "i'm all right! i haven't got 'em! but _four subscriptions_! a year's work for four men, and one subscription apiece to show for it! the mountain rocked and groaned and brought forth a mouse! oh, lord! ten years' business experience and four subscriptions! twelve months' hard labor for two well-known artists, several thousand dollars in cash, and four subscriptions!" he reeled off into another wild fit of merriment, and this time the others joined him. the humor of it had seized them all. van dorn toppled over on the couch. livingstone lay down on a prayer-rug to laugh. "four subscriptions!" they shouted. "and frisby got in a thousand dollars the first day. cash paid for names, and four subscriptions! the crown-jeweled watch! the marvelous cracker-jack, double-rack, hackensack camera! money for christmas shopping, and checks mailed promptly! oh, lord! oh, lord!" they were not so far from hysteria, after all. when at last they could laugh no more, they were weak and exhausted. "how about our steam-yacht, and houses on fifth avenue?" asked van dorn, and this was followed by a feeble aftermath of mirth. "i'm glad we didn't take vacations," said perner; "we'll enjoy them so much more next year, when we can go in style." livingstone said nothing, and his face had saddened. presently one of the girls from below entered with a letter. it was postmarked at chicago, and they recognized barrifield's handwriting. it was addressed to perner. he read it aloud: "dear perny and all: you will have things fairly under way by the time you get this, and we will be already as good as millionaires. "humph! yes," commented perner. "_better_ than some millionaires, i hope! "the subscriptions will be pouring in--" "see 'em pour!" interrupted van dorn. "and the premiums going out in a steady stream." at this there was a general yell and another fit of laughter. "i am sorry," the letter continued, "that we adopted that watch, however, for i have found a much better one here, and have got on the 'inside.' i have sent on a number of them, which you can use where people call in person for their premiums." "they'll call," said livingstone. "'line forms up on the right. come early to avoid the rush.'" "i have sent them to you c.o.d." perner gaped up at the others. "oh, he has! he's sent them c.o.d.! um! well, i don't think we'll use many of those watches--not _this_ week. "i am anxious to know, of course, just how matters are going, and if we beat frisby the first day. wire me to this address just what we did and are doing. i will be with you in a few days more." "we'll wire him," grunted van dorn. "the wire'll be so hot he'll dance when it touches him. beat frisby! oh, yes; we'll wire him!" they did, in fact, at once, and within the hour received barrifield's reply. it was conveyed in a single brief word: chicago, october , . _to the "whole family," new york._ capitalize! (signed) barrifield. perner read it, and it was handed to each of the others in turn. then they looked at each other. van dorn said pleasantly: "why, yes; that's so. capitalize! i hadn't thought of that. stony, get up here and capitalize!" livingstone dug down in his pockets and brought up fifty-six cents. "all right," he said. "that's every nickel i've got in the world. let's capitalize!" almost immediately there came another telegram from barrifield. _to the "whole family," new york._ don't sell any of my stock. (signed) barrifield. this promptly sent perner off into another fit of hysterics. "oh, no; don't sell any of his stock!" he howled. "don't! don't sell any of _his_ stock! please don't! sell mine!" xvii a telegram from miss dorothy castle of cleveland to mr. truman livingstone of new york cleveland, october , . _to truman livingstone, c/o the "whole family", new york._ don't give up. check one thousand to-day. use it. letter. paid (signed) dorothy. xviii grabbing at straws barrifield arrived three days later and began at once his effort to secure capital. in this he was quite alone, as no one of the others made even an attempt to produce friends of financial ability. true, the colonel, who was a friend of them all, and who at last knew something of the situation, declared that he would take a very satisfactory interest in the enterprise if the money he was expecting would but come. this event did not occur, however, and matters grew more precarious. to be sure, the number of subscriptions increased somewhat for a time, and on one day in november reached the maximum of thirty-two. this, perner figured, would give them something like ten thousand in a year if they could rely on that many every day. but on the next day the number was less than twenty, and the tendency continued downward. as for barrifield, he made a most noble effort. he interviewed men of means whom he had known for many years, and others whom he had known for less than as many minutes. he came in each evening to report. he spoke of capital as being "timid" at this season, but he never lost hope. the others, whose faith had become a mere rag, and who were inclined to regard further effort as a farce, still kept on, at his urging, preparing the second and third issues, though in a hopeless and half-hearted way. some one has said that it is harder to stop a paper than to start one. the proprietors of the "whole family" realized this daily. the money coming in was far from sufficient for the expense, but it served to prolong the death agony from week to week. perner, who had carefully figured out by this time the impossibility of success from any standpoint, was for quitting forthwith and getting back to work. van dorn was somewhat inclined in the same direction; livingstone also, perhaps, though he announced his readiness to stay in the field as long as there was anything to fight for. barrifield and colonel hazard were for an effort to the death. the colonel was invaluable at this period. all bills that came were referred to him. it was hard enough not to be able to meet them, but what was still harder, payment, he averted with a skill and kindly grace that would have done credit to beau brummel himself. the landlord went away empty-handed and laughing, and the landlady, who called later with an offspring clinging to either side of her skirts, was flattered by the colonel into leniency, and the offsprings kissed by him in the jolliest manner possible. when, a few days later, she came again, he said: "i will do anything, madam, anything in the world to oblige you. i would even pay you if i could. i have kissed the children--i will do so again. i will--if you will permit me, madam-- i--" but the blushing landlady had hurried away laughing, leaving the gallant colonel and his assistants--now reduced in numbers to two--blushing and laughing behind her. no one could be offended at the colonel. as for bates, they still managed to pay his salary, and he appeared to be very busy--also, at times, very drunk. however, he kept away from them for the most part, for which they were duly grateful. each night barrifield had some one in view who would certainly come to the rescue on the morrow. each night it was a different one. the rescuer of the night before had just invested his capital, was just about to do so, or had just lost largely on some former investment. rushly of the "home," and president bright of bright & sons' stellar, were both enthusiastic over the opportunity, and would certainly mention it to their friends. for themselves, it was, unfortunately, out of the question for the present. rushly had purchased stock in his own paper. president bright, in conjunction with his sons, had made large additions to their factory, etc. truly, capital _was_ timid--unusually so. still barrifield did not despair wholly. he gave a dinner, at last, to a number of men who were believed to have more or less capital at their command. at this dinner he set forth his plan in the most magnetic manner and glowing terms. his speech made a decided sensation. almost to a man his guests declared it a good thing. one of them, the next morning, more conscientious than the others,--a noble spirit, in fact,--sent in his check for ten dollars--the first assessment on a single share. and so the weeks dragged on. subsequent rounds of the first issue were handled with no appreciable difficulty by the colonel and his two assistants, and "the first round of the second issue" they managed to obtain from the printers in fairly decent season. but the third number dragged--dragged horribly--dragged until those who had subscribed began to write letters of inquiry that were not always polite. the "man with his sleeves rolled up" came to the rescue at last on this issue. he let them have it without the check. he even delivered the papers to the post-office for them, and advanced the postage from his own purse. matters being now sufficiently desperate, perner urged daily that they turn their subscriptions over to some other publication to fill, and quit, short off. he was getting frightfully pinched for means, and the others, except barrifield, no less so. barrifield still had his salary. to be sure, they now had time in which to do some outside work, but the market had changed during the year, and it seemed almost impossible to dispose of matter which a year before the editors had fought for. "why, a year ago," grumbled perner, "my quatrains used to be legal tender anywhere on park row for a dollar. now they want to charge me advertising rates to print them." "same with pictures," echoed van dorn. "my opinion is that a lot of us will be back plowing corn next spring." "it's a good while till spring," reflected livingstone, gloomily. he was working on his painting a good deal these days, and perhaps getting truer feelings into it because of his own despair. barrifield came in at this juncture, filled with the usual enthusiasm. he had learned of a man who was thought to be anxious to invest in just such an enterprise as the "whole family." he was going to see him in the morning--he would almost certainly come to the rescue. they were discussing this possibility when colonel hazard entered. for the first time he looked worn and discouraged. "what's the matter, colonel?" asked perner. "you look tired." "yes," assented the colonel; "the landlady's been in again after the rent. the landlord was there, too, this afternoon. i think i've paid it in kind words and kisses about as long as i can. they said we'd either have to pay or give up the rooms." this statement cast a momentary gloom even over barrifield. "and bates," continued the colonel, "has been in, too. he came to notify me that he would quit to-night unless he got his money for last week. we didn't pay him last week, you know. i should very promptly have told him to quit had i felt authorized to do so." "no, no; don't do that!" protested barrifield, anxiously. "tell him to wait till to-morrow. tell him"--he hesitated a moment, and then added in all seriousness, "tell him we'll raise his salary." xix a letter from mr. truman livingstone of new york to miss dorothy castle of cleveland new york, december , . dear, dear dorry: well, dorry, it's all over. all our hopes and dreams have come to nothing. perny pulled down the sign in the hall this morning, and the furniture is being taken out of the rooms below to sell for whatever it will bring to pay as far as it will go on the rent. perny said he wouldn't go into a new year with this hanging over us, nor van dorn, either, and i think it's just as well myself. "you see, dorry, it would be no use. our plan looked well, but it was all wrong; and even if it hadn't been, it would have taken more money than we could ever have got hold of, and a long, long time besides, to get started. of course, frisby did it without money, but that was a good while ago, and he was first in the field. it is like a prize drawn in a lottery--the chances are against another being won by anything near the same ticket number. and then, even frisby may not have done exactly as he said--people don't always tell things of this kind just as they happened. "barrifield still hopes against hope that sometime he may find some one with capital who will bring the 'whole family' to life. he has taken the lists and books and things away to show to such people; but i think it would be better if he did not show them, for they could not seem much of an inducement to any one with money already made and safely locked in the bank. the colonel has gone, too, and bates, and the last is the one bright spot in all this sad affair. he went some weeks before the colonel-- i believe i wrote you at the time. bates was a great trial to us all--a greater trial even than i ever told you, for though i did not speak of it before, he drank to excess, and we also know now that he was unreliable in many ways. on all the advertising he placed for us he received a commission, while from the advertising he obtained for us we received no returns, for it was all taken on trial, or in some such way, and he had no contracts at all except the one of two dollars i once mentioned. that was genuine, and we got the two dollars. "we thought, dorry, with all of us together, we had a good combination of people for starting a paper, but i realize now that we probably had about the worst one that could be imagined. artists and writers can make a good paper, and the 'whole family' was not bad, as papers go, but it takes somebody else to run it, and even perny's ten years' business experience was worse than nothing after being mixed with about as many more years of bohemia. he says so himself now. the colonel was as bad as the rest of us--worse, because he is older, and with him the habit of getting rich on paper has had time to grow and become fixed. he will go on chasing rainbows, i suppose, until the end of his days. poor old chap! when i shut my eyes i can imagine him in his frayed clothes, with his white hair and his eager face, racing madly across rain-wet meadows for the imaginary pot of gold. that is what we have all been doing, dorry, and had our combination been ever so strong and our feet ever so swift, we never should have found it. "for i realize a great many things now that none of us realized at the start. the cost of producing a paper is very great, and there were many things that we did not know of at all. perny knows all about it now, and has figured it out for me and van, so that we see clearly at last that no matter how much money we had started with, or how capable we were, we should only have failed, for, unless we changed our plans and charged higher for the paper and gave less premiums, the more subscribers we got the more we should have lost. it is some consolation to know that, for we might have lost a hundred thousand dollars very easily in a year if we had had it, or had raised it by subscription, as we tried to do. your little thousand would have been but a drop in the ocean, and would have lasted only a few days. so i send back the draft to you, now that everything is ended and you cannot refuse to take it. as for my part of the assessments, i managed to keep up and a little more, for i was still in favor of going on when the others had reached the limit of their means. "and now comes the hardest part of all. for oh, dorry dear, i am going to do what i once said i would do if anything happened to me, or if the paper failed and ruined us all. i am going to release you. i could not think, dorry, after all that has passed, of letting you come here now to share my poverty. for that is what it is, dear--just poverty; and poverty in a big city is more humiliating and deadening to all the joys of life than it can possibly be elsewhere. i have nothing now but my hands, dorry, and they are of little value, for times have changed and there is much less work than formerly. i have less even than that, because there are some debts that have accumulated and must be paid. "i never realized what riches were until i had them,--i mean until i thought i had them, which was the same thing while it lasted,--nor what poverty meant. and perny says so, too, and van. barry, of course, still has his salary. but i realize now, and i am not going to let you leave comfort and plenty, without care, to come here and share only privation and care, without comfort, with me. it breaks my heart to give you up, dorry, but i know it is right, and while you might still be willing, if i asked it, to fulfil your promise to me, and do not realize all that it would mean, i cannot ask you--i cannot allow you--to do it. "some day, dorry, things may be different again. some day, if we both live and you are still free, and still care, i may come to you and ask you to give me back your promise. for you are free now, dorry. i would be less than i am if i did not give you your freedom now, after holding out to you all the promises of wealth, and leading you to believe in all my vain dreams. how beautiful you were through it all! you only thought of others. dear heart, what will the poor poets and artists do now without the beautiful place you were going to build for them? i suppose they must always be poor dreamers like me to the end, and it is that poverty and that end, darling, that i cannot ask you to share. "good-by, dorry. we have been friends from childhood, and friends we must still, be, for, whatever comes, i am always "your faithful "true." "p.s. i believe i wrote you that your christmas remembrance came. i thank you for it once more. it is very beautiful. i thought you might care for the book because it is an autograph copy. i must not forget to wish you a happy and beautiful new year. it will be different from what we had planned--different from the year just passed, which, i suppose, has been happy, too, though i would not, for some reasons, wish to repeat it. i forgot to tell you about my picture. i am only waiting for a cold sleet to come, so i can finish it. i had intended it, you know, for perny's christmas, to hang over his desk in the new house; but there is no new house, and he would not let me give it to him now, so i shall try to sell it. "true." xx the bark of the wolf in the studios near union square, where two artists and a writer lived and toiled together, there was an atmosphere of heavy gloom. it was a bitter, dark day without, for one thing, raw and windy, while within there was little in the way of cheerfulness besides the open fire, which, for economy's sake, was not allowed to manifest any undue spirit of enterprise. being the last day in the year--a year that had not been overkind to them--also added something to the feeling of pervading melancholy, and the fact that no one of the three had eaten since the previous evening was not conducive to joy. they were not altogether without hope. they had tobacco, such as it was, and coal for the time being. food was more or less of a luxury compared with these. they had scraped together their last fractional funds and invested them in necessaries. then, too, there was to be more money; not much, of course,--there was not much money anywhere now,--but enough to satisfy for a time the gaunt wolf that was marching up and down in the hall outside, pausing now and then to grin up at the spot where the sign of the "whole family" had hung, and show his gleaming white teeth. it was van dorn who had pictured the situation in this manner, and added: "i'm afraid to go out in the hall after dark, for fear he'll get me by the leg." and perner: "i think we'd better invite him in. maybe he's brought something." livingstone looked wearily in the fire. "i wish the 'decade' would send me that check they promised to-day," he muttered presently. "and 'dawn' the one they were to send me," said van dorn. "and the 'columbian' mine," echoed perner. "if i thought i could get it now by going over there, i'd go." "too late, perny; they're closed. you should have got it when you were there yesterday." "yes, i know; but i thought some of us would surely get one, and i didn't want to appear broke. i suppose, if they'd mentioned it, i'd have been fool enough to have said, 'no hurry--any time-- i don't need it.'" van dorn regarded perner gravely. "perny," he said severely, "it is my opinion that you did say those very words. were you, or were you not, offered a check yesterday in the 'columbian' office?" "i _were not_! though i believe there was some mention of having it made out if i wished it, and--" "and you told them that any time next week, or next month, or next year would do! let in the wolf, stony; we're betrayed." "well," said perner, "it'll be next year before it's next week, anyway." livingstone arose and marched up and down the floor. "don't do that," said van dorn. "it'll make you hungrier." "i suppose barry's gone home," reflected perner, "hasn't he, van, by this time?" "yes; and he lives seven miles beyond the bridge--too far to walk to-night." livingstone paused in his exercise. "i believe there's one more mail," he said; "isn't there, fellows?" "why, yes, that's so!" declared perner. "and if there isn't, go down anyway. maybe somebody's put something in the colonel's mail-box that we can eat or sell." livingstone disappeared and was gone for some minutes. "i guess the wolf's got him," said perner. then they heard him coming three steps at a time. "bully!" said van dorn. "that means a check!" "a check, sure as the world!" echoed perner, joyfully. livingstone plunged in--his face flushed, his eyes shining, and an open letter in his hand. "how much is it?" asked van dorn and perner together. livingstone regarded them as if he did not understand. "how much is what?" he asked--then added joyously: "oh, yes--oh, no; it isn't from the 'decade'--it's--it's a _letter_!" van dorn and perner rose grimly. van dorn's voice was very stern. "and what do you mean," he demanded, "by looking as you do now over a letter--simply a _letter_?" but livingstone was in no wise daunted. "sit down, van!" he shouted, "you and perny! i've always wanted to tell you, and never could quite do it before. sit down now, and i'll read you this letter! it's from the girl that sent in our first subscription. it's the best letter that was ever written--from the best girl that god ever made!" xxi the letter livingstone read my own dear foolish true: i wonder if you think that because we have all been asleep, dreaming wonderful dreams,--chasing a rainbow, as you say,--that it is going to make any real difference in our lives now that we are awake. it may seem to make differences for a time--trifling differences in trifling things; it may even give us something to look back on and laugh about--something in the way of experience that to such as van and perny and yourself may be of use as material: but as to making any vital difference in whatever makes life full and beautiful and worth having, and that is love,--our love for each other, i mean,--why, true, the very thought of it is so absurd that i try not to be offended with you for even thinking it. "do you remember, true, long ago, when you first wrote me about the paper, and i wrote you that, while i was glad for your sake, i was not enthusiastic over the undertaking? that was my real self, true, and was from the heart--the same heart that is more enthusiastic now over the failure of it all than it ever was over the beginning. if i was dazzled for a time by the fair colors in the sky,--if i seized your hand, and with you and barry and perny and van and the colonel went racing down the wet meadows for the pot of gold,--it does not mean that i am any the less glad to wake up now and find that life is something better than all that; that true life lies in doing conscientiously whatever we can do best; that such dreams only serve to make our best work better, and that still better than all of these is youth and love--our youth, true, and our love for each other. "no, true; i am not going to take back my promise. what do you suppose i care for the few dollars you have lost? you are no less good and noble--no less capable than before; and as for the times, they will change--they always do. it almost hurts me to realize that you could think i would ever let you send me off even for what you considered my own good. and i will not go, you see. you can't send me away--unless, indeed, you do not want me any more, and then, of course, you will say so, and i will go. forgive me, true; i do not mean that; but i must punish you the least bit because--because i am a woman, i suppose. "and now, true, about this draft for a thousand dollars which i am sending back to you. it was right, of course, for you to hold it as you did when you felt that it could do no good, and it is better to have it now, when it will. i want you to have it cashed at once, and let van and perny have just whatever they need of it to tide them over, and i want you to help the colonel, too, if you can find him. then you are to take the rest of it, and, after using whatever you need for yourself, go out and find the smallest and cheapest little apartment in new york that we can live in. furnish it with the fewest things you can buy, and if there is any money left, we will take a wedding trip on it just as far as it will take us. then we will come back to our little apartment, you will go back to your beloved art, and we will start really as mr. frisby did this time--without a dollar! i have no preparation to make. let me know when you are coming and i will be ready. "and now, true, good-by, with the happiest of new years for you and your good friends, who will, i am sure, be my good friends, too, though i take you away from them in part. i wonder if it would be right for me to say i am glad we failed? i am afraid that, even if it is wrong, it is the truth. i _know_ it is! there are many things that we could do with wealth, but there are so many things so much sweeter that we might not have; and oh, dear true, i am only a woman, and selfish, after all. "always and always your "dorothy. "p.s. i almost forgot to thank you for the autograph volume. you could not have pleased me more. "dorry." xxii the bread line livingstone did not read quite all the letter. there were lines and paragraphs here and there that he entered, stumbled, and backed out of--taking at last a road around that was so evidently his own as to make perner remark once: "don't revise, stony; you can't improve on the original." and when he had finished, none of the three spoke for at least a minute. then van dorn said huskily: "i knew she was a bully girl when she sent that subscription-- i could tell by the writing." and perner added: "that subscription letter is mine, stony. as acting manager of the 'whole family' i claim it." then, all at once, they had hold of livingstone's hands, and when the three faced the fire again it reflected in their eyes with unusual brightness. "i can't get it cashed to-night," livingstone reflected presently; "it's too big." "no; and you are not to get it cashed any night until you find that apartment," said van dorn. perner nodded. "van and i are grateful," he assented, "but with our few wants, and our marvelous talents, coupled with my ten years' business experience--" "but you haven't had any dinner, nor any lunch, nor breakfast," interrupted livingstone, speaking as one who had himself fared sumptuously. "a letter like that is worth more than a good many dinners," said van dorn. "yes," agreed perner; "it is--to all of us." the faces of the two older men had become reminiscent. perhaps they were remembering--one a wife, the other a sweetheart--both memories now for a dozen years or more. "boys, do you recollect the dinner we had a year ago to-night?" this from livingstone. the others nodded. they were remembering that, too, perhaps. "then the bread line afterward?" said perner. "we gave them a nickel apiece all around, and were going to give them a dollar apiece to-night. and now, instead of that--" "instead of that," finished van dorn, "we can go down to-night and get into the line ourselves. light up, stony; we'll take a look at your picture, anyhow." there was a brisk, whipping sound against the skylight above them. it drew their attention, and presently came again. livingstone arose hastily. "sleet!" he spoke eagerly, and looked up at the glass overhead. then he added in a sort of joyous excitement: "fellows, let's do it! let's go down there and get into the line ourselves! i've been waiting for this sleet to see how they would _look_ in it. now we're hungry, too. let's go down and get into the line and see how it _feels_!" van dorn and perner stared at him a moment to make sure that he was in earnest. there was consent in the laugh that followed. the proposition appealed to their sense of artistic fitness. there was a picturesque completeness in thus rounding out the year. besides, as livingstone had said, they were hungry. they set forth somewhat later. there was a strong wind, and the sleet bit into their flesh keenly. it got into their eyes and, when they spoke, into their mouths. "i don't know about this," shouted van dorn, presently. "i think it's undertaking a good deal for the sake of art." "oh, pshaw, van, this is bully!" livingstone called back. he was well in advance, and did not seem to mind the storm. perner, who was tall, was shrunken and bent by the cold and storm. his voice, however, he lifted above it. "art!" he yelled. "i'm going for the sake of the coffee!" the line that began on tenth street had made the turn on broadway and reached almost to grace church when they arrived. the men stood motionless, huddled back into their scanty collars, their heads bent forward to shield their faces from the sharp, flying ice. strong electric light shone on them. the driving sleet grew on their hats and shoulders. those who had just arrived found it even colder standing still. van dorn's teeth were rattling. "do you suppose there's always enough to go round?" he asked of perner, who stood ahead of him. talking was not pleasant, but the waif behind him answered: "wasn't last night. i was on the end of the line and didn't git no coffee. guess there'll be enough to-night, though, 'cause it's new year." "if they don't have coffee to-night i'll die," shivered perner. livingstone stood ahead of perner in the line. "if it stops with me i'll give you mine," he said. "i'm not hungry, nor cold, either." the waif in front of him and the waif behind van dorn both made an effort to see livingstone. "what are you doing here, then?" growled the man behind. he saw that the three ahead of him were better dressed than the others and regarded them suspiciously. "what did you fellers come here for, anyway?" there was a chance for a final joke. it fell to perner: "we've been keeping up a whole family," he chattered,--"several whole families. now we're broke." "you can have my place in the line," added livingstone, and they changed. the incident attracted little attention. storm, cold, and hunger had deadened the instinct of curiosity natural to every human bosom. presently livingstone leaned forward and murmured to van dorn: "look at that old chap ahead yonder--around the corner. how he crouches and shivers! isn't that great?" van dorn looked as directed--then more keenly. "good god!" he said, "it's colonel hazard!" he leaned forward to perner. "isn't that the colonel," he asked,--"that old fellow just around the corner, with his collar full of sleet?" "by gad, it is!" decided livingstone. "we'll take him back with us," said perner. "poor old colonel!" the waif from behind was talking again. he had turned around so they could hear. "last new year there was some blokes come along an' give us a nickel apiece all round. i was on the end an' got two. when they went away one of 'em said they was comin' back to-night to give us a dollar apiece." "they won't come," said perner. "how d' y' know?" "we're the men." "aw, what yeh givin' us?" "facts. we've started a paper since then." a party of roisterers came shouting across the street. "come and have a drink," they called. "come on, you fellows, and have a drink with us!" a number of men left their places in the line and went. perner watched one of them intently. "if that fellow isn't bates you can drink my coffee," he said, pointing. van dorn and livingstone looked, but could not be certain. they did not see him return. it was somewhat after midnight, and the chimes of grace church, mingled with a pandemonium of horns and whistles, were still roaring in the glad new year, when they finally obtained the brown loaf and the cup of hot coffee, which by this time they needed desperately. the bread they thrust under their coats, and some minutes later were in the studios. colonel hazard was with them. he had maintained a wonderful self-possession when overhauled at fleischmann's. "excellent place to study character," he remarked, after the first moment of surprise. "i come here now and then for the feeling." and van dorn had answered: "i've got enough to last me forever!" the coals were still red in their grate, and over them they toasted the bread. for a while they attended to this busily, and talked but little. then came the tobacco. it was like heaven. presently perner told the colonel of some egyptian articles wanted by the "columbian." "they offered them to me," he said, "and i took them, because i haven't had the courage to refuse anything lately. but i had you in mind at the time to help me on with them, and now i've something else on hand, i'll turn them over to you altogether, if you'll take them." the colonel was very near to losing his quiet dignity at this news. he was obliged to clear his throat several times before replying. at last he said, quite naturally: "i shall be happy to oblige you, mr. perner--very happy indeed." then he turned suddenly and shook perner's hand. they talked on. by and by the colonel refilled his pipe and leaned back in his chair. "fortune is a fickle jade," he said. "i have won and lost her seven times. i do not know that i shall ever do so again--it takes money to make money. such resources as i have are not at present convertible into cash. speculation without capital may win," he continued, "but the chances are much against it. it takes money to start anything, even a paper, as you gentlemen can testify." the others assented silently. "i might have told you that, in the beginning," colonel hazard went on, "had you asked me. of course, i did not know the true condition of affairs until a state of dissolution had been reached. i could have advised you from past experience and observation." the colonel drew a number of luxurious whiffs from his pipe. the others only listened. the colonel resumed: "i knew a man some years ago who started a paper with forty thousand dollars in cash and an excellent scheme--premiums similar to yours. he spent that forty thousand, and another forty thousand on top of it--money from his people. then he borrowed all he could get, at any rate of interest. he was bound to make it go, and he did make it go at last; but when the tide turned and commenced to flow his way he didn't have a dollar--not a dollar!" colonel hazard looked into the fire and smoked reflectively. "humph!" commented perner, "that part of it was like frisby." the colonel turned quickly. "frisby--yes, that was his name. why, do you know him?" "what!" the others had shouted this in chorus, and were staring at the colonel stupidly. "why, yes," he repeated, looking from one to the other; "frisby of the 'voice of light.' i saw a copy of it lying here on the table one day. it's a big property now. do you know him?" perner had risen and was standing directly in front of the colonel. "we do," he admitted. his voice sounded rather unusual in its quality, and he spoke very deliberately. "at least, we know _of_ him. it was what happened to frisby, or, at least, what we _heard_ happened to frisby, that we were banking on." "by gad, yes," put in livingstone. "what did you hear happened to frisby?" asked the colonel, quietly. "we heard," continued perner, "that frisby bought the 'voice of light' without putting down a dollar--that he didn't have a dollar to put down--that he contracted for papers and advertising without a dollar--that he didn't have a dollar when his first advertising appeared--that he got a thousand dollars in the first mail, and six thousand dollars in one day! that's what we heard happened to frisby." colonel hazard rose and walked across the room and back. above him the gray of the new year lay on the sleet-drifted skylight like the dawn of truth. he paused in front of the fire and regarded the three listening men. "well," he said, "it didn't happen to us, did it?" xxiii the last letter--to mr. and mrs. truman livingstone, old point comfort, virginia "dear people: you can go right on to florida or to any other seaport where honeymoons shine upon summer seas from skies that are always cloudless. you can go, and with our permission, as soon as you get this letter, and you may stay as long as the inclosed check lasts--provided you first buy your return tickets for new york. "you see, the 'bread line' sold at macbeth's, and this is the net result. it is a good deal more than the picture is worth, but then, if people will go on being so unreasonable in their tastes, i suppose you will have to go on profiting by it. van and i went up to-day to take a last look at it. you can't paint much, old man, but after living with that picture a year, and knowing all that it means, it wasn't quite easy to part with it. "well, times are some better. van made a comic series of some fellows running a paper, and sold it to 'dawn.' it was ripping! i am just finishing a story on the subject for the 'decade.' they are going to have you illustrate it. the colonel is well on with his egyptian articles. "van says, when you can't go any place else, come home and be forgiven. as ever, "perny. "p.s. barrifield was just in, and sends you his 'best.' and now, listen! he has disposed of the lists and good will of the 'whole family' to--whom do you think? why, to frisby, of course, who, in return, will fill out our subscriptions with his new paper, entitled "'the road to fortune.'" how to write special feature articles a handbook for reporters, correspondents and free-lance writers who desire to contribute to popular magazines and magazine sections of newspapers by willard grosvenor bleyer, ph.d. _author of "newspaper writing and editing," and "types of news writing"; director of the course in journalism in the university of wisconsin_ boston, new york, chicago, san francisco houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge the riverside press cambridge, massachusetts printed in the u.s.a. preface this book is the result of twelve years' experience in teaching university students to write special feature articles for newspapers and popular magazines. by applying the methods outlined in the following pages, young men and women have been able to prepare articles that have been accepted by many newspaper and magazine editors. the success that these students have achieved leads the author to believe that others who desire to write special articles may be aided by the suggestions given in this book. although innumerable books on short-story writing have been published, no attempt has hitherto been made to discuss in detail the writing of special feature articles. in the absence of any generally accepted method of approach to the subject, it has been necessary to work out a systematic classification of the various types of articles and of the different kinds of titles, beginnings, and similar details, as well as to supply names by which to identify them. a careful analysis of current practice in the writing of special feature stories and popular magazine articles is the basis of the methods presented. in this analysis an effort has been made to show the application of the principles of composition to the writing of articles. examples taken from representative newspapers and magazines are freely used to illustrate the methods discussed. to encourage students to analyze typical articles, the second part of the book is devoted to a collection of newspaper and magazine articles of various types, with an outline for the analysis of them. particular emphasis is placed on methods of popularizing such knowledge as is not available to the general reader. this has been done in the belief that it is important for the average person to know of the progress that is being made in every field of human endeavor, in order that he may, if possible, apply the results to his own affairs. the problem, therefore, is to show aspiring writers how to present discoveries, inventions, new methods, and every significant advance in knowledge, in an accurate and attractive form. to train students to write articles for newspapers and popular magazines may, perhaps, be regarded by some college instructors in composition as an undertaking scarcely worth their while. they would doubtless prefer to encourage their students to write what is commonly called "literature." the fact remains, nevertheless, that the average undergraduate cannot write anything that approximates literature, whereas experience has shown that many students can write acceptable popular articles. moreover, since the overwhelming majority of americans read only newspapers and magazines, it is by no means an unimportant task for our universities to train writers to supply the steady demand for well-written articles. the late walter hines page, founder of the _world's work_ and former editor of the _atlantic monthly_, presented the whole situation effectively in an article on "the writer and the university," when he wrote: the journeymen writers write almost all that almost all americans read. this is a fact that we love to fool ourselves about. we talk about "literature" and we talk about "hack writers," implying that the reading that we do is of literature. the truth all the while is, we read little else than the writing of the hacks--living hacks, that is, men and women who write for pay. we may hug the notion that our life and thought are not really affected by current literature, that we read the living writers only for utilitarian reasons, and that our real intellectual life is fed by the great dead writers. but hugging this delusion does not change the fact that the intellectual life even of most educated persons, and certainly of the mass of the population, is fed chiefly by the writers of our own time.... every editor of a magazine, every editor of an earnest and worthy newspaper, every publisher of books, has dozens or hundreds of important tasks for which he cannot find capable men; tasks that require scholarship, knowledge of science, or of politics, or of industry, or of literature, along with experience in writing accurately in the language of the people. special feature stories and popular magazine articles constitute a type of writing particularly adapted to the ability of the novice, who has developed some facility in writing, but who may not have sufficient maturity or talent to undertake successful short-story writing or other distinctly literary work. most special articles cannot be regarded as literature. nevertheless, they afford the young writer an opportunity to develop whatever ability he possesses. such writing teaches him four things that are invaluable to any one who aspires to do literary work. it trains him to observe what is going on about him, to select what will interest the average reader, to organize material effectively, and to present it attractively. if this book helps the inexperienced writer, whether he is in or out of college, to acquire these four essential qualifications for success, it will have accomplished its purpose. for permission to reprint complete articles, the author is indebted to the editors of the _boston herald_, the _christian science monitor_, the _boston evening transcript_, the _new york evening post_, the _detroit news_, the _milwaukee journal_, the _kansas city star_, the _new york sun_, the _providence journal_, the _ohio state journal_, the _new york world_, the _saturday evening post_, the _independent_, the _country gentleman_, the _outlook_, _mcclure's magazine_, _everybody's magazine_, the _delineator_, the _pictorial review_, _munsey's magazine_, the _american magazine_, _system_, _farm and fireside_, the _woman's home companion_, the _designer_, and the newspaper enterprise association. the author is also under obligation to the many newspapers and magazines from which excerpts, titles, and other material have been quoted. at every stage in the preparation of this book the author has had the advantage of the coöperation and assistance of his wife, alice haskell bleyer. _university of wisconsin madison, august, _ contents part i i. the field for special articles ii. preparation for special feature writing iii. finding subjects and material iv. appeal and purpose v. types of articles vi. writing the article vii. how to begin viii. style ix. titles and headlines x. preparing and selling the manuscript xi. photographs and other illustrations part ii an outline for the analysis of special feature articles teach children love of art through story-telling (_boston herald_) where girls learn to wield spade and hoe (_christian science monitor_) boys in search of jobs (_boston transcript_) girls and a camp (_new york evening post_) your porter (_saturday evening post_) the gentle art of blowing bottles (_independent_) the neighborhood playhouse (_new york world_) the singular story of the mosquito man (_new york evening post_) a county service station (_country gentleman_) guarding a city's water supply (_detroit news_) the occupation and exercise cure (_outlook_) the brennan mono-rail car (_mcclure's magazine_) a new political wedge (_everybody's magazine_) the job lady (_delineator_) mark twain's first sweetheart (_kansas city star_) four men of humble birth hold world destiny in their hands (_milwaukee journal_) the confessions of a college professor's wife (_saturday evening post_) a paradise for a penny (_boston transcript_) wanted: a home assistant (_pictorial review_) six years of tea rooms (_new york sun_) by parcel post (_country gentleman_) sales without salesmanship (_saturday evening post_) the accident that gave us wood-pulp paper (_munsey's magazine_) centennial of the first steamship to cross the atlantic (_providence journal_) searching for the lost atlantis (_syndicate sunday magazine section_) index how to write special feature articles part i chapter i the field for special articles origin of special articles. the rise of popular magazines and of magazine sections of daily newspapers during the last thirty years has resulted in a type of writing known as the "special feature article." such articles, presenting interesting and timely subjects in popular form, are designed to attract a class of readers that were not reached by the older literary periodicals. editors of newspapers and magazines a generation ago began to realize that there was no lack of interest on the part of the general public in scientific discoveries and inventions, in significant political and social movements, in important persons and events. magazine articles on these themes, however, had usually been written by specialists who, as a rule, did not attempt to appeal to the "man in the street," but were satisfied to reach a limited circle of well-educated readers. to create a larger magazine-reading public, editors undertook to develop a popular form and style that would furnish information as attractively as possible. the perennial appeal of fiction gave them a suggestion for the popularization of facts. the methods of the short story, of the drama, and even of the melodrama, applied to the presentation of general information, provided a means for catching the attention of the casual reader. daily newspapers had already discovered the advantage of giving the day's news in a form that could be read rapidly with the maximum degree of interest by the average man and woman. certain so-called sensational papers had gone a step further in these attempts to give added attractiveness to news and had emphasized its melodramatic aspects. other papers had seen the value of the "human interest" phases of the day's happenings. it was not surprising, therefore, that sunday editors of newspapers should undertake to apply to special articles the same methods that had proved successful in the treatment of news. the product of these efforts at popularization was the special feature article, with its story-like form, its touches of description, its "human interest," its dramatic situations, its character portrayal--all effectively used to furnish information and entertainment for that rapid reader, the "average american." definition of a special article. a special feature article may be defined as a detailed presentation of facts in an interesting form adapted to rapid reading, for the purpose of entertaining or informing the average person. it usually deals with ( ) recent news that is of sufficient importance to warrant elaboration; ( ) timely or seasonal topics not directly connected with news; or ( ) subjects of general interest that have no immediate connection with current events. although frequently concerned with news, the special feature article is more than a mere news story. it aims to supplement the bare facts of the news report by giving more detailed information regarding the persons, places, and circumstances that appear in the news columns. news must be published as fast as it develops, with only enough explanatory material to make it intelligible. the special article, written with the perspective afforded by an interval of a few days or weeks, fills in the bare outlines of the hurried news sketch with the life and color that make the picture complete. the special feature article must not be confused with the type of news story called the "feature," or "human interest," story. the latter undertakes to present minor incidents of the day's news in an entertaining form. like the important news story, it is published immediately after the incident occurs. its purpose is to appeal to newspaper readers by bringing out the humorous and pathetic phases of events that have little real news value. it exemplifies, therefore, merely one distinctive form of news report. the special feature article differs from the older type of magazine article, not so much in subject as in form and style. the most marked difference lies in the fact that it supplements the recognized methods of literary and scientific exposition with the more striking devices of narrative, descriptive, and dramatic writing. scope of feature articles. the range of subjects for special articles is as wide as human knowledge and experience. any theme is suitable that can be made interesting to a considerable number of persons. a given topic may make either a local or a general appeal. if interest in it is likely to be limited to persons in the immediate vicinity of the place with which the subject is connected, the article is best adapted to publication in a local newspaper. if the theme is one that appeals to a larger public, the article is adapted to a periodical of general circulation. often local material has interest for persons in many other communities, and hence is suitable either for newspapers or for magazines. some subjects have a peculiar appeal to persons engaged in a particular occupation or devoted to a particular avocation or amusement. special articles on these subjects of limited appeal are adapted to agricultural, trade, or other class publications, particularly to such of these periodicals as present their material in a popular rather than a technical manner. the newspaper field. because of their number and their local character, daily newspapers afford a ready medium for the publication of special articles, or "special feature stories," as they are generally called in newspaper offices. some newspapers publish these articles from day to day on the editorial page or in other parts of the paper. many more papers have magazine sections on saturday or sunday made up largely of such "stories." some of these special sections closely resemble regular magazines in form, cover, and general make-up. the articles published in newspapers come from three sources: ( ) syndicates that furnish a number of newspapers in different cities with special articles, illustrations, and other matter, for simultaneous publication; ( ) members of the newspaper's staff; that is, reporters, correspondents, editors, or special writers employed for the purpose; ( ) so-called "free-lance" writers, professional or amateur, who submit their "stories" to the editor of the magazine section. reporters, correspondents, and other regular members of the staff may be assigned to write special feature stories, or may prepare such stories on their own initiative for submission to the editor of the magazine section. in many offices regular members of the staff are paid for special feature stories in addition to their salaries, especially when the subjects are not assigned to them and when the stories are prepared in the writer's own leisure time. other papers expect their regular staff members to furnish the paper with whatever articles they may write, as a part of the work covered by their salary. if a paper has one or more special feature writers on its staff, it may pay them a fixed salary or may employ them "on space"; that is, pay them at a fixed "space rate" for the number of columns that an article fills when printed. newspaper correspondents, who are usually paid at space rates for news stories, may add to their monthly "string," or amount of space, by submitting special feature articles in addition to news. they may also submit articles to other papers that do not compete with their own paper. ordinarily a newspaper expects a correspondent to give it the opportunity of printing any special feature stories that he may write. free-lance writers, who are not regularly employed by newspapers or magazines as staff members, submit articles for the editor's consideration and are paid at space rates. sometimes a free lance will outline an article in a letter or in personal conference with an editor in order to get his approval before writing it, but, unless the editor knows the writer's work, he is not likely to promise to accept the completed article. to the writer there is an obvious advantage in knowing that the subject as he outlines it is or is not an acceptable one. if an editor likes the work of a free lance, he may suggest subjects for articles, or may even ask him to prepare an article on a given subject. freelance writers, by selling their work at space rates, can often make more money than they would receive as regular members of a newspaper staff. for the amateur the newspaper offers an excellent field. first, in every city of any size there is at least one daily newspaper, and almost all these papers publish special feature stories. second, feature articles on local topics, the material for which is right at the amateur's hand, are sought by most newspapers. third, newspaper editors are generally less critical of form and style than are magazine editors. with some practice an inexperienced writer may acquire sufficient skill to prepare an acceptable special feature story for publication in a local paper, and even if he is paid little or nothing for it, he will gain experience from seeing his work in print. the space rate paid for feature articles is usually proportionate to the size of the city in which the newspaper is published. in small cities papers seldom pay more than $ a column; in larger places the rate is about $ a column; in still larger ones, $ ; and in the largest, from $ to $ . in general the column rate for special feature stories is the same as that paid for news stories. what newspapers want. since timeliness is the keynote of the newspaper, current topics, either growing out of the news of the week or anticipating coming events, furnish the subjects for most special feature stories. the news columns from day to day provide room for only concise announcements of such news as a scientific discovery, an invention, the death of an interesting person, a report on social or industrial conditions, proposed legislation, the razing of a landmark, or the dedication of a new building. such news often arouses the reader's curiosity to know more of the persons, places, and circumstances mentioned. in an effort to satisfy this curiosity, editors of magazine sections print special feature stories based on news. by anticipating approaching events, an editor is able to supply articles that are timely for a particular issue of his paper. two classes of subjects that he usually looks forward to in this way are: first, those concerned with local, state, and national anniversaries; and second, those growing out of seasonal occasions, such as holidays, vacations, the opening of schools and colleges, moving days, commencements, the opening of hunting and fishing seasons. the general policy of a newspaper with regard to special feature stories is the same as its policy concerning news. both are determined by the character of its circulation. a paper that is read largely by business and professional men provides news and special articles that satisfy such readers. a paper that aims to reach the so-called masses naturally selects news and features that will appeal to them. if a newspaper has a considerable circulation outside the city where it is published, the editors, in framing their policy, cannot afford to overlook their suburban and rural readers. the character of its readers, in a word, determines the character of a paper's special feature stories. the newspaper is primarily local in character. a city, a state, or at most a comparatively small section of the whole country, is its particular field. besides the news of its locality, it must, of course, give significant news of the world at large. so, too, in addition to local feature articles, it should furnish special feature stories of a broader scope. this distinctively local character of newspapers differentiates them from magazines of national circulation in the matter of acceptable subjects for special articles. the frequency of publication of newspapers, as well as their ephemeral character, leads, in many instances, to the choice of comparatively trivial topics for some articles. merely to give readers entertaining matter with which to occupy their leisure at the end of a day's work or on sunday, some papers print special feature stories on topics of little or no importance, often written in a light vein. articles with no more serious purpose than that of helping readers to while away a few spare moments are obviously better adapted to newspapers, which are read rapidly and immediately cast aside, than to periodicals. the sensationalism that characterizes the policy of some newspapers affects alike their news columns and their magazine sections. gossip, scandal, and crime lend themselves to melodramatic treatment as readily in special feature articles as in news stories. on the other hand, the relatively few magazines that undertake to attract readers by sensationalism, usually do so by means of short stories and serials rather than by special articles. all newspapers, in short, use special feature stories on local topics, some papers print trivial ones, and others "play up" sensational material; whereas practically no magazine publishes articles of these types. sunday magazine sections. the character and scope of special articles for the sunday magazine section of newspapers have been well summarized by two well-known editors of such sections. mr. john o'hara cosgrove, editor of the _new york sunday world magazine_, and formerly editor of _everybody's magazine_, gives this as his conception of the ideal sunday magazine section: the real function of the sunday magazine, to my thinking, is to present the color and romance of the news, the most authoritative opinions on the issues and events of the day, and to chronicle promptly the developments of science as applied to daily life. in the grind of human intercourse all manner of curious, heroic, delightful things turn up, and for the most part, are dismissed in a passing note. behind every such episode are human beings and a story, and these, if fairly and artfully explained, are the very stuff of romance. into every great city men are drifting daily from the strange and remote places of the world where they have survived perilous hazards and seen rare spectacles. such adventures are the treasure troves of the skilful reporter. the cross currents and reactions that lead up to any explosion of greed or passion that we call crime are often worth following, not only for their plots, but as proofs of the pain and terror of transgression. brave deeds or heroic resistances are all too seldom presented in full length in the news, and generously portrayed prove the nobility inherent in every-day life. the broad domain of the sunday magazine editor covers all that may be rare and curious or novel in the arts and sciences, in music and verse, in religion and the occult, on the stage and in sport. achievements and controversies are ever culminating in these diverse fields, and the men and women actors therein make admirable subjects for his pages. provided the editor has at his disposal skilled writers who have the fine arts of vivid and simple exposition and of the brief personal sketch, there is nothing of human interest that may not be presented. the ideal sunday magazine, as mr. frederick boyd stevenson, sunday editor of the _brooklyn eagle_, sees it, he describes thus: the new sunday magazine of the newspaper bids fair to be a crisp, sensible review and critique of the live world. it has developed a special line of writers who have learned that a character sketch and interview of a man makes you "see" the man face to face and talk with him yourself. if he has done anything that gives him a place in the news of to-day, he is presented to you. you know the man. it seems to me that the leading feature of the sunday magazine should be the biggest topic that will be before the public on the sunday that the newspaper is printed. it should be written by one who thoroughly knows his subject, who is forceful in style and fluent in words, who can make a picture that his readers can see, and seeing, realize. so every other feature of the sunday magazine should have points of human interest, either by contact with the news of the day or with men and women who are doing something besides getting divorces and creating scandals. i firmly believe that the coming sunday magazine will contain articles of information without being dull or encyclopædic, articles of adventure that are real and timely, articles of scientific discoveries that are authentic, interviews with men and women who have messages, and interpretations of news and analyses of every-day themes, together with sketches, poems, and essays that are not tedious, but have a reason for being printed. the magazine field. the great majority of magazines differ from all newspapers in one important respect--extent of circulation. popular magazines have a nation-wide distribution. it is only among agricultural and trade journals that we find a distinctly sectional circulation. some of these publications serve subscribers in only one state or section, and others issue separate state or sectional editions. the best basis of differentiation among magazines, then, is not the extent of circulation but the class of readers appealed to, regardless of the part of the country in which the readers live. the popular general magazine, monthly or weekly, aims to attract readers of all classes in all parts of the united states. how magazines get material. magazine articles come from ( ) regular members of the magazine's staff, ( ) professional or amateur free-lance writers, ( ) specialists who write as an avocation, and ( ) readers of the periodical who send in material based on their own experience. the so-called "staff system" of magazine editing, in accordance with which practically all the articles are prepared by writers regularly employed by the publication, has been adopted by a few general magazines and by a number of class periodicals. the staff is recruited from writers and editors on newspapers and other magazines. its members often perform various editorial duties in addition to writing articles. publications edited in this way buy few if any articles from outsiders. magazines that do not follow the staff system depend largely or entirely on contributors. every editor daily receives many manuscripts submitted by writers on their own initiative. from these he selects the material best adapted to his publication. experienced writers often submit an outline of an article to a magazine editor for his approval before preparing the material for publication. free-lance writers of reputation may be asked by magazine editors to prepare articles on given subjects. in addition to material obtained in these ways, articles may be secured from specialists who write as an avocation. an editor generally decides on the subject that he thinks will interest his readers at a given time and then selects the authority best fitted to treat it in a popular way. to induce well-known men to prepare such articles, an editor generally offers them more than he normally pays. a periodical may encourage its readers to send in short articles giving their own experiences and explaining how to do something in which they have become skilled. these personal experience articles have a reality and "human interest" that make them eminently readable. to obtain them magazines sometimes offer prizes for the best, reserving the privilege of publishing acceptable articles that do not win an award. aspiring writers should take advantage of these prize contests as a possible means of getting both publication and money for their work. opportunities for unknown writers. the belief is common among novices that because they are unknown their work is likely to receive little or no consideration from editors. as a matter of fact, in the majority of newspaper and magazine offices all unsolicited manuscripts are considered strictly on their merits. the unknown writer has as good a chance as anybody of having his manuscript accepted, provided that his work has merit comparable with that of more experienced writers. with the exception of certain newspapers that depend entirely on syndicates for their special features, and of a few popular magazines that have the staff system or that desire only the work of well-known writers, every publication welcomes special articles and short stories by novices. moreover, editors take pride in the fact that from time to time they "discover" writers whose work later proves popular. they not infrequently tell how they accepted a short story, an article, or some verse by an author of whom they had never before heard, because they were impressed with the quality of it, and how the verdict of their readers confirmed their own judgment. the relatively small number of amateurs who undertake special articles, compared with the hundreds of thousands who try their hand at short stories, makes the opportunities for special feature writers all the greater. then, too, the number of professional writers of special articles is comparatively small. this is particularly true of writers who are able effectively to popularize scientific and technical material, as well as of those who can present in popular form the results of social and economic investigations. it is not too much to say, therefore, that any writer who is willing ( ) to study the interests and the needs of newspaper and magazine readers, ( ) to gather carefully the material for his articles, and ( ) to present it accurately and attractively, may be sure that his work will receive the fullest consideration in almost every newspaper and magazine office in the country, and will be accepted whenever it is found to merit publication. women as feature writers. since the essential qualifications just enumerated are not limited to men, women are quite as well fitted to write special feature and magazine articles as are their brothers in the craft. in fact, woman's quicker sympathies and readier emotional response to many phases of life give her a distinct advantage. her insight into the lives of others, and her intuitive understanding of them, especially fit her to write good "human interest" articles. both the delicacy of touch and the chatty, personal tone that characterize the work of many young women, are well suited to numerous topics. in some fields, such as cooking, sewing, teaching, the care of children, and household management, woman's greater knowledge and understanding of conditions furnish her with topics that are vital to other women and often not uninteresting to men. the entry of women into occupations hitherto open only to men is bringing new experiences to many women, and is furnishing women writers with additional fields from which to draw subjects and material. ever since the beginning of popular magazines and of special feature writing for newspapers, women writers have proved their ability, but at no time have the opportunities for them been greater than at present. chapter ii preparation for special feature writing qualifications for feature writing. to attain success as a writer of special feature articles a person must possess at least four qualifications: ( ) ability to find subjects that will interest the average man and woman, and to see the picturesque, romantic, and significant phases of these subjects; ( ) a sympathetic understanding of the lives and interests of the persons about whom and for whom he writes; ( ) thoroughness and accuracy in gathering material; ( ) skill to portray and to explain clearly, accurately, and attractively. the much vaunted sense of news values commonly called a "nose for news," whether innate or acquired, is a prime requisite. like the newspaper reporter, the writer of special articles must be able to recognize what at a given moment will interest the average reader. like the reporter, also, he must know how much it will interest him. an alert, responsive attitude of mind toward everything that is going on in the world, and especially in that part of the world immediately around him, will reveal a host of subjects. by reading newspapers, magazines, and books, as well as by intercourse with persons of various classes, a writer keeps in contact with what people are thinking and talking about, in the world at large and in his own community. in this way he finds subjects and also learns how to connect his subjects with events and movements of interest the country over. not only should he be quick to recognize a good subject; he must be able to see the attractive and significant aspects of it. he must understand which of its phases touch most closely the life and the interests of the average person for whom he is writing. he must look at things from "the other fellow's" point of view. a sympathetic insight into the lives of his readers is necessary for every writer who hopes to quicken his subject with vital interest. the alert mental attitude that constantly focuses the writer's attention on the men and women around him has been called "human curiosity," which arnold bennett says "counts among the highest social virtues (as indifference counts among the basest defects), because it leads to the disclosure of the causes of character and temperament and thereby to a better understanding of the springs of human conduct." the importance of curiosity and of a keen sense of wonder has been emphasized as follows by mr. john m. siddall, editor of the _american magazine_, who directed his advice to college students interested in the opportunities afforded by writing as a profession: a journalist or writer must have consuming curiosity about other human beings--the most intense interest in their doings and motives and thoughts. it comes pretty near being the truth to say that a great journalist is a super-gossip--not about trivial things but about important things. unless a man has a ceaseless desire to learn what is going on in the heads of others, he won't be much of a journalist--for how can you write about others unless you know about others? in journalism men are needed who have a natural sense of wonder.... you must wonder at man's achievements, at man's stupidity, at his honesty, crookedness, courage, cowardice--at everything that is remarkable about him wherever and whenever it appears. if you haven't this sense of wonder, you will never write a novel or become a great reporter, because you simply won't see anything to write about. men will be doing amazing things under your very eyes--and you won't even know it. ability to investigate a subject thoroughly, and to gather material accurately, is absolutely necessary for any writer who aims to do acceptable work. careless, inaccurate writers are the bane of the magazine editor's life. whenever mistakes appear in an article, readers are sure to write to the editor calling his attention to them. moreover, the discovery of incorrect statements impairs the confidence of readers in the magazine. if there is reason to doubt the correctness of any data in an article, the editor takes pains to check over the facts carefully before publication. he is not inclined to accept work a second time from a writer who has once proved unreliable. to interpret correctly the essential significance of data is as important as to record them accurately. readers want to know the meaning of facts and figures, and it is the writer's mission to bring out this meaning. a sympathetic understanding of the persons who figure in his article is essential, not only to portray them accurately, but to give his story the necessary "human interest." to observe accurately, to feel keenly, and to interpret sympathetically and correctly whatever he undertakes to write about, should be a writer's constant aim. ability to write well enough to make the average person see as clearly, feel as keenly, and understand as well as he does himself the persons and things that he is portraying and explaining, is obviously the _sine qua non_ of success. ease, fluency, and originality of diction, either natural or acquired, the writer must possess if his work is to have distinction. training for feature writing. the ideal preparation for a writer of special articles would include a four-year college course, at least a year's work as a newspaper reporter, and practical experience in some other occupation or profession in which the writer intends to specialize in his writing. although not all persons who desire to do special feature work will be able to prepare themselves in this way, most of them can obtain some part of this preliminary training. a college course, although not absolutely essential for success, is generally recognized to be of great value as a preparation for writing. college training aims to develop the student's ability to observe accurately, to think logically, and to express his ideas clearly and effectively--all of which is vital to good special feature writing. in addition, such a course gives a student a knowledge of many subjects that he will find useful for his articles. a liberal education furnishes a background that is invaluable for all kinds of literary work. universities also offer excellent opportunities for specialization. intensive study in some one field of knowledge, such as agriculture, banking and finance, home economics, public health, social service, government and politics, or one of the physical sciences, makes it possible for a writer to specialize in his articles. in choosing a department in which to do special work in college, a student may be guided by his own tastes and interests, or he may select some field in which there is considerable demand for well trained writers. the man or woman with a specialty has a superior equipment for writing. with the development of courses in journalism in many colleges and universities has come the opportunity to obtain instruction and practice, not only in the writing of special feature and magazine articles, but also in newspaper reporting, editing, and short story writing. to write constantly under guidance and criticism, such as it is impossible to secure in newspaper and magazine offices, will develop whatever ability a student possesses. experience as a newspaper reporter supplements college training in journalism and is the best substitute for college work generally available to persons who cannot go to college. for any one who aspires to write, reporting has several distinct advantages and some dangers. the requirement that news be printed at the earliest possible moment teaches newspaper workers to collect facts and opinions quickly and to write them up rapidly under pressure. newspaper work also develops a writer's appreciation of what constitutes news and what determines news values; that is, it helps him to recognize at once, not only what interests the average reader, but how much it interests him. then, too, in the course of his round of news gathering a reporter sees more of human life under a variety of circumstances than do workers in any other occupation. such experience not only supplies him with an abundance of material, but gives him a better understanding and a more sympathetic appreciation of the life of all classes. to get the most out of his reporting, a writer must guard against two dangers. one is the temptation to be satisfied with superficial work hastily done. the necessity of writing rapidly under pressure and of constantly handling similar material, encourages neglect of the niceties of structure and of style. in the rush of rapid writing, the importance of care in the choice of words and in the arrangement of phrases and clauses is easily forgotten. even though well-edited newspapers insist on the highest possible degree of accuracy in presenting news, the exigencies of newspaper publishing often make it impossible to verify facts or to attain absolute accuracy. consequently a reporter may drop into the habit of being satisfied with less thorough methods of collecting and presenting his material than are demanded by the higher standards of magazine writing. the second danger is that he may unconsciously permit a more or less cynical attitude to replace the healthy, optimistic outlook with which he began his work. with the seamy side of life constantly before him, he may find that his faith in human nature is being undermined. if, however, he loses his idealism, he cannot hope to give his articles that sincerity, hopefulness, and constructive spirit demanded by the average reader, who, on the whole, retains his belief that truth and righteousness prevail. of the relation of newspaper reporting to the writing of magazine articles and to magazine editing, mr. howard wheeler, editor of everybody's magazine, has said: it is the trained newspaper men that the big periodical publishers are reaching out for. the man who has been through the newspaper mill seems to have a distinct edge on the man who enters the field without any newspaper training. the nose for news, the ability to select and play up leads, the feel of what is of immediate public interest is just as important in magazine work as in newspaper work. fundamentally the purpose of a magazine article is the same as the purpose of a newspaper story--to tell a tale, to tell it directly, convincingly, and interestingly. practical experience in the field of his specialty is of advantage in familiarizing a writer with the actual conditions about which he is preparing himself to write. to engage for some time in farming, railroading, household management, or any other occupation, equips a person to write more intelligently about it. such practical experience either supplements college training in a special field, or serves as the best substitute for such specialized education. what editors want. all the requirements for success in special feature writing may be reduced to the trite dictum that editors want what they believe their readers want. although a commonplace, it expresses a point of view that aspiring writers are apt to forget. from a purely commercial standpoint, editors are middlemen who buy from producers what they believe they can sell to their customers. unless an editor satisfies his readers with his articles, they will cease to buy his publication. if his literary wares are not what his readers want, he finds on the newsstands unsold piles of his publication, just as a grocer finds on his shelves faded packages of an unpopular breakfast food. both editor and grocer undertake to buy from the producers what will have a ready sale and will satisfy their customers. the writer, then, as the producer, must furnish wares that will attract and satisfy the readers of the periodical to which he desires to sell his product. it is the ultimate consumer, not merely the editor, that he must keep in mind in selecting his material and in writing his article. "will the reader like this?" is the question that he must ask himself at every stage of his work. unless he can convince himself that the average person who reads the periodical to which he proposes to submit his article will like what he is writing, he cannot hope to sell it to the editor. understanding the reader. instead of thinking of readers as a more or less indefinite mass, the writer will find it advantageous to picture to himself real persons who may be taken as typical readers. it is very easy for an author to think that what interests him and his immediate circle will appeal equally to people in general. to write successfully, however, for the sunday magazine of a newspaper, it is necessary to keep in mind the butcher, the baker, and--if not the candlestick-maker, at least the stenographer and the department store clerk--as well as the doctor, lawyer, merchant, and chief. what is true of the sunday newspaper is true of the popular magazine. the most successful publisher in this country attributes the success of his periodical to the fact that he kept before his mind's eye, as a type, a family of his acquaintance in a middle-western town of fifteen hundred inhabitants, and shaped the policy of his publication to meet the needs and interests of all its members. an editor who desired to reach such a family would be immeasurably helped in selecting his material by trying constantly to judge from their point of view whatever passed through his hands. it is equally true that a writer desiring to gain admittance to that magazine, or to others making the same appeal, would greatly profit by visualizing as vividly as possible a similar family. every successful writer, consciously or unconsciously, thus pictures his readers to himself. if, for example, an author is preparing an article for an agricultural journal, he must have in his mind's eye an average farmer and this farmer's family. not only must he see them in their surroundings; he must try to see life from their point of view. the attitude of the typical city man toward the farm and country life is very different from that of the countryman. lack of sympathy and insight is a fatal defect in many an article intended by the writer for farm readers. whatever the publication to which an author desires to contribute, he should consider first, last, and all the time, its readers--their surroundings, their education, their income, their ambitions, their amusements, their prejudices--in short, he must see them as they really are. the necessity of understanding the reader and his point of view has been well brought out by mr. john m. siddall, editor of the _american magazine_, in the following excerpt from an editorial in that periodical: the man who refuses to use his imagination to enable him to look at things from the other fellow's point of view simply cannot exercise wide influence. he cannot reach people. underneath it, somehow, lies a great law, the law of service. you can't expect to attract people unless you do something for them. the business man who has something to sell must have something useful to sell, and he must talk about it from the point of view of the people to whom he wants to sell his goods. in the same way, the journalist, the preacher, and the politician must look at things from the point of view of those they would reach. they must feel the needs of others and then reach out and meet those needs. they can never have a large following unless they give something. the same law runs into the human relation. how we abhor the man who talks only about himself--the man who never inquires about _our_ troubles, _our_ problems; the man who never puts himself in _our_ place, but unimaginatively and unsympathetically goes on and on, egotistically hammering away on the only subject that interests him--namely _himself_. studying newspapers and magazines. since every successful publication may be assumed to be satisfying its readers to a considerable degree, the best way to determine what kind of readers it has, and what they are interested in, is to study the contents carefully. no writer should send an article to a publication before he has examined critically several of its latest issues. in fact, no writer should prepare an article before deciding to just what periodical he wishes to submit it. the more familiar he is with the periodical the better are his chances of having his contribution accepted. in analyzing a newspaper or magazine in order to determine the type of reader to which it appeals, the writer should consider the character of the subjects in its recent issues, and the point of view from which these subjects are presented. every successful periodical has a distinct individuality, which may be regarded as an expression of the editor's idea of what his readers expect of his publication. to become a successful contributor to a periodical, a writer must catch the spirit that pervades its fiction and its editorials, as well as its special articles. in his effort to determine the kind of topics preferred by a given publication, a writer may at first glance decide that timeliness is the one element that dominates their choice, but a closer examination of the articles in one or more issues will reveal a more specific basis of selection. thus, one sunday paper will be found to contain articles on the latest political, sociological, and literary topics, while another deals almost exclusively with society leaders, actors and actresses, and other men and women whose recent experiences or adventures have brought them into prominence. it is of even greater value to find out by careful reading of the entire contents of several numbers of a periodical, the exact point of view from which the material is treated. every editor aims to present the contents of his publication in the way that will make the strongest appeal to his readers. this point of view it is the writer's business to discover and adopt. analysis of special articles. an inexperienced writer who desires to submit special feature stories to newspapers should begin by analyzing thoroughly the stories of this type in the daily papers published in his own section of the country. usually in the saturday or sunday issues he will find typical articles on topics connected with the city and with the state or states in which the paper circulates. the advantage of beginning his study of newspaper stories with those published in papers near his home lies in the fact that he is familiar with the interests of the readers of these papers and can readily understand their point of view. by noting the subjects, the point of view, the form, the style, the length, and the illustrations, he will soon discover what these papers want, or rather, what the readers of these papers want. the "outline for the analysis of special articles" in part ii will indicate the points to keep in mind in studying these articles. in order to get a broader knowledge of the scope and character of special feature stories, a writer may well extend his studies to the magazine sections of the leading papers of the country. from the work of the most experienced and original of the feature writers, which is generally to be found in these metropolitan papers, the novice will derive no little inspiration as well as a valuable knowledge of technique. the methods suggested for analyzing special feature stories in newspapers are applicable also to the study of magazine articles. magazines afford a better opportunity than do newspapers for an analysis of the different types of articles discussed in chapter v. since magazine articles are usually signed, it is possible to seek out and study the work of various successful authors in order to determine wherein lies the effectiveness of their writing. beginning with the popular weekly and monthly magazines, a writer may well extend his study to those periodicals that appeal to particular classes, such as women's magazines, agricultural journals, and trade publications. ideals in feature writing. after thoughtful analysis of special articles in all kinds of newspapers and magazines, the young writer with a critical sense developed by reading english literature may come to feel that much of the writing in periodicals falls far short of the standards of excellence established by the best authors. because he finds that the average uncritical reader not only accepts commonplace work but is apparently attracted by meretricious devices in writing, he may conclude that high literary standards are not essential to popular success. the temptation undoubtedly is great both for editors and writers to supply articles that are no better than the average reader demands, especially in such ephemeral publications as newspapers and popular magazines. nevertheless, the writer who yields to this temptation is sure to produce only mediocre work. if he is satisfied to write articles that will be characterized merely as "acceptable," he will never attain distinction. the special feature writer owes it both to himself and to his readers to do the best work of which he is capable. it is his privilege not only to inform and to entertain the public, but to create better taste and a keener appreciation of good writing. that readers do not demand better writing in their newspapers and magazines does not mean that they are unappreciative of good work. nor do originality and precision in style necessarily "go over the heads" of the average person. whenever writers and editors give the public something no better than it is willing to accept, they neglect a great opportunity to aid in the development of better literary taste, particularly on the part of the public whose reading is largely confined to newspapers and periodicals. because of the commercial value of satisfying his readers, an editor occasionally assumes that he must give all of them whatever some of them crave. "we are only giving the public what it wants," is his excuse for printing fiction and articles that are obviously demoralizing in their effect. a heterogeneous public inevitably includes a considerable number of individuals who are attracted by a suggestive treatment of morbid phases of life. to cater to the low desires of some readers, on the ground of "giving the public what it wants," will always be regarded by self-respecting editors and authors as indefensible. the writer's opportunity to influence the mental, moral, and æsthetic ideals of hundreds of thousands of readers is much greater than he often realizes. when he considers the extent to which most men and women are unconsciously guided in their ideas and aspirations by what they read in newspapers and magazines, he cannot fail to appreciate his responsibility. grasping the full significance of his special feature writing, he will no longer be content to write just well enough to sell his product, but will determine to devote his effort to producing articles that are the best of which he is capable. chapter iii finding subjects and material sources of subjects. "what shall i write about?" is the first question that inexperienced writers ask their literary advisers. "if you haven't anything to write about, why write at all?" might be an easy answer. most persons, as a matter of fact, have plenty to write about but do not realize it. not lack of subjects, but inability to recognize the possibilities of what lies at hand, is their real difficulty. the best method of finding subjects is to look at every person, every event, every experience--in short, at everything--with a view to seeing whether or not it has possibilities for a special feature article. even in the apparently prosaic round of everyday life will be found a variety of themes. a circular letter from a business firm announcing a new policy, a classified advertisement in a newspaper, the complaint of a scrub-woman, a new variety of fruit in the grocer's window, an increase in the price of laundry work, a hurried luncheon at a cafeteria--any of the hundred and one daily experiences may suggest a "live" topic for an article. "every foot of ground is five feet deep with subjects; all you have to do is to scratch the surface for one," declared the editor of a popular magazine who is also a successful writer of special articles. this statement may be taken as literally true. within the narrow confines of one's house and yard, for instance, are many topics. a year's experience with the family budget, a home-made device, an attempt to solve the servant problem, a method of making pin-money, a practical means of economizing in household management, are forms of personal experience that may be made interesting to newspaper and magazine readers. a garden on a city lot, a poultry house in a back yard, a novel form of garage, a new use for a gasoline engine, a labor-saving device on the farm, may afford equally good topics. one's own experience, always a rich field, may be supplemented by experiences of neighbors and friends. a second source of subjects is the daily newspaper. local news will give the writer clues that he can follow up by visiting the places mentioned, interviewing the persons concerned, and gathering other relevant material. when news comes from a distance, he can write to the persons most likely to have the desired information. in neither case can he be sure, until he has investigated, that an item of news will prove to contain sufficient available material for an article. many pieces of news, however, are worth running down carefully, for the day's events are rich in possibilities. pieces of news as diverse as the following may suggest excellent subjects for special articles: the death of an interesting person, the sale of a building that has historic associations, the meeting of an uncommon group or organization, the approach of the anniversary of an event, the election or appointment of a person to a position, an unusual occupation, an odd accident, an auction, a proposed municipal improvement, the arrival of a well-known person, an official report, a legal decision, an epidemic, the arrest of a noted criminal, the passing of an old custom, the publication of the city directory, a railroad accident, a marked change in fashion in dress. a third source of both subjects and material is the report of special studies in some field, the form of the report ranging from a paper read at a meeting to a treatise in several volumes. these reports of experiments, surveys, investigations, and other forms of research, are to be found in printed bulletins, monographs, proceedings of organizations, scientific periodicals, and new books. government publications--federal, state, and local--giving results of investigative work done by bureaus, commissions, and committees, are public documents that may usually be had free of charge. technical and scientific periodicals and printed proceedings of important organizations are generally available at public libraries. as mr. waldemar kaempffert, editor of _popular science monthly,_ has said: there is hardly a paper read before the royal institution or the french academy or our american engineering and chemical societies that cannot be made dramatically interesting from a human standpoint and that does not chronicle real news. "if you want to publish something where it will never be read," a wit has observed, "print it in an official document." government reports are filled with valuable information that remains quite unknown to the average reader unless newspapers and magazines unearth it and present it in popular form. the popularization of the contents of all kinds of scientific and technical publications affords great opportunities for the writer who can present such subjects effectively. in addressing students of journalism on "science and journalism," dr. edwin e. slosson, literary editor of the _independent_, who was formerly a professor of chemistry, has said: the most radical ideas of our day are not apt to be found in the popular newspaper or in queer little insurrectionary, heretical and propaganda sheets that we occasionally see, but in the technical journals and proceedings of learned societies. the real revolutions are hatched in the laboratory and study. the papers read before the annual meetings of the scientific societies, and for the most part unnoticed by the press, contain more dynamite than was ever discovered in any anarchist's shop. political revolutions merely change the form of government or the name of the party in power. scientific revolutions really turn the world over, and it never settles back into its former position. * * * * * the beauty and meaning of scientific discoveries can be revealed to the general reader if there is an intermediary who can understand equally the language of the laboratory and of the street. the modern journalist knows that anything can be made interesting to anybody, if he takes pains enough with the writing of it. it is not necessary, either, to pervert scientific truths in the process of translation into the vernacular. the facts are sensational enough without any picturesque exaggeration. * * * * * the field is not an unprofitable one even in the mercenary sense. to higher motives the task of popularizing science makes a still stronger appeal. ignorance is the source of most of our ills. ignorant we must always be of much that we need to know, but there is no excuse for remaining ignorant of what somebody on earth knows or has known. rich treasure lies hidden in what president gilman called "the bibliothecal cairn" of scientific monographs which piles up about a university. the journalist might well exchange the muckrake for the pick and dig it out. nothing could accelerate human progress more than to reduce the time between the discovery of a new truth and its application to the needs of mankind.... it is regarded as a great journalistic achievement when the time of transmission of a cablegram is shortened. but how much more important it is to gain a few years in learning what the men who are in advance of their age are doing than to gain a few seconds in learning what the people of europe are doing? this lag in intellectual progress ... is something which it is the especial duty of the journalist to remove. he likes to score a beat of a few hours. very well, if he will turn his attention to science, he can often score a beat of ten years. the three main sources, therefore, of subjects and material for special feature and magazine articles are ( ) personal observation and experience, ( ) newspapers, ( ) scientific and technical publications and official reports. personal observation. how a writer may discover subjects for newspaper feature articles in the course of his daily routine by being alive to the possibilities around him can best be shown by concrete examples. a "community sing" in a public park gave a woman writer a good subject for a special article published in the _philadelphia north american_. in the publication of a city directory was found a timely subject for an article on the task of getting out the annual directory in a large city; the story was printed in a sunday issue of the _boston herald_. a glimpse of some children dressed like arctic explorers in an outdoor school in kansas city was evidently the origin of a special feature story on that institution, which was published in the _kansas city star_. a woman standing guard one evening over a partially completed school building in seattle suggested a special feature in the _seattle post intelligencer_ on the unusual occupation of night "watchman" for a woman. while making a purchase in a drug store, a writer overheard a clerk make a request for a deposit from a woman who desired to have a prescription filled, an incident which led him to write a special feature for the _new york times_ on this method of discouraging persons from adding to the drug store's "morgue" of unclaimed prescriptions. from a visit to the children's museum in brooklyn was developed a feature article for the _new york herald_, and from a story-telling hour at the boston museum of fine arts was evolved a feature story for the _boston herald_ on the telling of stories as a means of interesting children in pictures. magazine articles also may originate in the writer's observation of what is going on about him. the specific instances given below, like those already mentioned, will indicate to the inexperienced writer where to look for inspiration. a newspaper reporter who covered the criminal courts compiled the various methods of burglars and sneak thieves in gaining entrance to houses and apartments, as he heard them related in trials, and wrote a helpful article for _good housekeeping_ on how to protect one's house against robbery. the exhibition of a novel type of rack for curing seed corn gave a writer a subject for an article on this "corn tree," which was published in the _illustrated world_. during a short stop at a farm while on an automobile trip, a woman writer noticed a concrete storage cellar for vegetables, and from an interview with the farmer obtained enough material for an article, which she sold to a farm journal. while a woman writer was making a purchase in a plumber's shop, the plumber was called to the telephone. on returning to his customer, he remarked that the call was from a woman on a farm five miles from town, who could easily have made the slight repairs herself if she had known a little about the water-supply system on her farm. from the material which the writer obtained from the plumber, she wrote an article for an agricultural paper on how plumber's bills can be avoided. a display of canned goods in a grocer's window, with special prices for dozen and case lots, suggested an article, afterwards published in the _merchants trade journal_, on this grocer's method of fighting mail-order competition. personal experience. what we actually do ourselves, as well as what we see others do, may be turned to good use in writing articles. personal experiences not only afford good subjects and plenty of material but are more easily handled than most other subjects, because, being very real and vital to the writer, they can the more readily be made real and vital to the reader. many inexperienced writers overlook the possibilities of what they themselves have done and are doing. to gain experience and impressions for their articles, special writers on newspapers even assume temporarily the roles of persons whose lives and experiences they desire to portray. one chicago paper featured every sunday for many weeks articles by a reporter who, in order to get material, did a variety of things just for one day, from playing in a strolling street band to impersonating a convict in the state penitentiary. thirty years ago, when women first entered the newspaper field as special feature writers, they were sometimes sent out on "freak" assignments for special features, such as feigning injury or insanity in order to gain entrance to hospitals in the guise of patients. recently one woman writer posed as an applicant for a position as moving-picture actress; another applied for a place as housemaid; a third donned overalls and sorted scrap-iron all day in the yard of a factory; and still another accompanied a store detective on his rounds in order to discover the methods of shop-lifting with which department stores have to contend. it is not necessary, however, to go so far afield to obtain personal experiences, as is shown by the following newspaper and magazine articles based on what the writers found in the course of their everyday pursuits. the results obtained from cultivating a quarter-acre lot in the residence district of a city of , population were told by a writer in the _country gentleman_. a woman's experience with bees was related in _good housekeeping_ under the title, "what i did with bees." experience in screening a large porch on his house furnished a writer with the necessary information for a practical story in _popular mechanics_. some tests that he made on the power of automobiles gave a young engineer the suggestion for an article on the term "horse power" as applied to motor-cars; the article was published in the _illustrated world_. "building a business on confidence" was the title of a personal experience article published in _system_. the evils of tenant farming, as illustrated by the experiences of a farmer's wife in moving during the very early spring, were vividly depicted in an article in _farm and fireside_. the diary of an automobile trip from chicago to buffalo was embodied in an article by a woman writer, which she sold to the _woman's home companion_. both usual and unusual means employed to earn their college expenses have served as subjects for many special articles written by undergraduates and graduates. innumerable articles of the "how-to-do-something" type are accepted every year from inexperienced writers by publications that print such useful information. results of experiments in solving various problems of household management are so constantly in demand by women's magazines and women's departments in newspapers, that housewives who like to write find a ready market for articles based on their own experience. confession articles. one particular type of personal experience article that enjoys great popularity is the so-called "confession story." told in the first person, often anonymously, a well-written confession article is one of the most effective forms in which to present facts and experiences. personal experiences of others, as well as the writer's own, may be given in confession form if the writer is able to secure sufficiently detailed information from some one else to make the story probable. a few examples will illustrate the kind of subjects that have been presented successfully in the confession form. some criticisms of a typical college and of college life were given anonymously in the _outlook_ under the title, "the confessions of an undergraduate." "the story of a summer hotel waitress," published in the _independent_, and characterized by the editor as "a frank exposure of real life below stairs in the average summer hotel," told how a student in a normal school tried to earn her school expenses by serving as a waitress during the summer vacation. in _farm and fireside_ was published "the confession of a timber buyer," an article exposing the methods employed by some unscrupulous lumber companies in buying timber from farmers. "how i cured myself of being too sensitive," with the sub-title, "the autobiography of a young business man who nearly went to smash through jealousy," was the subject of a confession article in the _american magazine_. an exposure of the impositions practiced by an itinerant quack was made in a series of three confession articles, in sunday issues of the _kansas city star_, written by a young man whom the doctor had employed to drive him through the country districts. to secure confession features from readers, magazines have offered prizes for the best short articles on such topics as, "the best thing experience has taught me," "how i overcame my greatest fault," "the day of my great temptation," "what will power did for me." subjects from the day's news. in his search for subjects a writer will find numberless clues in newspapers. since the first information concerning all new things is usually given to the world through the columns of the daily press, these columns are scanned carefully by writers in search of suggestions. any part of the paper, from the "want ads" to the death notices or the real estate transfers, may be the starting point of a special article. the diversity of topics suggested by newspapers is shown by the following examples. the death of a well-known clown in new york was followed by a special feature story about him in the sunday magazine section of a chicago paper. a newspaper report of the discovery in wisconsin of a method of eliminating printing ink from pulp made from old newspapers, so that white print paper might be produced from it, led a young writer to send for information to the discoverer of the process, and with these additional details he wrote an article that was published in the _boston transcript._ a news story about a clever swindler in boston, who obtained possession of negotiable securities by means of a forged certified check, was made the basis of a special feature story in the _providence journal_ on the precautions to be taken against losses from forged checks. news of the energetic manner in which a new jersey sheriff handled a strike suggested a personality sketch of him that appeared in the _american magazine_. the publication, in a newspaper, of some results of a survey of rural school conditions in a middle western state, led to two articles on why the little red schoolhouse fails, one of which was published in the _country gentleman_, and the other in the _independent_. from a brief news item about the success of a farmer's widow and her daughter, in taking summer boarders in their old farmhouse, was developed a practical article telling how to secure and provide for these boarders on the ordinary farm. the article appeared in _farm and fireside_. official documents. bulletins and reports of government officials are a mine for both subjects and material. for new developments in agriculture one may consult the bulletins of the united states department of agriculture and those of state agricultural experiment stations. reports on new and better methods of preparing food, and other phases of home economics, are also printed in these bulletins. state industrial commissions publish reports that furnish valuable material on industrial accidents, working-men's insurance, sanitary conditions in factories, and the health of workers. child welfare is treated in reports of federal, state, and city child-welfare boards. the reports of the interstate commerce commission, like those of state railroad commissions, contain interesting material on various phases of transportation. state and federal census reports often furnish good subjects and material. in short, nearly every official report of any kind may be a fruitful source of ideas for special articles. the few examples given below suggest various possibilities for the use of these sources. investigations made by a commission of american medical experts constituting the committee on resuscitation from mine gases, under the direction of the u.s. bureau of mines, supplied a writer in the _boston transcript_ with material for a special feature story on the dangers involved in the use of the pulmotor. a practical bulletin, prepared by the home economics department of a state university, on the best arrangement of a kitchen to save needless steps, was used for articles in a number of farm journals. from a bulletin of the u.s. department of agriculture a writer prepared an article on "the most successful farmer in the united states" and what he did with twenty acres, for the department of "interesting people" in the _american magazine_. the results of a municipal survey of springfield, illinois, as set forth in official reports, were the basis of an article in the _outlook_ on "what is a survey?" reports of a similar survey at lawrence, kansas, were used for a special feature story in the _kansas city star_. "are you a good or a poor penman?" was the title of an article in _popular science monthly_ based on a chart prepared by the russell sage foundation in connection with some of its educational investigations. the _new york evening post_ published an interesting special article on the "life tables" that had been prepared by the division of vital statistics of the bureau of the census, to show the expectation of life at all ages in the six states from which vital statistics were obtained. a special feature story on how panama hats are woven, as printed in the _ohio state journal_, was based entirely on a report of the united states consul general at guayaquil, ecuador. scientific and technical publications. almost every science and every art has its own special periodicals, from which can be gleaned a large number of subjects and much valuable material that needs only to be popularized to be made attractive to the average reader. the printed proceedings of scientific and technical societies, including the papers read at their meetings, as well as monographs and books, are also valuable. how such publications may be utilized is illustrated by the articles given below. the report of a special committee of an association of electrical engineers, given at its convention in philadelphia, furnished a writer with material for an article on "farming by electricity," that was published in the sunday edition of the _springfield republican_. studies of the cause of hunger, made by prof. a.j. carlson of the university of chicago and published in a volume entitled "the control of hunger in health and disease," furnished the subject for an article in the _illustrated world._ earlier results of the same investigation were given in the sunday magazine of one of the chicago papers. from the _journal of heredity_ was gleaned material for an article entitled "what chance has the poor child?" it was printed in _every week_. "golfer's foot, one of our newest diseases," was the subject of a special feature in the _new york times_, that was based on an article in the _medical record_. that the canals on mars may be only an optical illusion was demonstrated in an article in the sunday magazine of the _new york times_, by means of material obtained from a report of the section for the observation of mars, a division of the british astronomical association. anticipating timely subjects. by looking forward for weeks or even months, as editors of sunday newspapers and of magazines are constantly doing, a writer can select subjects and gather material for articles that will be particularly appropriate at a given time. holidays, seasonal events, and anniversaries may thus be anticipated, and special articles may be sent to editors some time in advance of the occasion that makes them timely. not infrequently it is desirable to begin collecting material a year before the intended time of publication. an article on fire prevention, for instance, is appropriate for the month of october just before the day set aside for calling attention to fires caused by carelessness. months in advance, a writer might begin collecting news stories of dangerous fires resulting from carelessness; and from the annual report of the state fire marshal issued in july, he could secure statistics on the causes of fires and the extent of the losses. to secure material for an article on the christmas presents that children might make at a cost of twenty-five cents or less, a woman writer jotted down after one christmas all the information that she could get from her friends; and from these notes she wrote the article early in the following summer. it was published in the november number of a magazine, at a time when children were beginning to think about making christmas presents. articles on ways and means of earning college expenses are particularly appropriate for publication in the summer or early fall, when young men and women are preparing to go to college, but if in such an article a student writer intends to describe experiences other than his own, he may well begin gathering material from his fellow students some months before. anniversaries of various events, such as important discoveries and inventions, the death or birth of a personage, and significant historical occasions, may also be anticipated. the fiftieth anniversary of the arrival of the first railroad train in kansas city was commemorated in a special feature story in the _kansas city star_, published the day before the anniversary. the day following the fifty-sixth anniversary of the discovery of petroleum in pennsylvania, the _new york times_ printed in its sunday magazine section a special article on the man who first found oil there. the centenary of the launching of the first steam-propelled ship to cross the atlantic, was commemorated by an article in the sunday edition of the _providence journal_. _munsey's magazine_ printed an article on the semi-centennial of the discovery of the process of making paper from wood pulp. by looking over tables giving dates of significant events, writers will find what anniversaries are approaching; or they may glean such information from news stories describing preparations made for celebrating these anniversaries. keeping lists of subjects. every writer who is on the lookout for subjects and sources of material should keep a notebook constantly at hand. subjects suggested by everyday experiences, by newspaper and magazine reading, and by a careful study of special articles in all kinds of publications, are likely to be forgotten unless they are recorded at once. a small notebook that can be carried in the pocket or in a woman's hand-bag is most convenient. besides topics for articles, the titles of books, reports, bulletins, and other publications mentioned in conversation or in newspapers, should be jotted down as possible sources of material. facts and figures from publications may be copied for future use. good titles and interesting methods of treatment that a writer observes in the work of others may prove helpful in suggesting titles and methods for his own articles. separate sections of even a small notebook may conveniently be set aside for all of these various points. filing material. the writer who makes methodical preparation for his work generally has some system of filing good material so that it will be at hand when he wants it. one excellent filing device that is both inexpensive and capable of indefinite expansion consists of a number of stout manilla envelopes, large enough to hold newspaper clippings, printed reports, magazine articles, and photographs. in each envelope is kept the material pertaining to one subject in which the writer is interested, the character of the subject-matter being indicated on one side of the envelope, so that, as the envelopes stand on end, their contents can readily be determined. if a writer has many of these envelopes, a one-drawer filing case will serve to keep them in good order. by constantly gathering material from newspapers, magazines, and printed reports, he will soon find that he has collected a considerable amount of information on which to base his articles. chapter iv appeal and purpose analyzing the subject. when from many available subjects a writer is about to choose one, he should pause to consider its possibilities before beginning to write. it is not enough to say, "this is a good subject; i believe that i can write an article on it." he needs to look at the topic from every angle. he ought to ask himself, "how widespread is the interest in my subject? how much will it appeal to the average individual? what phases of it are likely to have the greatest interest for the greatest number of persons?" to answer these questions he must review the basic sources of pleasure and satisfaction. what interests readers. to interest readers is obviously the prime object in all popular writing. the basis of interest in the news story, the special feature article, and the short story is essentially the same. whatever the average person likes to hear and see, whatever gives him pleasure and satisfaction, is what he wants to read about. in order to test all phases of a given subject from this point of view, a writer needs to keep in mind the fundamental sources of satisfaction. subjects and phases of subjects that attract readers may, for convenience, be divided into the following classes, which, however, are not mutually exclusive: ( ) timely topics, ( ) unique, novel, and extraordinary persons, things, and events, ( ) mysteries, ( ) romance, ( ) adventure, ( ) contests for supremacy, ( ) children, ( ) animals, ( ) hobbies and amusements, ( ) familiar persons, places, and objects, ( ) prominent persons, places, and objects, ( ) matters involving the life, property, and welfare of others, ( ) matters that affect the reader's own success and well-being. timeliness. though not absolutely essential, timeliness is a valuable attribute of any subject. readers like to feel that they are getting the latest facts and the newest ideas, in special feature articles as well as in the news. a subject need not be discarded, however, because it does not make a timely appeal. it may have interest in other respects sufficiently great to compensate for its lack of timeliness. many topics that at first glance seem quite unrelated to current activities are found on closer examination to have some aspects that may be brought into connection with timely interests. to a writer keenly alive to everything that is going on in the world, most subjects will be found to have some bearing on what is uppermost in men's minds. emphasis on that point of contact with current ideas will give to the article the desired timeliness. novelty. when a person, object, or circumstance is unique, it arouses an unusual degree of interest. the first person to accomplish something out of the ordinary, the first event of its kind, the first of anything, arrests attention. closely associated with the unique is the extraordinary, the curious. if not absolutely the only one of its kind, a thing may still be sufficiently unusual to excite an uncommon degree of interest. novelty has a perennial charm. careful study of a subject is often necessary to reveal the novel and extraordinary phase of it that can best be emphasized. mysteries. the fascination for the human mind of whatever baffles it is so well known that it scarcely needs elaboration. mysteries, whether real or fictitious, pique curiosity. even the scholar and the practical man of affairs find relaxation in the mystery of the detective story. real life often furnishes events sufficiently mysterious to make a special feature story that rivals fiction. unexplained crimes and accidents; strange psychical phenomena, such as ghosts, presentiments, spiritism, and telepathy; baffling problems of the scientist and the inventor--all have elements of mystery that fascinate the average reader. romance. the romance of real life is quite as interesting as that of fiction. as all the world loves a lover, almost all the world loves a love story. the course of true love may run smooth or it may not; in either case there is the romantic appeal. to find the romantic element in a topic is to discover a perennial source of attraction for all classes of readers. adventure. few in number are the persons who will not gladly escape from humdrum routine by losing themselves in an exciting tale of adventure. the thrilling exploits in real life of the engineer, the explorer, the soldier of fortune, the pioneer in any field, hold us spellbound. even more commonplace experiences are not without an element of the adventurous, for life itself is a great adventure. many special feature stories in narrative form have much the same interest that is created by the fictitious tale of adventure. contests for supremacy. man has never lost his primitive love of a good fight. civilization may change the form of the contest, but fighting to win, whether in love or politics, business or sport, still has a strong hold on all of us. strikes, attempted monopolies, political revolutions, elections, championship games, diplomacy, poverty, are but a few of the struggles that give zest to life. to portray dramatically in a special article the clash and conflict in everyday affairs is to make a well-nigh universal appeal. children. because we live in and for our children, everything that concerns them comes close to our hearts. a child in a photo-drama or in a news story is sure to win sympathy and admiration. the special feature writer cannot afford to neglect so vital a source of interest. practical articles on the care and the education of children also have especial value for women readers. animals. wild or tame, at large or in captivity, animals attract us either for their almost human intelligence or for their distinctively animal traits. there are few persons who do not like horses, dogs, cats, and other pets, and fewer still who can pass by the animal cages at the circus or the "zoo." hunting, trapping, and fishing are vocations for some men, and sport for many more. the business of breeding horses and cattle, and the care of live stock and poultry on the farm, must not be overlooked in the search for subjects. the technical aspects of these topics will interest readers of farm journals; the more popular phases of them make a wide general appeal. hobbies and amusements. pastimes and avocations may be counted good subjects. moving pictures, theaters, music, baseball, golf, automobiles, amateur photography, and a host of hobbies and recreations have enough enthusiastic devotees to insure wide reading for special feature stories about them. the familiar. persons whom we know, places that we constantly see, experiences that we have had again and again, often seem commonplace enough, even when familiarity has not bred contempt; but when they appear unexpectedly on the stage or in print, we greet them with the cordiality bestowed on the proverbial long-lost friend. local news interests readers because it concerns people and places immediately around them. every newspaper man understands the desirability of increasing the attractiveness of a news event that happens elsewhere by rinding "local ends," or by giving it "a local turn." for special feature stories in newspapers, local phases are no less important. but whether the article is to be published in a newspaper or a magazine, familiar persons and things should be "played up" prominently. the prominent. many persons, places, and objects that we have never seen are frequently as real to us as are those that we see daily. this is because their names and their pictures have greeted us again and again in print. it is thus that prominent men and women become familiar to us. because of their importance we like to read about them. if a special feature article in any of its phases concerns what is prominent, greater attractiveness can be given to it by "playing up" this point, be it the president of the united states or a well-known circus clown, fifth avenue or the bowery, the capitol at washington or coney island, the twentieth century limited or a ford. life and welfare of others. sympathy with our fellow beings and an instinctive recognition of our common humanity are inherent in most men and women. nowhere is this more strikingly shown than in the quick and generous response that comes in answer to every call for aid for those in distress. so, too, we like to know how others feel and think. we like to get behind the veil with which every one attempts to conceal his innermost thoughts and feelings. our interest in the lives and the welfare of others finds expression in various ways, ranging from social service and self-sacrificing devotion to gossip and secret confidences. these extremes and all that lies between them abound in that "human interest" upon which all editors insist. this widespread interest in others affords to the writer of special articles one of his greatest opportunities, not only for preparing interesting stories, but for arousing readers to support many a good cause. to create sympathy for the unfortunate, to encourage active social service, to point the way to political reform, to show the advantages of better industrial conditions, to explain better business methods--all these are but a few of the helpful, constructive appeals that he may make effectively. he may create this interest and stir his readers to action by either one of two methods: by exposing existing evils, or by showing what has been done to improve bad conditions. the exposure of evils in politics, business, and society constituted the "muck-raking" to which several of the popular monthly magazines owe their rise. this crusading, "searchlight" type of journalism has been largely superseded by the constructive, "sunlight" type. to explain how reforms have been accomplished, or are being brought about, is construed by the best of the present-day journals to be their special mission. personal success and happiness. every one is vitally concerned about his own prosperity and happiness. to make a success of life, no matter by what criterion we may measure that success, is our one all-powerful motive. happiness, as the goal that we hope to reach by our success, and health, as a prime requisite for its attainment, are also of great importance to every one of us. how to make or save more money, how to do our work more easily, how to maintain our physical well-being, how to improve ourselves mentally and morally, how to enjoy life more fully--that is what we all want to know. to the writer who will show us how to be "healthy, wealthy, and wise," we will give our undivided attention. business and professional interests naturally occupy the larger part of men's thoughts, while home-making is the chief work of most women. although women are entering many fields hitherto monopolized by men, the home remains woman's peculiar sphere. the purchase and preparation of food, the buying and making of clothing, the management of servants, the care of children--these are the vital concerns of most women. they realize, however, that conditions outside the home have a direct bearing on home-making; and each year they are taking a more active part in civic affairs. matters of public health, pure food legislation, the milk and the water supply, the garbage collection, the character of places of amusement, the public schools, determine, in no small degree, the success and happiness of the home-maker. since the dominant interests of men and women alike are their business and their home, the special writer should undertake to connect his subject as closely as possible with these interests. to show, for example, how the tariff, taxes, public utility rates, price-fixing, legislation, and similar matters affect the business and home affairs of the average reader, is to give to these political and economic problems an interest for both men and women far in excess of that resulting from a more general treatment of them. the surest way to get the reader's attention is to bring the subject home to him personally. of the importance of presenting a subject in such a manner that the reader is led to see its application to himself and his own affairs, mr. john m. siddall, editor of the _american magazine_, has said: every human being likes to see himself in reading matter--just as he likes to see himself in a mirror. the reason so much reading matter is unpopular and never attracts a wide reading public lies in the fact that the reader sees nothing in it for himself. take an article, we'll say, entitled "the financial system of canada." it looks dull, doesn't it? it looks dull because you can't quite see where it affects you. now take an article entitled "why it is easier to get rich in canada than in the united states." that's different! your interest is aroused. you wonder wherein the canadian has an advantage over you. you look into the article to find out whether you can't get an idea from it. yet the two articles may be basically alike, differing only in treatment. one bores you and the other interests you. one bores you because it seems remote. the other interests you because the writer has had the skill to translate his facts and ideas into terms that are personal to you. the minute you become personal in this world you become interesting. combining appeals. when the analysis of a topic shows that it possesses more than one of these appeals, the writer may heighten the attractiveness of his story by developing several of the possibilities, simultaneously or successively. the chance discovery by a prominent physician of a simple preventive of infantile paralysis, for instance, would combine at least four of the elements of interest enumerated above. if such a combination of appeals can be made at the very beginning of the article, it is sure to command attention. definiteness of purpose. in view of the multiplicity of possible appeals, a writer may be misled into undertaking to do too many diverse things in a single article. a subject often has so many different aspects of great interest that it is difficult to resist the temptation to use all of them. if a writer yields to this temptation, the result may be a diffuse, aimless article that, however interesting in many details, fails to make a definite impression. to avoid this danger, the writer must decide just what his purpose is to be. he must ask himself, "what is my aim in writing this article?" and, "what do i expect to accomplish?" only in this way will he clarify in his mind his reason for writing on the proposed topic and the object to be attained. with a definitely formulated aim before him, he can decide just what material he needs. an objective point to be reached will give his article direction and will help him to stick to his subject. furthermore, by getting his aim clearly in mind, he will have the means of determining, when the story is completed, whether or not he has accomplished what he set out to do. in selecting material, in developing the article, and in testing the completed product, therefore, it is important to have a definitely formulated purpose. three general aims. every special article should accomplish one of three general aims: it should ( ) entertain, or ( ) inform, or ( ) give practical guidance. the same subject and the same material may sometimes be so treated as to accomplish any one of these three purposes. if the writer's aim is merely to help readers pass a leisure hour pleasantly, he will "play up" those aspects of a topic that will afford entertainment and little or nothing else. if he desires to supply information that will add to the reader's stock of knowledge, he will present his facts in a manner calculated to make his readers remember what he has told them. if he proposes to give information that can be applied by readers to their own activities, he must include those details that are necessary to any one who desires to make practical use of the information. when, for example, a writer is about to prepare an article, based on experience, about keeping bees on a small suburban place, he will find that he may write his story in any one of three ways. the difficulties experienced by the amateur bee-keeper in trying to handle bees in a small garden could be treated humorously with no other purpose than to amuse. or the keeping of bees under such circumstances might be described as an interesting example of enterprise on the part of a city man living in the suburbs. or, in order to show other men and women similarly situated just how to keep bees, the writer might explain exactly what any person would need to know to attain success in such a venture. just as the purpose of these articles would vary, so the material and the point of view would differ. entertaining articles. to furnish wholesome entertainment is a perfectly legitimate end in special feature writing. there is no reason why the humor, the pathos, the romance, the adventure, and mystery in life should not be presented in special feature stories for our entertainment and amusement, just as they are presented for the same purpose in the short story, the drama, and the photo-play. many readers find special feature stories with real persons, real places, and real circumstances, more entertaining than fiction. a writer with the ability to see the comedies and the tragedies in the events constantly happening about him, or frequently reported in the press, will never lack for subjects and material. wholesome entertainment. the effect of entertaining stories on the ideas and ideals of readers ought not to be overlooked. according to the best journalistic standards, nothing should be printed that will exert a demoralizing or unwholesome influence. constructive journalism goes a step further when it insists that everything shall tend to be helpful and constructive. this practice applies alike to news stories and to special articles. these standards do not necessarily exclude news and special feature stories that deal with crime, scandal, and similar topics; but they do demand that the treatment of such subjects shall not be suggestive or offensive. to portray violators of the criminal or moral codes as heroes worthy of emulation; to gratify some readers' taste for the morbid; to satisfy other readers by exploiting sex--all are alike foreign to the purpose of respectable journalism. no self-respecting writer will lend the aid of his pen to such work, and no self-respecting editor will publish it. to deter persons from committing similar crimes and follies should be the only purpose in writing on such topics. the thoughtful writer, therefore, must guard against the temptation to surround wrong-doers with the glamour of heroic or romantic adventure, and, by sentimental treatment, to create sympathy for the undeserving culprit. violations of law and of the conventions of society ought to be shown to be wrong, even when the wrong-doer is deserving of some sympathy. this need not be done by moralizing and editorializing. a much better way is to emphasize, as the results of wrong-doing, not only legal punishment and social ostracism, but the pangs of a guilty conscience, and the disgrace to the culprit and his family. a cynical or flippant treatment of serious subjects gives many readers a false and distorted view of life. humor does not depend on ridicule or satire. the fads and foibles of humanity can be good-naturedly exposed in humorous articles that have no sting. although many topics may very properly be treated lightly, others demand a serious, dignified style. the men and women whom a writer puts into his articles are not puppets, but real persons, with feelings not unlike his own. to drag them and their personal affairs from the privacy to which they are entitled, and to give them undesired and needless publicity, for the sake of affording entertainment to others, often subjects them to great humiliation and suffering. the fact that a man, woman, or child has figured in the day's news does not necessarily mean that a writer is entitled to exploit such a person's private affairs. he must discriminate between what the public is entitled to know and what an individual has a right to keep private. innocent wives, sweethearts, or children are not necessarily legitimate material for his article because their husband, lover, or father has appeared in the news. the golden rule is the best guide for a writer in such cases. lack of consideration for the rights of others is the mark neither of a good writer nor of a true gentleman. clean, wholesome special feature stories that present interesting phases of life accurately, and that show due consideration for the rights of the persons portrayed, are quite as entertaining as are any others. informative articles. since many persons confine their reading largely to newspapers and magazines, they derive most of their information and ideas from these sources. even persons who read new books rely to some extent on special articles for the latest information about current topics. although most readers look to periodicals primarily for new, timely facts, they are also interested to find there biographical and historical material that is not directly connected with current events. every special feature writer has a great opportunity to furnish a large circle of readers with interesting and significant information. in analyzing subjects it is necessary to discriminate between significant and trivial facts. some topics when studied will be found to contain little of real consequence, even though a readable article might be developed from the material. other themes will reveal aspects that are both trivial and significant. when a writer undertakes to choose between the two, he should ask himself, "are the facts worth remembering?" and, "will they furnish food for thought?" in clarifying his purpose by such tests, he will decide not only what kind of information he desires to impart, but what material he must select, and from what point of view he should present it. articles of practical guidance. the third general purpose that a writer may have is to give his readers sufficiently explicit information to enable them to do for themselves what has been done by others. because all persons want to know how to be more successful, they read these "how-to-do-something" articles with avidity. all of us welcome practical suggestions, tactfully given, that can be applied to our own activities. whatever any one has done successfully may be so presented that others can learn how to do it with equal success. special feature articles furnish the best means of giving this practical guidance. in preparing a "how-to-do-something" article, a writer needs to consider the class of readers for which it is intended. a special feature story, for example, on how to reduce the cost of milk might be presented from any one of three points of view: that of the producer, that of the distributor, or that of the consumer. to be practical for dairy farmers, as producers of milk, the article would have to point out possible economies in keeping cows and handling milk on the farm. to be helpful to milk-dealers, as distributors, it would concern itself with methods of lowering the cost of selling and delivering milk in the city. to assist housewives, as consumers, the article would have to show how to economize in using milk in the home. an informative article for the general reader might take up all these phases of the subject, but an article intended to give practical guidance should consider the needs of only one of these three classes of persons. in many constructive articles of practical guidance, the writer's purpose is so successfully concealed that it may at first escape the notice of the average reader. by relating in detail, for example, how an actual enterprise was carried out, a writer may be able to give his readers, without their realizing it, all the information they need to accomplish a similar undertaking. when he analyzes such articles, the student should not be misled into thinking that the writer did not have the definite purpose of imparting practical information. if the same material can be developed into an article of interesting information or into one of practical guidance, it is desirable to do the latter and, if necessary, to disguise the purpose. statement of purpose. in order to define his purpose clearly and to keep it constantly before him, a writer will do well to put down on paper his exact aim in a single sentence. if, for example, he desired to write a constructive article about an americanization pageant held in his home city on the fourth of july, he might write out the statement of his aim thus: "i desire to show how the americanization of aliens may be encouraged in small industrial centers of from to , inhabitants, by describing how the last fourth of july americanization pageant was organized and carried out in a typical pennsylvania industrial town of ." such a statement will assist a writer in selecting his material, in sticking to his subject, and in keeping to one point of view. without this clearly formulated aim before him, it is easy for him to dwell too long on some phase of the subject in which he is particularly interested or on which he has the most material, to the neglect of other phases that are essential to the accomplishment of his purpose. or, failing to get his aim clearly in mind, he may jump from one aspect of the subject to another, without accomplishing anything in particular. many a newspaper and magazine article leaves a confused, hazy impression on the minds of readers because the writer failed to have a definite objective. chapter v types of articles methods of treatment. after choosing a subject and formulating his purpose, a writer is ready to consider methods of treatment. again it is desirable to survey all the possibilities in order to choose the one method best adapted to his subject and his purpose. his chief consideration should be the class of readers that he desires to reach. some topics, he will find, may be treated with about equal success in any one of several ways, while others lend themselves to only one or two forms of presentation. by thinking through the various possible ways of working out his subject, he will be able to decide which meets his needs most satisfactorily. exposition by narration and description. the commonest method of developing a special feature article is that which combines narration and description with exposition. the reason for this combination is not far to seek. the average person is not attracted by pure exposition. he is attracted by fiction. hence the narrative and descriptive devices of fiction are employed advantageously to supplement expository methods. narratives and descriptions also have the advantage of being concrete and vivid. the rapid reader can grasp a concrete story or a word picture. he cannot so readily comprehend a more general explanation unaccompanied by specific examples and graphic pictures of persons, places, and objects. narration and description are used effectively for the concrete examples and the specific instances by which we illustrate general ideas. the best way, for example, to make clear the operation of a state system of health insurance is to relate how it has operated in the case of one or more persons affected. in explaining a new piece of machinery the writer may well describe it in operation, to enable readers to visualize it and follow its motions. since the reader's interest will be roused the more quickly if he is given tangible, concrete details that he can grasp, the examples are usually put first, to be followed by the more general explanation. sometimes several examples are given before the explanatory matter is offered. whole articles are often made up of specific examples and generalizations presented alternately. to explain the effects of a new anæsthetic, for example, mr. burton j. hendrick in an article in _mcclure's magazine_, pictured the scene in the operating-room of a hospital where it was being given to a patient, showed just how it was administered, and presented the results as a spectator saw them. the beginning of the article on stovaine, the new anæsthetic, illustrating this method of exposition, follows: a few months ago, a small six-year-old boy was wheeled into the operating theater at the hospital for ruptured and crippled children, in new york city. he was one of the several thousand children of the tenements who annually find their way into this great philanthropic institution, suffering from what, to the lay mind, seems a hopelessly incurable injury or malformation. this particular patient had a crippled and paralyzed leg, and to restore its usefulness, it was necessary to cut deeply into the heel, stretch the "achilles tendon," and make other changes which, without the usual anesthetic, would involve excruciating suffering. according to the attendant nurses, the child belonged to the "noisy" class; that is, he was extremely sensitive to pain, screamed at the approach of the surgeon, and could be examined only when forcibly held down. as the child came into the operating-room he presented an extremely pathetic figure--small, naked, thin, with a closely cropped head of black hair, and a face pinched and blanched with fear. surrounded by a fair-sized army of big, muscular surgeons and white-clothed nurses, and a gallery filled with a hundred or more of the leading medical men of the metropolis, he certainly seemed a helpless speck of humanity with all the unknown forces of science and modern life arrayed against him. under ordinary conditions he would have been etherized in an adjoining chamber and brought into the operating-room entirely unconscious. this cripple, however, had been selected as a favorable subject for an interesting experiment in modern surgery, for he was to undergo an extremely torturous operation in a state of full consciousness. among the assembled surgeons was a large-framed, black moustached and black-haired, quick-moving, gypsy-like rumanian--professor thomas jonnesco, dean of the medical department of the university of bucharest, and one of the leading men of his profession in europe. dr. jonnesco, who had landed in new york only two days before, had come to the united states with a definite scientific purpose. this was to show american surgeons that the most difficult operations could be performed without pain, without loss of consciousness, and without the use of the familiar anesthetics, ether or chloroform. dr. jonnesco's reputation in itself assured him the fullest opportunity of demonstrating his method in new york, and this six-year-old boy had been selected as an excellent test subject. under the gentle assurances of the nurses that "no one was going to hurt" him, the boy assumed a sitting posture on the operating-table, with his feet dangling over the edge. then, at the request of dr. jonnesco, he bent his head forward until it almost touched his breast. this threw the child's back into the desired position--that of the typical bicycle "scorcher,"--making each particular vertebra stand out sharply under the tight drawn skin. dr. jonnesco quickly ran his finger along the protuberances, and finally selected the space between the twelfth dorsal and the first lumbar vertebræ--in other words, the space just above the small of the back. he then took an ordinary hypodermic needle, and slowly pushed it through the skin and tissues until it entered the small opening between the lower and upper vertebræ, not stopping until it reached the open space just this side of the spinal cord. as the needle pierced the flesh, the little patient gave a sharp cry--the only sign of discomfiture displayed during the entire operation. when the hollow needle reached its destination, a few drops of a colorless liquid spurted out--the famous cerebro-spinal fluid, the substance which, like a water-jacket, envelops the brain and the spinal cord. into this same place dr. jonnesco now introduced an ordinary surgical syringe, which he had previously filled with a pale yellowish liquid--the much-famed stovaine,--and slowly emptied its contents into the region that immediately surrounds the spinal cord. for a few minutes the child retained his sitting posture as if nothing extraordinary had happened. dr. jonnesco patted him on the back and said a few pleasant words in french, while the nurses and assistants chatted amiably in english. "how do you feel now?" the attending surgeon asked, after the lapse of three or four minutes. "all right," replied the boy animatedly, "'cept that my legs feel like they was going to sleep." the nurses now laid the patient down upon his back, throwing a handkerchief over his eyes, so that he could not himself witness the subsequent proceedings. there was, naturally, much holding of breath as dr. virgil p. gibney, the operating surgeon, raised his knife and quickly made a deep incision in the heel of this perfectly conscious patient. from the child, however, there was not the slightest evidence of sensation. "didn't you feel anything, my boy?" asked dr. gibney, pausing. "no, i don't feel nothin'," came the response from under the handkerchief. an operation lasting nearly half an hour ensued. the deepest tissues were cut, the tendons were stretched, the incision was sewed up, all apparently without the patient's knowledge. some types of articles, although expository in purpose, are entirely narrative and descriptive in form. by relating his own experiences in a confession story, for example, a writer may be able to show very clearly and interestingly the dangers of speculations in stocks with but small capital. personality sketches are almost always narrative and descriptive. many of the devices of the short story will be found useful in articles. not only is truth stranger than fiction, but facts may be so presented as to be even more interesting than fiction. conversation, character-drawing, suspense, and other methods familiar to the writer of short stories may be used effectively in special articles. their application to particular types of articles is shown in the following pages. special types of articles. although there is no generally recognized classification of special feature articles, several distinct types may be noted, such as ( ) the interview, ( ) the personal experience story, ( ) the confession article, ( ) the "how-to-do-something" article, ( ) the personality sketch, ( ) the narrative in the third person. these classes, it is evident, are not mutually exclusive, but may for convenience be treated separately. the interview. since the material for many articles is obtained by means of an interview, it is often convenient to put the major part, if not the whole, of the story in interview form. such an article may consist entirely of direct quotation with a limited amount of explanatory material concerning the person interviewed; or it may be made up partly of direct quotation and partly of indirect quotation, combined with the necessary explanation. for greater variety it is advisable to alternate direct and indirect quotations. a description of the person interviewed and of his surroundings, by way of introduction, gives the reader a distinct impression of the individual under characteristic conditions. or some striking utterance of his may be "played up" at the beginning, to be followed by a picture of him and his surroundings. interviews on the same topic with two or more persons may be combined in a single article. the interview has several obvious advantages. first, the spoken word, quoted _verbatim_, gives life to the story. the person interviewed seems to be talking to each reader individually. the description of him in his surroundings helps the reader to see him as he talks. second, events, explanations, and opinions given in the words of one who speaks with authority, have greater weight than do the assertions of an unknown writer. third, the interview is equally effective whether the writer's purpose is to inform, to entertain, or to furnish practical guidance. romance and adventure, humor and pathos, may well be handled in interview form. discoveries, inventions, new processes, unusual methods, new projects, and marked success of any kind may be explained to advantage in the words of those responsible for these undertakings. in obtaining material for an interview story, a writer should bear in mind a number of points regarding interviewing in general. first, in advance of meeting the person to be interviewed, he should plan the series of questions by which he hopes to elicit the desired information. "what would my readers ask this person if they had a chance to talk to him about this subject?" he must ask himself. that is, his questions should be those that readers would like to have answered. since it is the answers, however, and not the questions, that will interest readers, the questions in the completed article should be subordinated as much as possible. sometimes they may be skillfully embodied in the replies; again they may be implied merely, or entirely omitted. in studying an interview article, one can generally infer what questions the interviewer used. second, he must cultivate his memory so that he can recall a person's exact words without taking notes. most men talk more freely and easily when they are not reminded of the fact that what they are saying is to be printed. in interviewing, therefore, it is desirable to keep pencil and paper out of sight. third, immediately after leaving the person whom he has interviewed, the writer should jot down facts, figures, striking statements, and anything else that he might forget. examples of the interview article. as a timely special feature story for arbor day, a washington correspondent used the following interview with an expert as a means of giving readers practical advice on tree-planting: arbor day advice washington, april .--three spadefuls of rich, pulverized earth will do more to make a young tree grow than a -minute arbor day address by the president of the school board and a patriotic anthem by the senior class, according to dr. furman l. mulford, tree expert for the department of agriculture. not that dr. mulford would abbreviate the ceremonies attendant upon arbor day planting, but he thinks that they do not mean much unless the roots planted receive proper and constant care. for what the fourth of july is to the war and navy departments, and what labor day is to the department of labor, arbor day is to the department of agriculture. while the forestry bureau has concerned itself primarily with trees from the standpoint of the timber supply, dr. mulford has been making a study of trees best adapted for streets and cities generally. and nobody is more interested than he in what arbor day signifies or how trees should be chosen and reared. "we need trees most where our population is the thickest, and some trees, like some people, are not adapted to such a life," said dr. mulford. "for street or school yard planting one of the first considerations is a hardy tree, that can find nourishment under brick pavements or granite sidewalks. it must be one that branches high from the ground and ought to be native to the country and climate. america has the prettiest native trees and shrubs in the world and it is true patriotism to recognize them. "for southern states one of the prettiest and best of shade trees is the laurel oak, and there will be thousands of them planted this spring. it is almost an evergreen and is a quick growing tree. the willow oak is another. "a little farther north the red oak is one of the most desirable, and in many places the swamp maple grows well, though this latter tree does not thrive well in crowded cities. "nothing, however, is prettier than the american elm when it reaches the majesty of its maturity and i do not believe it will ever cease to be a favorite. one thing against it, though, is the 'elm beetle,' a pest which is spreading and which will kill some of our most beautiful trees unless spraying is consistently practised. china berry trees, abundant in the south, and box elders, native to a score of states, are quick growing, but they reach maturity too soon and begin to go to pieces." "what is the reason that so many arbor day trees die?" dr. mulford was asked. "usually lack of protection, and often lack of care in planting," was the answer. "when the new tree begins to put out tender rootlets a child brushing against it or 'inspecting' it too closely will break them off and it dies. or stock will nip off the new leaves and shoots and the result is the same. a frame around the tree would prevent this. "then, often wild trees are too big when transplanted. such trees have usually only a few long roots and so much of these are lost in transplanting that the large trunk cannot be nourished by the remainder. with nursery trees the larger they are the better it is, for they have a lot of small roots that do not have to be cut off. "fruit trees are seldom so successful as shade trees, either along a street or road or in a yard. in the first place their branches are too low and unless carefully pruned their shape is irregular. then they are subject to so many pests that unless constant care is given them they will not bear a hatful of fruit a season. "on the other hand, nut trees are usually hardy and add much to the landscape. pecan, chestnut, walnut and shaggy bark hickory are some of the more popular varieties." the first arbor day was observed in nebraska, which has fewer natural trees than any other state. this was in , and kansas was the second to observe the day, falling into line in . incidentally kansas ranks next to nebraska in dearth of trees. the arbor day idea originated with j. sterling morton, a nebraskan who was appointed secretary of agriculture by cleveland. now every state in the union recognizes the day and new york, pennsylvania, new jersey, minnesota, iowa, illinois, wisconsin and others have gotten out extensive arbor day booklets giving information concerning trees and birds; most of them even contain appropriate songs and poems for arbor day programs. how an interview combined with a description of a person may serve to create sympathy for her and for the cause that she represents is shown in the following article, which was published anonymously in the sunday magazine section of the _ohio state journal_. it was illustrated with two half-tone portraits, one of the young woman in indian costume, the other showing her in street dress. just like pocahontas of years ago "_oh, east is east and west is west, and never the two shall meet_." but they may send messengers. hark to the words of "one-who-does-things-well." "i carry a message from my people to the government at washington," says princess galilolie, youngest daughter of john ross, hereditary king of the "forest indians," the cherokees of oklahoma. "we have been a nation without hope. the land that was promised us by solemn treaty, 'so long as the grass should grow and the waters run,' has been taken from us. it was barren and wild when we received it seventy years ago. now it is rich with oil and cultivation, and the whites coveted our possessions. since it was thrown open to settlers no cherokee holds sovereign rights as before, when it was his nation. we are outnumbered. i have come as a voice from my people to speak to the people of the eastern states and to those at washington--most of all, if i am permitted to do so, to lay our wrongs before the president's wife, in whose veins glows the blood of the indian." only nineteen is this indian princess--this twentieth century pocahontas--who travels far to the seats of the mighty for her race. she is a tall, slim, stately girl from the foothills of the ozarks, from tahlequah, former capital of the cherokee nation. she says she is proud of every drop of indian blood that flows in her veins. but her skin is fair as old ivory and she is a college girl--a girl of the times to her finger-tips. "when an indian goes through college and returns to his or her people," she says with a smile, "they say, 'back to the blanket!' we have few blankets among the cherokees in tahlequah. i am the youngest of nine children, and we are all of us college graduates, as my father was before us." he is john ross d, chief of the cherokee nation, of mingled scotch and indian blood, in descent from "cooweeskowee," john ross i., the rugged old indian king who held out against andrew jackson back in for the ancient rights of the five nations to their lands along the southern atlantic states. she sat back on the broad window seat in the sunlight. beyond the window lay a bird's-eye view of new york housetops, the white man's permanent tepee. some spring birds alighted on a nearby telephone wire, sending out twittering mating cries to each other. "they make me want to go home," she said with a swift, expressive gesture. "but i will stay until the answer comes to us. do you know what they have called me, the old men and women who are wise--the full-bloods? galilolie--'one-who-does-things-well.' with us, when a name is given it is one with a meaning, something the child must grow to in fulfillment. so i feel i must not fail them now." "you see," she went on, lifting her chin, "it is we young half-bloods who must carry the strength and honor of our people to the world so it may understand us. all our lives we have been told tales by the old men--how our people were driven from their homes by the government, how gen. winfield scott's soldiers came down into our quiet villages and ordered the indians to go forth leaving everything behind them. my great-grandfather, the old king cooweeskowee, with his wife and children, paused at the first hilltop to look back at his home, and already the whites were moving into it. the house is still standing at rossville, ga. do you know what the old people tell us children when we wish we could go back there?" her eyes are half closed, her lips compressed as she says slowly, thrillingly: "they tell us it is easy to find the way over that 'trail of tears,' that through the wilderness it is blazed with the gravestones of those who were too weak to march. "that was seventy years ago, in . the government promised to pay amply for all it took from us, our homes and lands, cattle--even furniture. a treaty was made solemnly between the indians and the united states that oklahoma should be theirs 'as long as the grass should grow and the waters run.' "that meant perpetuity to us, don't you see?" she makes her points with a directness and simplicity that should disarm even the diplomatic suavity of uncle sam when he meets her in washington. "year after year the cherokees waited for the government to pay. and at last, three years ago, it came to us--$ . to each indian, seventy-eight years after the removal from georgia had taken place. "oil was discovered after the indians had taken the wilderness lands in oklahoma and reclaimed them. it was as if god, in reparation for the wrongs inflicted by whites, had given us the riches of the earth. my people grew rich from their wells, but a way was found to bind their wealth so they could not use it. it was said the indians were not fit to handle their own money." she lifts eyebrows and shoulders, her hands clasped before her tightly, as if in silent resentment of their impotence to help. "these are the things i want to tell; first our wrongs and then our colonization plan, for which we hope so much if the government will grant it. we are outnumbered since the land was opened up and a mass of 'sooners,' as we call them--squatters, claimers, settlers--swarmed in over our borders. the government again offered to pay us for the land they took back--the land that was to be ours in perpetuity 'while the grass grew and the waters ran.' we were told to file our claims with the whites. some of us did, but eight hundred of the full-bloods went back forty miles into the foothills under the leadership of red bird smith. they refuse to sell or to accept the government money for their valuable oil lands. to appease justice, the government allotted them lands anyway, in their absence, and paid the money for their old property into the banks, where it lies untouched. red bird and his 'night hawks' refuse to barter over a broken treaty. "ah, but i have gone up alone to the old men there." her voice softens. "they will talk to me because i am my father's daughter. my indian name means 'one-who-does-things-well.' so if i go to them they tell me their heart longings, what they ask for the cherokee. "and i shall put the message, if i can, before our president's wife. perhaps she will help." the personal experience article. a writer's own experiences, given under his name, under a pseudonym, or in anonymous form, can easily be made interesting to others. told in the first person, such stories are realistic and convincing. the pronoun "i" liberally sprinkled through the story, as it must be, gives to it a personal, intimate character that most readers like. conversation and description of persons, places, and objects may be included to advantage in these personal narratives. the possibilities of the personal experience story are as great as are those of the interview. besides serving as a vehicle for the writer's own experiences, it may be employed to give experiences of others. if, for example, a person interviewed objects to having his name used, it is possible to present the material obtained by the interview in the form of a personal experience story. in that case the article would have to be published without the writer's name, since the personal experiences that it records are not his own. permission to present material in a personal experience story should always be obtained from the individual whose experiences the writer intends to use. articles designed to give practical guidance, to show readers how to do something, are particularly effective when written in the first person. if these "how-to-do-something" articles are to be most useful to readers, the conditions under which the personal experience was obtained must be fairly typical. personal experience articles of this type are very popular in women's magazines, agricultural journals, and publications that appeal to business men. examples of the personal experience story. the opportunities for service offered to women by small daily newspapers are set forth in the story below, by means of the personal experiences of one woman. the article was published in the _woman's home companion_, and was illustrated by a half-tone reproduction of a wash drawing of a young woman seated at her desk in a newspaper office. "they call me the 'hen editor'" the story of a small-town newspaper woman by sadie l. mossler "what do you stay buried in this burg for? why, look how you drudge! and what do you get out of it? new york or some other big city is the place for you. there's where you can become famous instead of being a newspaper woman in a one-horse town." a big city newspaper man was talking. he was in our town on an assignment, and he was idling away spare time in our office. before i could answer, the door opened and a small girl came to my desk. "say," she said, "mama told me to come in here and thank you for that piece you put in the paper about us. you ought to see the eatin's folks has brought us! heaps an' heaps! and ma's got a job scrubbin' three stores." the story to which she referred was one that i had written about a family left fatherless, a mother and three small children in real poverty. i had written a plain appeal to the home people, with the usual results. "that," i said, "is one reason that i am staying here. maybe it isn't fame in big letters signed to an article, but it's another kind." his face wore a queer expression; but before he could retort another caller appeared, a well-dressed woman. "what do you mean," she declared, "by putting it in the paper that i served light refreshments at my party?" "wasn't it so?" i meekly inquired. "no!" she thundered. "i served ice cream, cake and coffee, and that makes two courses. see that it is right next time, or we'll stop the paper." here my visitor laughed. "i suppose that's another reason for your staying here. when we write anything about a person we don't have to see them again and hear about it." "but," i replied, "that's the very reason i cling to the small town. i want to see the people about whom i am writing, and live with them. that's what brings the rewards in our business. it's the personal side that makes it worth while, the real living of a newspaper instead of merely writing to fill its columns." in many small towns women have not heretofore been overly welcome on the staff of the local paper, for the small town is essentially conservative and suspicious of change. this war, however, is changing all that, and many a woman with newspaper ambitions will now have her chance at home. for ten years i have been what may be classified as a small town newspaper woman, serving in every capacity from society reporter to city and managing editor. during this time i have been tempted many times to go to fields where national fame and a larger salary awaited those who won. but it was that latter part that held me back, that and one other factor: "those who won," and "what do they get out of it more than i?" it is generally conceded that for one woman who succeeds in the metropolitan newspaper field about ten fail before the vicissitudes of city life, the orders of managing editors, and the merciless grind of the big city's working world. and with those who succeed, what have they more than i? they sign their names to articles; they receive big salaries; they are famous--as such fame goes. why is a signed name to an article necessary, when everyone knows when the paper comes out that i wrote the article? what does national fame mean compared with the fact that the local laws of the "society for the prevention of cruelty to animals" were not being enforced and that i wrote stories that remedied this condition? i began newspaper life as society reporter of a daily paper in a middle-western town of ten thousand inhabitants. that is, i supposed i was going to be society reporter, but before very long i found myself doing police assignments, sport, editing telegraph, and whatever the occasion demanded. i suppose that the beginnings of everyone's business life always remain vivid memories. the first morning i reported for work at seven o'clock. naturally, no one was in the front office, as the news department of a small-town newspaper office is sometimes called. i was embarrassed and nervous, and sat anxiously awaiting the arrival of the city editor. in five minutes he gave me sufficient instructions to last a year, but the only one i remember was, "ask all the questions you can think of, and don't let anyone bluff you out of a story." my first duty, and one that i performed every morning for several years, was to "make" an early morning train connecting with a large city, forty miles away. it was no easy task to approach strangers and ask their names and destination; but it was all good experience, and it taught me how to approach people and to ask personal questions without being rude. during my service as society reporter i learned much, so much that i am convinced there is no work in the smaller towns better suited to women. any girl who is bright and quick, who knows the ethics of being a lady, can hold this position and make better money at it than by teaching or clerking. each trade, they say, has its tricks, and being a society reporter is no exception. in towns of from one thousand to two thousand inhabitants, the news that mrs. x. is going to give a party spreads rapidly by that system of wireless telegraphy that excels the marconi--neighborhood gossip. but in the larger towns it is not so easy. in "our town," whenever there is a party the ice cream is ordered from a certain confectioner. daily he permitted us to see his order book. if mrs. jones ordered a quart of ice cream we knew that she was only having a treat for the family. if it were two quarts or more, it was a party, and if it was ice cream in molds, we knew a big formal function was on foot. society reporting is a fertile field, and for a long time i had been thinking that society columns were too dull. my ideal of a newspaper is that every department should be edited so that everyone would read all the paper. i knew that men rarely read the social column. one day a man said to me that he always called his wife his better judgment instead of his better half. that appealed to me as printable, but where to put it in the paper? why not in my own department? i did so. that night when the paper came out everyone clamored to know who the man was, for i had merely written, "a man in town calls his wife his better judgment instead of his better half." then i decided to make the society department a reflection of our daily life and sayings. in order to get these in i used the initials of my title, "s.r." i never used names, but i always managed to identify my persons. as one might expect, i brought down a storm about my head. many persons took the hints for themselves when they were not so intended, and there were some amusing results. for instance, when i said in the paper that "a certain man in a down-town store has perfect manners," the next day twelve men thanked me, and i received four boxes of candy as expressions of gratitude. there were no complaints about the society column being dull after this; everyone read it and laughed at it, and it was quoted in many exchanges. of course, i was careful to hurt no one's feelings, but i did occasionally have a little good-natured fun at the expense of people who wouldn't mind it. little personal paragraphs of this sort must never be malicious or mean--if the paper is to keep its friends. of all my newspaper experience i like best to dwell on the society reporting; but if i were to advance i knew that i must take on more responsibility, so i became city editor of another paper. i was virtually managing editor, for the editor and owner was a politician and was away much of the time. it was then that i began to realize the responsibility of my position, to grapple with the problem of dealing fairly both with my employer and the public. the daily life with its varying incidents, the big civic issues, the stories to be handled, the rights of the advertisers to be considered, the adjusting of the news to the business department--all these were brought before me with a powerful clarity. when a woman starts on a city paper she knows that there are linotypes, presses and other machinery. often she has seen them work; but her knowledge of "how" they work is generally vague. it was on my third day as city editor that i realized my woeful ignorance of the newspaper business from the mechanical viewpoint. i had just arrived at the office when the foreman came to my desk. "say," he said, "we didn't get any stuff set last night. power was off. better come out and pick out the plate you want to fill with." what he meant by the power being off i could understand, and perforce i went out to select the plate. he handed me long slabs of plate matter to read. later i learned that printed copies of the plate are sent for selection, but in my ignorance i took up the slabs and tried to read the type. to my astonishment it was all backward, and i found myself wondering if it were a chinese feature story. finally i threw myself on his mercy and told him to select what he chose. as i left the composing-room i heard him say to one of the printers: "that's what comes of the boss hiring a hen editor." shortly after noon a linotype operator came to me with his hands full of copy. "if you want any of this dope in the paper," he said, "you'll have to grab off a paragraph here and there. my machine's got a bad squirt, and it'll take an hour or more to fix it." greek, all greek! a squirt! i was too busy "grabbing off" paragraphs to investigate; but then and there i resolved to penetrate all these mysteries. i found the linotype operator eager to show me how his machine works, and the foreman was glad to take me around and instruct me in his department and also in the pressroom. i have had trouble with printers since; but in the end they had to admit that the "hen editor" knew what she was talking about. there is a great cry now for woman's advancement. if the women are hunting equality as their goal let them not seek out the crowded, hostile cities, but remain in the smaller places where their work can stand out distinctly. a trite phrase expresses it that a newspaper is the "voice of the people." what better than that a woman should set the tune for that voice? equality with men! i sit at my desk looking out over the familiar home scene. a smell of fresh ink comes to me, and a paper just off the press is slapped down on my desk. "look!" says the foreman. "we got out some paper today, didn't we?" "_we_!" how's that for equality? he has been twenty years at his trade and i only ten, yet he includes me. when i am tempted to feel that my field is limited, my tools crude, and my work unhonored and unsung, i recall a quotation i read many years ago, and i will place it here at the end of the "hen editor's" uneventful story. back before my mind floats that phrase, "buried in this burg." if a person has ability, will not the world learn it? "if a man can write a better book, preach a better sermon, or sing a more glorious song than his neighbor, though he build his house in the woods, the world will make a beaten path to his door." that a personal experience story may be utilized to show readers how to do something is demonstrated in the following article taken from _the designer_. it was illustrated by a half-tone made from a wash drawing of one corner of the burlap room. a bedroom in burlap the most satisfactory room in our bungalow by katherine van dorn our burlap room is the show room of our bungalow. visitors are guided through the living-room, the bedroom, the sleeping-porch and kitchen, and allowed to express their delight and satisfaction while we wait with bated breath for the grand surprise to be given them. then, when they have concluded, we say: "but you should see our burlap room!" then we lead the way up the stairs to the attic and again stand and wait. we know what is coming, and, as we revel in the expressions of admiration evoked, we again declaim with enormous pride: "we made it all ourselves!" there is a solid satisfaction in making a room, especially for an amateur who hardly expects to undertake room-making as a profession. we regard our room as an original creation produced by our own genius, not likely to be duplicated in our personal experience. it grew in this wise: when we came to the bungalow last spring the family numbered three instead of the two of the year before. now number three, a healthy and bouncing young woman, necessitated a "sleeping-in" maid if her parents were ever to be able to detach themselves from her person. we had never had a sleeping-in maid at the bungalow before and the problem of where to put her was a serious one. we well knew that no self-respecting servant would condescend to sleep in an attic, although the attic was cool, airy and comfortable. we rather thought, too, that the maid might despise us if we gave her the bedroom and took up our quarters under the rafters. it would be an easy enough matter for carpenters and plasterers to put a room in the attic, but we lacked the money necessary for such a venture. and so we puzzled. at first we thought of curtains, but the high winds which visit us made curtains impracticable. then we thought of tacking the curtains top and bottom, and from this the idea evolved. the carpenter whom we consulted proved to be amenable to suggestion and agreed to put us up a framework in a day. we helped. we outlined the room on the floor. this took two strips of wood about one and a half by two inches. the other two sides of the room were formed by the wall of the attic and by the meeting place of the roof and floor--that is, there was in reality no fourth wall; the room simply ended where floor and roof met. two strips were nailed to the rafters in positions similar to those on the floor, and then an upright strip was inserted and nailed fast at intervals of every three feet. this distance was decided by the fact that curtain materials usually come a yard wide. for a door we used a discarded screen-door, which, having been denuded of the bits of wire clinging to it, answered the purpose very well. the door completed the skeleton. we used a beautiful soft blue burlap. tacking on proved a more difficult matter than we had anticipated, owing to the fact that our carpenter had used cypress for the framework. we stretched the material taut and then tacked it fast with sharp-pointed, large-headed brass tacks, and while inserting these we measured carefully the distances between the tacks in order to keep this trimming uniform. the two walls supplied by the framework were quickly covered, but the rough wall of the attic necessitated some cutting, as we had to tack the burlap to the uprights and these had not been placed with yard-wide material in view. above the screen-door frame was a hiatus of space running up into the peak. the carpenter had thoughtfully run two strips up to the roof and this enabled us to fill in by cutting and turning in the cloth. a corresponding space above the window received similar treatment. then we covered the inner surface of the screen door and we had a room. but we were far from satisfied. the room looked bare and crude. we bought a can of dark-oak stain and gave the floor a coat and this improved matters so much that we stained the wood visible on the door frame and about the window. having finished this, we saw the need of doing something for the ceiling. the ceiling was merely the inner surface of the roof. the builders had made it of boards of varying sizes, the rafters were rough and splintery and there were myriads of nails sticking through everywhere. it looked a hopeless task. but we bought more stain and went to work. before beginning we covered our precious blue walls with newspapers, donned our oldest clothes and spread papers well over the floor. it was well that we did. the staining was not difficult work but the nails made it splashy and we were pretty well spotted when we finished. but when we did finish we felt compensated. the nails had become invisible. the dull blue walls with their bright brass trimming, the soft brown floor and the stained, raftered roof made the room the most attractive in the house. we could not rest, although the hour was late and we were both tired, until we had furnished it. we put in a couple of small rugs, a brass bed, and a white bureau. we hung two pictures securely upon the uprights of the skeleton. we added a couple of chairs and a rack for clothing, put up a white madras curtain at the window, and regarded the effect with the utmost satisfaction. the room answered the purpose exactly. the burlap was thick enough to act as a screen. it was possible to see movement through it, but not form. it insured privacy and still permitted the air to pass through for ventilation. as a finishing touch we screwed a knob on the outside of the door, put a brass hook on the inside and went downstairs to count the cost. as a quick and inexpensive method of adding to the number of rooms in one's house, the making of a burlap room is without an equal. the idea is not patented, and we who deem ourselves its creators, are only too happy to send it on, in the hope that it may be of service to some other puzzled householder who is wondering where to put an added family member. the confession story. closely akin to the personal experience article is the so-called "confession story." usually published anonymously, confession stories may reveal more personal and intimate experiences than a writer would ordinarily care to give in a signed article. needless to say, most readers are keenly interested in such revelations, even though they are made anonymously. like personal experience stories, they are told in the first person with a liberal use of the pronoun "i." a writer need not confine himself to his own experiences for confession stories; he may obtain valuable material for them from others. not infrequently his name is attached to these articles accompanied by the statement that the confession was "transcribed," "taken down," or "recorded" by the writer. conditions of life in classes of society with which the reader is not familiar may be brought home to him through the medium of the confession story. it may be made the means of arousing interest in questions about which the average reader cares little. the average man or woman, for example, is probably little concerned with the problem of the poorly paid college professor, but hundreds of thousands doubtless read with interest the leading article in an issue of the _saturday evening post_ entitled, "the pressure on the professor." this was a confession story, which did not give the author's own experiences but appeared as "transcribed by walter e. weyl." this article was obviously written with the purpose, skillfully concealed, of calling attention to the hard lot of the underpaid professor. constructive criticism of existing conditions may be successfully embodied in the form of a confession article that describes the evils as they have been experienced by one individual. if the article is to be entirely effective and just, the experience of the one person described must be fairly typical of that of others in the same situation. in order to show that these experiences are characteristic, the writer may find it advantageous to introduce facts and figures tending to prove that his own case is not an isolated example. in the confession article mentioned above, "the pressure on the professor," the assistant professor who makes the confession, in order to demonstrate that his own case is typical, cites statistics collected by a colleague at stanford university giving the financial status of assistant professors in various american universities. confessions that show how faults and personal difficulties have been overcome prove helpful to readers laboring under similar troubles. here again, what is related should be typical rather than exceptional. examples of the confession story. that an intimate account of the financial difficulties of a young couple as told by the wife, may not only make an interesting story but may serve as a warning to others, is shown in the confession story below. signed "f.b.," and illustrated with a pen and ink sketch of the couple at work over their accounts, it was printed in _every week_, a popular illustrated periodical formerly published by the crowell publishing company, new york. the things we learned to do without we were married within a month of our commencement, after three years of courtship at a big middle west university. looking back, it seems to me that rich, tumultuous college life of ours was wholly pagan. all about us was the free-handed atmosphere of "easy money," and in our "crowd" a tacit implication that a good time was one of the primary necessities of life. such were our ideas when we married on a salary of one hundred dollars a month. we took letters of introduction to some of the "smart" people in a suburb near chicago, and they proved so delightfully cordial that we settled down among them without stopping to consider the discrepancies between their ways and our income. we were put up at a small country club--a simple affair enough, comparatively speaking--that demanded six weeks' salary in initial dues and much more in actual subsequent expense. "everybody" went out for saturday golf and stayed for dinner and dancing. by fall there was in working operation a dinner club of the "younger married set," as our local column in the city papers called us; an afternoon bridge club; and a small theater club that went into town every fortnight for dinner and a show. costly little amusements, but hardly more than were due charming young people of our opportunities and tastes. i think that was our attitude, although we did not admit it. in september we rented a "smart" little apartment. we had planned to furnish it by means of several generous checks which were family contributions to our array of wedding gifts. what we did was to buy the furniture on the instalment plan, agreeing to pay twenty dollars a month till the bill was settled, and we put the furniture money into running expenses. it was the beginning of a custom. they gave most generously, that older generation. visiting us, max's mother would slip a bill into my always empty purse when we went shopping; or mine would drop a gold piece into my top bureau drawer for me to find after she had gone. and there were always checks for birthdays. everything went into running expenses; yet, in spite of it, our expenses ran quite away. max said i was "too valuable a woman to put into the kitchen," so we hired a maid, good-humoredly giving her _carte blanche_ on the grocery and meat market. our bills, for all our dining out, were enormous. there were clothes, too. max delighted in silk socks and tailored shirts, and he ordered his monogramed cigarettes by the thousand. my own taste ran to expensive little hats. it is hardly necessary to recount the details. we had our first tremendous quarrel at the end of six months, when, in spite of our furniture money and our birthday checks, we found ourselves two hundred and fifty dollars in debt. but as we cooled we decided that there was nothing we could do without; we could only be "more careful." every month we reached that same conclusion. there was nothing we could do without. at the end of the year on a $ salary we were $ behind; eight months later, after our first baby came, we were over a thousand--and by that time, it seemed, permanently estranged. i actually was carrying out a threat of separation and stripping the apartment, one morning, when max came back from town and sat down to discuss matters with me. a curious labyrinthine discussion it was, winding from recriminations and flat admissions that our marriage was a failure and our love was dead, to the most poignant memories of our engagement days. but its central point was max's detached insistence that we make marriage over into a purely utilitarian affair. "man needs the decencies of a home," he said over and over. "it doesn't do a fellow any good with a firm like mine to have them know he can't manage his affairs. and my firm is the kind of firm i want to work for. this next year is important; and if i spend it dragging through a nasty divorce business, knowing that everybody knows, i'll be about thirty per cent efficient. i'm willing to admit that marriage--even a frost like ours--is useful. will you?" i had to. my choice rested between going home, where there were two younger sisters, or leaving the baby somewhere and striking out for myself. "it seems to me," said max, taking out his pencil, "that if two reasonably clever people can put their best brain power and eight hours a day into a home, it might amount to something sometime. the thing resolves itself into a choice between the things we can do without and the things we can't. we'll list them. we can't do without three meals and a roof; but there must be something." "you can certainly give up silk socks and cigarettes," i said; and, surprisingly, on this old sore point between us max agreed. "you can give up silk stockings, then," he said, and put them down. silk socks and silk stockings! out of all possible economies, they were the only things that we could think of. finally-- "we could make baby an excuse," i said, "and never get out to the club till very late--after dinner--and stay just for the dancing. and we could get out of the dinner club and the theater bunch. only, we ought to have some fun." "you can go to matinées, and tell me about them, so we can talk intelligently. we'll say we can't leave the kid nights--" "we can buy magazines and read up on plays. we'll talk well enough if we do that, and people won't know we haven't been. put down: 'magazines for plays.'" he did it quite seriously. do we seem very amusing to you? so anxious lest we should betray our economies--so impressed with our social "position" and what people might think! it is funny enough to me, looking back; but it was bitter business then. i set myself to playing the devoted and absorbed young mother. but it was a long, long time before it became the sweetest of realities. i cried the first time i refused a bridge game to "stay with baby"; and i carried a sore heart those long spring afternoons when i pushed his carriage conspicuously up and down the avenue while the other women motored past me out for tea at the club. yet those long walks were the best thing that ever happened to me. i had time to think, for one thing; and i gained splendid health, losing the superfluous flesh i was beginning to carry, and the headaches that usually came after days of lunching and bridge and dining. i fell into the habit, too, of going around by the market, merely to have an objective, and buying the day's supplies. the first month of that habit my bills showed a decrease of $ . . i shall always remember that sum, because it is certainly the biggest i have ever seen. i began to ask the prices of things; and i made my first faint effort at applying our game of substitution to the food problem, a thing which to me is still one of the most fascinating factors in housekeeping. one afternoon in late summer, i found a delightful little bungalow in process of building, on a side street not so _very_ far from the proper avenue. i investigated idly, and found that the rent was thirty dollars less than we were paying. yet even then i hesitated. it was max who had the courage to decide. "the only thing we are doing without is the address," he said, "and that isn't a loss that looks like $ to me." all that fall and winter we kept doggedly at our game of substitution. max bought a ready-made tuxedo, and i ripped out the label and sewed in one from a good tailor. i carried half a dozen dresses from the dyer's to a woman who evolved three very decent gowns; and then i toted them home in a box with a marking calculated to impress any chance acquaintance. we were so ashamed of our attempts at thrift that they came hard. often enough we quarreled after we had been caught in some sudden temptation that set us back a pretty penny, and we were inevitably bored and cross when we refused some gayety for economy's sake. we resolutely decided to read aloud the evenings the others went to the theater club; and as resolutely we substituted a stiff game of chess for the bridge that we could not afford. but we had to learn to like them both. occasionally we entertained at very small, very informal dinners, "on account of the baby"; and definitely discarded the wines that added the "smartness" demanded at formal affairs. people came to those dinners in their second or third best: but they stayed late, and laughed hilariously to the last second of their stay. in the spring we celebrated max's second respectable rise in salary by dropping out of the country club. we could do without it by that time. at first we thought it necessary to substitute a determined tramp for the sunday morning golf game; but we presently gave that up. we were becoming garden enthusiasts. and as a substitution for most of the pleasure cravings of life, gardening is to be highly recommended. discontent has a curious little trick of flowing out of the earthy end of a hoe. later that summer i found that a maid was one of the things i could do without, making the discovery in an interregnum not of my original choosing. a charwoman came in for the heavier work, and i took over the cooking. almost immediately, in spite of my inexperience, the bills dropped. i could not cook rich pastries and fancy desserts, and fell back on simple salads and fruit instead. i dipped into the household magazines, followed on into technical articles on efficiency, substituted labor-savers wherever i could, and started my first muddled set of accounts. at the beginning of the new year i tried my prentice hand on a budget; and that was the year that we emerged from debt and began to save. that was six very short years ago. when, with three babies, the bungalow became a trifle small, we built a little country house and moved farther out. several people whom we liked best among that first "exclusive younger set" have moved out too, and formed the nucleus of a neighborhood group that has wonderful times on incomes no one of which touches $ a year. ours is not as much as that yet; but it is enough to leave a wide and comfortable margin all around our wants. max has given up his pipe for cigarettes (unmonogramed), and patronizes a good tailor for business reasons. but in everything else our substitutions stand: gardening for golf; picnics for roadhouse dinners; simple food, simple clothing, simple hospitality, books, a fire, and a game of chess on winter nights. we don't even talk about economies any more. we like them. but--every christmas there comes to me via the christmas tree a box of stockings, and for max a box of socks--heavy silk. there never is any card in either box; but i think we'll probably get them till we die. the following short confession, signed "mrs. m.f.e.," was awarded the first prize by the _american magazine_ in a contest for articles on "the best thing experience has taught me": forty years bartered for what? a tiny bit of wisdom, but as vital as protoplasm. i know, for i bartered forty precious years of wifehood and motherhood to learn it. during the years of my childhood and girlhood, our family passed from wealth to poverty. my father and only brother were killed in battle during the civil war; our slaves were freed; our plantations melted from my mother's white hands during the reconstruction days; our big town house was sold for taxes. when i married, my only dowry was a fierce pride and an overwhelming ambition to get back our material prosperity. my husband was making a "good living." he was kind, easy-going, with a rare capacity for enjoying life and he loved his wife with that chivalrous, unquestioning, "the queen-can-do-no-wrong" type of love. but even in our days of courting i answered his ardent love-making with, "and we will work and save and buy back the big house; then we will--" etc., etc. and he? ah, alone at sixty, i can still hear echoing down the years his big tender laugh, as he'd say, "oh, what a de-ah, ambitious little sweetheart i have!" he owned a home, a little cottage with a rose garden at one side of it--surely, with love, enough for any bride. but i--i saw only the ancestral mansion up the street, the big old house that had passed out of the hands of our family. i would have no honeymoon trip; i wanted the money instead. john kissed each of my palms before he put the money into them. my fingers closed greedily over the bills; it was the nest egg, the beginning. next i had him dismiss his bookkeeper and give me the place. i didn't go to his store--southern ladies didn't do that in those days--but i kept the books at home, and i wrote all the business letters. so it happened when john came home at night, tired from his day's work at the store, i had no time for diversions, for love-making, no hours to walk in the rose garden by his side--no, we must talk business. i can see john now on many a hot night--and summer _is_ hot in the gulf states--dripping with perspiration as he dictated his letters to me, while i, my aching head near the big hot lamp, wrote on and on with hurried, nervous fingers. outside there would be the evening breeze from the gulf, the moonlight, the breath of the roses, all the romance of the southern night--but not for us! the children came--four, in quick succession. but so fixed were my eyes on the goal of success, i scarcely realized the mystery of motherhood. oh, i loved them! i loved john, too. i would willingly have laid down my life for him or for any one of the children. and i intended _sometime_ to stop and enjoy john and the children. oh, yes, i was going really to _live_ after we had bought back the big house, and had done so and so! in the meanwhile, i held my breath and worked. "i'll be so glad," i remember saying one day to a friend, "when all my children are old enough to be off at school all day!" think of that! glad when the best years of our lives together were passed! the day came when the last little fellow trudged off to school and i no longer had a baby to hamper me. we were living now in the big old home. we had bought it back and paid for it. i no longer did john's bookkeeping for him--he paid a man a hundred dollars a month to do that--but i still kept my hand on the business. then suddenly one day--john died. _died_ in what should have been the prime and vigor of his life. i worked harder than ever then, not from necessity, but because in the first few years after john left i was _afraid_ to stop and think. so the years hurried by! one by one the children grew up and entered more or less successful careers of their own.... i don't feel that i know them so very well. and now that the time of life has come when i must stop and think, i ask myself: "what did you do with the wonderful gifts life laid in your lap--the love of a good man, domestic happiness, the chance to know intimately four little souls?" and being honest i have to answer: "i bartered life's great gifts for life's pitiful extras--for pride, for show!" if my experience were unique it would not be worth publishing, but it is only too common. think of the wives who exchange the best years of their lives, their husband's comfort, his peace of mind, if not to buy back the family mansion, then for a higher social position; sometimes it is merely for--clothes! it is to you women who still have the opportunity to "walk with john in the garden" that i give my dearly bought bit of experience. stop holding your breath until you get this or that; stop reaching out blindly for to-morrow's prize; _live_ to-day! the "how-to-do-something" article. articles the primary purpose of which is to give directions for doing something in a particular way, are always in demand. the simplest type is the recipe or formula containing a few directions for combining ingredients. more elaborate processes naturally demand more complex directions and require longer articles. in the simpler types the directions are given in the imperative form; that is, the reader is told to "take" this thing and that, and to "mix" it with something else. although such recipe directions are clear, they are not particularly interesting. many readers, especially those of agricultural journals, are tired of being told to do this and that in order to get better results. they are inclined to suspect the writer of giving directions on the basis of untried theory rather than on that of successful practice. there is an advantage, therefore, in getting away from formal advice and directions and in describing actual processes as they have been carried on successfully. articles intended to give practical guidance are most interesting when cast in the form of an interview, a personal experience, or a narrative. in an interview article, a person may indirectly give directions to others by describing in his own words the methods that he has used to accomplish the desired results. or the writer, by telling his own experiences in doing something, may give readers directions in an interesting form. whatever method he adopts, the writer must keep in mind the questions that his readers would be likely to ask if he were explaining the method or process to them in person. to one who is thoroughly familiar with a method the whole process is so clear that he forgets how necessary it is to describe every step to readers unfamiliar with it. the omission of a single point may make it impossible for the reader to understand or to follow the directions. although a writer need not insult the intelligence of his readers by telling them what they already know, he may well assume that they need to be reminded tactfully of many things that they may have known but have possibly forgotten. two practical guidance articles. a method of filing office records, as explained apparently by the man who devised it, is well set forth in the following combination of the personal experience and the "how-to-do-something" types of articles. it appeared in _system_ with a half-tone reproduction of a photograph showing a man looking over records in a drawer of the desk at which he is seated. who'll do john's work? by m. c. hobart "it's a quarter after and schuyler hasn't showed up," telephoned beggs, one of our foremen, last tuesday morning. "i've put fanning on his machine, but that won't help much unless i can get somebody to work at fanning's bench. got anybody you can let me have for to-day?" i didn't know offhand. but i told beggs i'd call him back. ten minutes later a young lathe operator reported to beggs. he was able to run fanning's machine while the latter temporarily filled the shoes of the absent schuyler. scarcely a week passes that does not bring a similar call to our employment office. while our plant, as plants go, is not large, we always have a number of men working with us who are fitted by experience and adaptability to do other work than that which they are hired to do. such men are invaluable to know about, especially when an operator stays away for a day or perhaps a week and the shop is full of orders. once it was a problem to find the right man immediately. a few additions to our employment records made it possible to keep track of each man's complete qualifications. the employment records i keep in my desk in the deep drawer. they are filed alphabetically by name. when we hire a man we write his name and the job he is to fill on the outside of a by manila envelope. into this envelope we put his application, his references, and other papers. his application tells us what kinds of work he can do and has done in other shops. there are different kinds of work to be done in our shops, from gear cutting to running errands. i have listed these operations, alphabetically, on a cardboard the exact length of the employment record envelope, inches. when a man tells me in his application that he not only can operate a drill press, for which he is hired, but has also worked at grinding, i fit my cardboard list to the top of the employment record envelope and punch two notches along the top directly opposite the words "drill press" and "grinding" on my list. then i file away the envelope. i rest secure now in my knowledge that i have not buried a potential grinder in a drill press operator, or that i do not have to carry his double qualifications in my mind. i know that if beggs should suddenly telephone me some morning that his grinder is absent--sick, or fishing, perhaps--i need only take my cardboard list and, starting at a, run it down my file until i come to the envelope of the drill press operator. i am stopped there automatically by the second notch on the envelope which corresponds in position to the word "grinder" on my list. and there is every likelihood that, with the necessary explanation to the man's own foreman, beggs will get his grinder for the day. from the following article, printed in _farm and fireside_ city and country readers alike may glean much practical information concerning ways and means of making a comfortable living from a small farm. it was illustrated by four half-tone reproductions of photographs showing ( ) the house, ( ) the woman at her desk with a typewriter before her, ( ) the woman in her dining-room about to serve a meal from a labor-saving service wagon, and ( ) the woman in the poultry yard with a basket of eggs. ten acres and a living she was young, popular, and had been reared in the city. everybody laughed when she decided to farm--but that was four years ago by alice mary kimball when she decided to be a farmer everybody laughed. she was young, popular, unusually fond of frocks and fun. she had been reared in the city. she didn't know a jersey from a hereford, or a wyandotte from a plymouth rock. "you'll be back in six months," her friends said. four years have passed. mrs. charles s. tupper still is "buried" in the country. moreover, she is supplying eggs, chickens, honey, and home-canned goods to those of her former associates who are willing to pay for quality. "farming," said mrs. tupper, "is the ideal vocation for the woman who feels the modern desire for a job and the need of marriage and a home. "i never wanted a job so keenly as when i found myself in a small city apartment without enough to do to keep me busy. after i'd swept and dusted and prepared meals for two, i had hours of time on my hands. the corner bakeshop, the laundry, and modern conveniences had thrust upon me more leisure than i could use. mr. tupper is a young engineer whose work takes him to various parts of the southwest. in his absence i felt strongly the need of filling up my idle hours in some interesting, useful way. "i didn't quite like the idea of spending all my spare time on cards, calling, women's clubs, and social pleasures. i longed to be a real partner to my husband and to share in making the family income as well as spending it. "we had a few thousand saved for a home, and were trying to decide where to build. one day it flashed upon me: 'why invest in city property? why not a little farm? then we'll have a home; i'll have a job, and can make our living.'" the idea materialized into a modern bungalow on a -acre farm in westdale, missouri, an hour's drive from kansas city. mr. tupper's salary furnished working capital for the enterprise and mrs. tupper has found congenial work as farmer-in-chief. poultry, bees, and a vegetable garden are mrs. tupper's specialities. her side lines are a pig and a registered jersey cow. she looks after the poultry, works in garden and apiary, and milks the cow herself. she employs very little help. "it wasn't difficult to get a start in learning to farm," mrs. tupper explained. "i visited farms and studied the methods of farmers and their wives. i asked lots of questions. "i didn't have any old fogyisms to unlearn, and i didn't acquire any. i went straight to the agricultural college and the state poultry experiment station for instructions. while i was living in the country supervising the building of the bungalow, i read and digested every bulletin i could get. i'm still studying bulletins. i subscribe for several farm papers and a bee journal. "of course, i learned a great deal from the practical experience of the people about me, but i checked up everything to the rules and directions of government and state agricultural experts, which may be had for the price of a postage stamp. i tried to take orders intelligently. i ignored old rules for poultry and bee-keeping." mrs. tupper's chickens are hatched in incubators, hovered in a coal-heated brooder house, fed according to experiment-station directions, and reared in poultry houses built from experiment-station designs. from the first they have been practically free from lice and disease. she gets winter eggs. even in zero weather and at times when feed is most costly, her spring pullets more than pay their way. "bees responded as readily to proper treatment," she said. "my second season i harvested $ worth of comb honey from twenty working swarms. and i was stung not a half-dozen times at that." some of mrs. tupper's neighbors were inclined to joke at first at her appetite for bulletins, her belief in experts, and her rigid insistence on pure-bred stock and poultry. they admit now that her faith has been justified. if mrs. tupper had trod in the well-worn neighborhood ruts, she would have marketed her produce by the country-store-commission-man-retailer-consumer route; but again she did not. from the first she planned to plug the leakage of farm profits in middlemen's commissions. when she had anything to sell, she put on a good-looking tailored suit, a becoming hat, smart shoes and gloves, and went to the city to talk to ultimate consumers. the consciousness of being dressed appropriately--not expensively or ornately--is a valuable aid to the farm saleswoman, mrs. tupper thinks. "if a salesman comes to me shabbily dressed or flashily dressed, i can't give him a fair hearing," she said. "i may let him talk on, but i decide against him the instant i look at him. so i reasoned that a trim, pleasing appearance would be as valuable an asset to me as to the men who sell pickles, insurance, or gilt-edged bonds. it would mean a favorable first impression and open the way to show samples and make a sales talk. "if i tried to interview a prospective customer handicapped by the consciousness that my skirt hung badly or that my shoes were shabby, not only would i be timid and ill at ease, but my appearance would suggest to the city buyer the very slipshodness and lack of reliability he fears in buying direct from the farm. "i go strong on attractive samples. it would be useless to try for fancy prices if i brought honey to town in mean-looking cases or rusty cans. a slight drip down the side of a package might not be proof positive of poor quality, but it would frighten away a careful buyer. likewise, i do not illustrate my egg sales talks with a sample dozen of odd sizes and shapes. it is needless to add that goods delivered to customers must be of the same quality and appearance as the samples, and that one must keep one's promises to the dot. a little well-directed enterprise will land a customer, but only good service can hold him." when the current wholesale price of honey was $ a case, mrs. tupper's comb honey has been in demand at from to cents a pound. she disposes of every pound to private customers and to one grocery store which caters to "fancy" trade. she sells eggs from her anconas at from to cents more a dozen than the country store is paying its patrons who bring in eggs and "take them out in trade." mrs. tupper figured that if a trademark has advertising pull for a manufacturing concern, it would help the farm business. she christened her acres "graceland farm," and this name is stamped on everything that leaves her place. she had cards printed bearing the name of the farm, its telephone number, and its products. graceland farm is also emphasized on letter heads. "prompt attention to correspondence is an easy method of advertising a farm business," she suggested. "a typewritten letter on letterhead stationery, mailed promptly, creates a pleasant impression on the man who has written to inquire the price of a setting of eggs or a trio of chickens. "suppose i delayed a week and wrote the reply with pen and ink, or, worse, with a pencil on ruled tablet paper. i'd stand a good chance of losing a customer, wouldn't i? if i didn't miss an order outright, i should certainly leave a suggestion of inefficiency and carelessness which could only be charged to the debit side of the business." she has found that a $ typewriter and a letter file have helped greatly to create the good-will which is as essential to the farmer business woman as to the woman who runs a millinery shop or an insurance office. mrs. tupper has encouraged automobile trade. her apiary is within sight of the road, and a "honey for sale" sign brings many a customer. many of her city patrons have the habit of driving to the farm and returning with a hamper laden with eggs, honey, butter, or canned stuff from the vegetable garden. the garden last summer supplied material for more than cans of vegetables. the neighbors smile at her zeal for fairs and poultry shows. "it isn't fun altogether; it's business," she tells them. it was cold, disagreeable work, for instance, to prepare an exhibit for the heart of america poultry show at kansas city last fall; but mrs. tupper felt repaid. she won first prize on hen, first and second on pullet, and fourth on cockerel. then she exhibited at the st. joseph, missouri, poultry show with even better success. "these prizes will add to the value of every chicken i have, and to all my poultry products. they give me another advertising point," she said. "the shows gave me a fine opportunity to meet possible customers and to make friends for my business. i was on the job for days. i met scores of people and distributed hundreds of cards. i learned a lot, too, in talks with judges and experienced breeders." the tupper bungalow is neat and attractive. in spite of her duties in the poultry house and apiary, mrs. tupper serves appetizing meals. she finds time for church work and neighborhood calls, and gives every thursday to the red cross. the housework is speeded up with such conveniences as hot and cold water in kitchen and bathroom, and steam heat. the kitchen is an efficient little workshop lined by cupboards and shelves. mrs. tupper can sit before her kitchen cabinet and prepare a meal without moving about for ingredients and utensils. a service wagon saves steps between kitchen and dining-room. the floors of the bungalow are of hard wood. they are waxed a few times each year, and a little work each morning with dust mop and carpet sweeper keeps them in good order. the washing is sent out. "i couldn't earn an income from the farm if i had a farmhouse without modern improvements," mrs. tupper declared. "reducing drudgery to a minimum is only plain business sense. laundry work, scrubbing, and dishwashing have a low economic value. such unskilled labor eats up the time and strength one needs for the more profitable and interesting tasks of farm management, accounting and correspondence, advertising and marketing." the personality sketch. we all like to read about prominent and successful people. we want to know more about the men and women who figure in the day's news, and even about interesting persons whose success has not been great enough to be heralded in the press. what appeals to us most about these individuals is, not mere biographical facts such as appear in _who's who_, but the more intimate details of character and personality that give us the key to their success. we want to see them as living men and women. it is the writer's problem to present them so vividly that we shall feel as if we had actually met them face to face. the purpose of the personality sketch may be ( ) to give interesting information concerning either prominent or little known persons, ( ) to furnish readers inspiration that may bear fruit in their own lives, ( ) to give practical guidance by showing how one individual has accomplished a certain thing. whether the aim is to afford food for thought, inspiration to action, or guidance in practical matters, the treatment is essentially the same. the recognized methods of describing characters in fiction may be used to advantage in portraying real persons. these are ( ) using general descriptive terms, ( ) describing personal appearance, ( ) telling of characteristic actions, ( ) quoting their words, ( ) giving biographical facts, ( ) citing opinions of others about them, ( ) showing how others react to them. by a judicious combination of several of these methods, a writer can make his readers visualize the person, hear him speak, watch him in characteristic actions, and understand his past life, as well as realize what others think of him and how they act toward him. material for a personality sketch may be obtained in one of three ways: ( ) from a more or less intimate acquaintance with the person to be described; ( ) from an interview with the person, supplemented by conversation with others about him; ( ) from printed sketches of him combined with information secured from others. it is easier to write personality sketches about men and women whom we know well than it is about those whom we have never met, or with whom we have had only a short interview. inexperienced writers should not attempt to prepare sketches of persons whom they know but slightly. in a single interview a writer who is observant, and who is a keen judge of human nature, may be able to get an impression sufficiently strong to serve as the basis of a satisfactory article, especially if the material obtained in the interview is supplemented by printed sketches and by conversations with others. personality sketches sometimes include long interviews giving the person's opinions on the subject on which he is an authority. in such articles the sketch usually precedes the interview. examples of the personality sketch. the first of the following sketches appeared, with a half-tone portrait, in the department of "interesting people" in the _american magazine_; the second was sent out by the newspaper enterprise association, cleveland, ohio, which supplies several hundred daily newspapers with special features. ( ) "tommy"--who enjoys straightening out things by sampson raphaelson six years ago a young bulgarian immigrant, dreamy-eyed and shabby, came to the university of illinois seeking an education. he inquired his way of a group of underclassmen and they pointed out to him a large red building on the campus. "go there," they said gayly, "and ask for tommy." he did, and when he was admitted to the presence of thomas arkle clark, dean of men, and addressed him in his broken english as "mis-terr tommy," the dean did not smile. although mr. clark had just finished persuading an irascible father to allow his reprobate sophomore son to stay at college, and although he was facing the problem of advising an impetuous senior how to break an engagement with a girl he no longer loved, he adapted himself to the needs and the temperament of the foreigner instantly, sympathetically, and efficiently. in five minutes the bulgarian had a job, knew what courses in english he ought to take, and was filled with a glow of hope, inspiration, and security which only a genius in the art of graciousness and understanding like "tommy arkle," as he is amiably called by every student and alumnus of illinois, can bestow. this is a typical incident in the extremely busy, richly human daily routine of the man who created the office of dean of men in american universities. slender, short, well-dressed, his gray hair smartly parted, with kindly, clever, humorous blue eyes and a smile that is an ecstasy of friendliness, "tommy" sits behind his big desk in the administration building from eight to five every day and handles all of the very real troubles and problems of the four thousand-odd men students at the university of illinois. he averages one hundred callers a day, in addition to answering a heavy mail and attendance upon various committee, board, and council meetings. he is known all over the country as an authority on fraternities and their influence, and a power for making that influence constantly better and finer. in business, farmer, and school circles in the middle west mr. clark is famous for his whimsical, inspiring speeches. his quick, shaft-like humor, his keen, devastating sarcasm, and his rare, resilient sympathy have made him a personality beloved particularly by young persons. they still tell the story on the campus of an ingenuous youngster who walked into the dean's office one fall, set his suitcase on the floor, and drawing two one-dollar bills and a fifty-cent piece from his pocket, laid the money on the big desk, saying: "that's all the money i have. i've come to work my way through. will you help me to get a job?" in a flash "tommy" noted the boy's eager, imaginative brown eyes, his wide, compact lips and strong jaw. reaching over, he took the two bills and pocketed them, leaving the half-dollar. "the traditional great men," said the dean, "started their university careers with only fifty cents. i don't want you to be handicapped, so i'll keep this two dollars. you can get work at ---- green street waiting on table for your meals, and the landlady at ---- chalmers street wants a student to fire her furnace in exchange for room rent." the boy earned his way successfully for several months. then suddenly he was taken sick. an operation was necessary. mr. clark wired for a chicago specialist and paid all expenses out of his own pocket. the student recovered, and two years after he was graduated sent "tommy" a letter enclosing a check for five hundred dollars. "to redeem my two dollars which you have in trust," the letter said, "and please use the money as a medical fund for sick students who need, but cannot afford, chicago specialists." the dean has an abnormal memory for names and faces. every year he makes a "rogues' gallery"--the photographs of all incoming freshmen are taken and filed away. and many an humble, unknown freshman has been exalted by the "hello, darby," or "good morning, boschenstein"--or whatever his name happened to be--with which the dean greeted him. mr. clark once revealed to me the secret of his life. fifteen years ago he was professor of english and had strong literary ambitions, with no little promise. there came the offer of the office of dean of men. he had to choose between writing about peoples lives or living those lives with people. and he chose, with the result that at all times of the day and night it's "tommy this, and tommy that"; an accident case may need him at two a.m. in the hospital, or a crowd of roystering students may necessitate his missing a night's sleep in order to argue an irate sheriff into the conviction that they are not robbers and murderers. he has been known to spend many evenings in the rooms of lonesome students who "need a friend." "tommy arkle" is one of the middle west's finest contributions to the modern ideal of human service. ( ) two new machine guns are invented for the u.s. army by the "edison of firearms" by harry b. hunt hartford, conn., nov. .--"well, old j.m. has done it again." that is the chief topic of conversation these days in the big shops of hartford, new haven and bridgeport, where the bulk of the rifles, pistols and machine guns for uncle sam's army is being turned out. for in these towns to say that "old j.m. has done it again" is the simplest and most direct way of stating that john m. browning has invented a new kind of firearm. this time, however, "old j.m." has done it twice. he has invented not one, but two new guns. both have been accepted by the united states government, contracts for immense numbers of each have been signed, and work of production is being pushed night and day. the new weapons will be put into the field against germany at the earliest possible day. who is john browning? you never heard of him? well, browning is the father of rapid-fire and automatic firearms. his is the brain behind practically every basic small firearm invention in the past years. he has been to the development of firearms what edison has been to electricity. "unquestionably the greatest inventor of firearms in the world," is the unanimous verdict of the gun experts of the colt, remington and winchester plants, whose business it is to study and criticise every development in firearms. but if browning is our greatest gun inventor, he is the most "gun-shy" genius in the country when it comes to publicity. he would rather face a machine gun than a reporter. a few years ago a paper in his home state--utah--published a little story about his success as an inventor, and the story was copied by the hartford courant. "i'd rather have paid $ , cash than have had that stuff printed," browning says. friends, however, who believe that the world should know something about this firearms wizard, furnish the following sidelights on his career: browning comes from an old-stock mormon family of ogden, utah. as a young man he was a great hunter, going off into the woods for a month or six weeks at a time, with only his gun for company. he was only when he worked out his ideas for a gun carrying a magazine full of cartridges, which could be fired rapidly in succession. he pounded out the parts for his first rapid-fire gun with hammer and cold chisel. since that time, pump and "trombone" shotguns, automatic pistols, rapid-fire rifles produced by the biggest firearms manufacturers in the country have been browning's products. the united states army pistol is a browning invention. a browning pistol manufactured by the fabrique nationale of belgium was made the standard equipment for the armies of belgium, russia, spain, italy and serbia. on completion of the one-millionth pistol by the fabrique nationale, king albert of belgium knighted the modest inventor, so he is now, officially, "sir" john browning. browning is tall, slender, slightly stooped, , bald except for a rim of gray hair, and wears a closely clipped gray moustache. his face is marked by a network of fine lines. although browning will not talk of himself or of his career as an inventor, he can't help talking when the conversation is turned on guns. "i always think of a gun as something that is made primarily to shoot," he says. "the best gun is the simplest gun. when you begin loading a gun up with a lot of fancy contraptions and 'safety devices,' you are only inviting trouble. you complicate the mechanism and make that many more places for dirt and grit to clog the action. "you can make a gun so 'safe' that it won't shoot." of browning's new guns it is not, of course, permissible to give any details. one, however, is a light rapid-fire gun, weighing only pounds, which can be fired from the shoulder like the ordinary rifle. each magazine carries rounds and the empty magazine can be detached and another substituted by pressing a button. the heavier gun is a belt-fed machine, capable of firing shots a minute. although it is water-cooled, it weighs, water jacket and all, only pounds. for airplane work, where the firing is in bursts and the speed of the machine helps cool the gun, the jacket is discarded and the gun weighs only pounds. both guns are counted upon as valuable additions to the equipment of our overseas forces. the narrative in the third person. although the interview, the personal experience article, and the confession story are largely narrative, they are always told in the first person, whereas the term "narrative article" as used in this classification is applied only to a narrative in the third person. in this respect it is more like the short story. as in the short story so in the narrative article, description of persons, places, and objects involved serves to heighten the effect. narrative methods may be employed to present any group of facts that can be arranged in chronological order. a process, for example, may be explained by showing a man or a number of men engaged in the work involved, and by giving each step in the process as though it were an incident in a story. the story of an invention or a discovery may be told from the inception of the idea to its realization. a political situation may be explained by relating the events that led up to it. the workings of some institution, such as an employment office or a juvenile court, may be made clear by telling just what takes place in it on a typical occasion. historical and biographical material can best be presented in narrative form. suspense, rapid action, exciting adventure, vivid description, conversation, and all the other devices of the short story may be introduced into narrative articles to increase the interest and strengthen the impression. whenever, therefore, material can be given a narrative form it is very desirable to do so. a writer, however, must guard against exaggeration and the use of fictitious details. examples of the narrative article. how narration with descriptive touches and conversation may be effectively used to explain a new institution like the community kitchen, or the methods of recruiting employed in the army, is shown in the two articles below. the first was taken from the _new york world_, and the second from the _outlook_. ( ) now the public kitchen by marie coolidge rask the community kitchen menu +--------------------------------------------------+ | vegetable soup pint, ¢ | | beef stew half pint, ¢ | | baked beans half pint, ¢ | | two frankfurters, one potato and cup full of | | boiled cabbage all for ¢ | | rice pudding, ¢. stewed peaches ¢ | | coffee or cocoa with milk half pint, ¢ | +--------------------------------------------------+ "my mother wants three cents' worth of vegetable soup." "and mine wants enough beef stew for three of us." two battered tin pails were handed up by small, grimy fingers. two eager little faces were upturned toward the top of the bright green counter which loomed before them. two pairs of roguish eyes smiled back at the woman who reached over the counter and took the pails. "the beef stew will be twelve cents," she said. "it is four cents for each half pint, you know." "i know," answered the youth. "my mother says when she has to buy the meat and all and cook it and put a quarter in the gas meter, it's cheaper to get it here. my father got his breakfast here, too, and it only cost him five cents." "and was he pleased?" asked the woman, carefully lowering the filled pail to the outstretched little hand. "you bet," chuckled the lad, as he turned and followed the little procession down the length of the room and out through the door on the opposite side. the woman was mrs. william k. vanderbilt, jr. the boy was the son of a 'longshoreman living on "death avenue," in close proximity to the newly established people's kitchen, situated on the southeast corner of tenth avenue and west twenty-seventh street, new york. so it is here at last--the much talked of, long hoped for, community kitchen. within three days after its doors had been opened to the public more than , persons had availed themselves of its benefits. within three years, it is promised, the community kitchen will have become national in character. its possibilities for development are limitless. way was blazed for the pioneer kitchen by edward f. brown, executive secretary of the new york school lunch committee. the active power behind the cauldrons of soup, cabbage and frankfurters, beans and rice pudding is vested in mrs. james a. burden, jr., and mrs. william k. vanderbilt, jr. the evolution of the community kitchen is going to be of interest to every housewife and to every wage earner in all classes of society. first of all, let it be distinctly understood that the kitchen as inaugurated is not a charity. it is social and philanthropic in character, and it will ultimately reduce the cost of living by almost per cent. this much has been demonstrated already to the extent that the tenth avenue kitchen has not only paid expenses, but has so overrun its confines that plans are in preparation for the establishment of other and larger kitchens in rapid succession. the object is to give to the purchaser the maximum quantity of highest grade food, properly cooked, at minimum cost. this cost includes rent, light, heat, power, interest on investment, depreciation, cost of food materials, labor and supervision. the principle is that of barter and sale on an equitable business basis. the project as now formulated is to establish for immediate use a small group of public kitchens having one central depot. this depot will be in constant operation throughout the twenty-four hours. here the food will be prepared and distributed to the smaller kitchens where, by means of steam tables, it can be kept hot and dispensed. the character of the food to be supplied each district will be chosen with regard to what the population is accustomed to, that which is simple and wholesome, which contains bulk, can be prepared at minimum cost, can be conveniently dispensed and easily carried away. opposite a large school building, in a small room that had been at one time a saloon, the kitchen of the century was fitted up and formally opened to the public. three long green tables with green painted benches beside them encircle the room on two sides. their use was manifest the second day after the kitchen was opened. at o'clock in the morning, from various tenement homes near by, sturdy 'longshoremen and laborers might have been seen plodding silently from their respective homes, careful not to disturb their wives and families, and heading straight for the new kitchen on the corner. from trains running along "death avenue" came blackened trainmen after their night's work. they, too, stopped at the corner kitchen. by the time the attendant arrived to unlock the doors forty men were in line waiting for breakfast. ten minutes later the three tables were fully occupied. "bread, cereal and coffee for five cents!" exclaimed one of the men, pushing the empty tray from him, after draining the last drop of coffee in his mug. "this kitchen's all right." noon came. the children from the school building trooped in. "my mamma works in a factory," said one. "i used to get some cakes at a bakery at noontime. gee! there's raisins in this rice puddin', ain't there?" he carried the saucerful of pudding over to the table. "only three cents," he whispered to the little girl beside him. "you better get some, too. that'll leave you two cents for a cup of cocoa." "ain't it a cinch!" exclaimed the little girl. behind the counter the women who had made these things possible smiled happily and dished out pudding, beans and soup with generous impartiality. the daughter of mrs. vanderbilt appeared. "i'm hungry, mother," she cried. "i'll pay for my lunch." "you'll have to serve yourself," was the rejoinder of the busy woman with the tin pail in her hand. "there's a tray at the end of the counter--but don't get in the way." so rich and poor lunched together. "oh, but i'm tired!" exclaimed a woman, who, satchel in hand, entered, late in the afternoon, "it's hard to go home and cook after canvassing all day. will you mind if i eat supper here?" then the women and children poured in with pails and dishes and pans. "we're getting used to it now," said one. "it's just like a store, you know, and it saves us a lot of work--" "and expense! my land!" cried another. "why, my man has only been working half time, and the pennies count when you've got children to feed and clothe. when i go to work by the day it's little that's cooked at home. now--" she presented a dish as the line moved along. "beef stew for four," she ordered, "and coffee in this pitcher, here." ( ) gathering in the raw recruit by kingsley moses men wanted for the united states army a tall, gaunt farmer boy with a very dirty face and huge gnarled hands stood open-mouthed before the brilliant poster displayed before the small-town recruiting office. in his rather dull mind he pictured himself as he would look, straight and dignified, in the khaki uniform, perhaps even with the three stripes of the sergeant on his arm. "fifteen dollars a month," he thought to himself, "and board and clothes and lodgings and doctor's bills. why, that's more than i'm gettin' now on the farm! i'd see the world; i might even get to learn a regular trade." he scratched his chin thoughtfully. "well, i ain't gettin' nowhere now, that's sure," he concluded, and slowly climbed the stairs. this boy had not come to his decision in a moment. his untrained but thoroughly honest mind worked slowly. he had been pondering the opportunities of army life for many weeks. the idea had come to him by chance, he thought. over a month ago he had been plowing the lower forty of old man huggins's farm. the road to the mountains lay along one side of the field, and as the boy turned and started to plow his furrow toward the road he noticed that a motor cycle had stopped just beyond the fence. "broke down," the boy commented to himself, as he saw the tan-clad rider dismounting. over the mule's huge back he watched as he drew nearer. "why, the rider was in uniform; he must be a soldier!" sure enough, when the fence was reached the boy saw that the stranger was dressed in the regulation khaki of uncle sam, with the u.s. in block letters at the vent of the collar and two stripes on the left sleeve. "broke down?" the boy queried, dropping his plow-handles. the corporal grunted and continued to potter with the machine. "you in the army?" the boy continued, leaning on the fence. "you bet!" assented the soldier. then, looking up and taking in the big, raw-boned physique of the youngster, "ever think of joinin'?" "can't say's i did." "got any friends in the army?" "nope." "fine life." the motor cycle was attracting little of the recruiting officer's attention now, for he was a recruiting officer, and engaged in one of the most practical phases of his work. "them soldiers have a pretty easy life, don't they?" evidently the boy was becoming interested. the recruiting officer laid down his tools, pulled out a pipe, and sat down comfortably under a small sycamore tree at the roadside. "not so very easy," he replied, "but interesting and exciting." he paused for a minute to scrutinize the prospective recruit more closely. to his experienced eye the boy appeared desirable. slouchy, dirty, and lazy-looking, perhaps; but there were nevertheless good muscles and a strong body under those ragged overalls. the corporal launched into his story. for twenty minutes the boy listened open-mouthed to the stories of post life, where baseball, football, and boxing divided the time with drilling; of mess-halls where a fellow could eat all he wanted to, free; of good-fellowship and fraternal pride in the organization; of the pleasant evenings in the amusement rooms in quarters. and then of the life of the big world, of which the boy had only dreamed; of the western plains, of texas, the snowy ridges of the great rockies, new york, chicago, san francisco, the philippines, hawaii, the strange glamour of the tropics, the great wildernesses of the frozen north. "it seems 'most like as i'd like to join," was the timid venture. "what's your name?" "steve bishop." "all right, steve, come in and see me the next time you're in town," said the corporal, rising. "we'll talk it over." and, mounting his motor cycle, he was gone down the road in a whirl of red dust. nor did the farmer boy think to wonder at the sudden recovery of the apparently stalled machine. "missionary work," explains the corporal. "we never beg 'em to join; but we do sort of give 'em the idea. like joinin' the masons, you know," he winked, giving me the grip. so it happened that steve bishop mounted the stairs that day, resolved to join the army if they would take him. in the small, bare, but immaculately clean room at the head of the stairs he found his friend the corporal banging away at a typewriter. "how are you, steve? glad to see you," was the welcome. "sit down a minute, and we'll talk." the soldier finished his page, lit his pipe again, and leisurely swung round in his chair. "think you'll like to soldier with us?" he said. unconsciously the boy appreciated the compliment; it was flattering to be considered on a basis of equality with this clean-cut, rugged man of the wide world. "i reckon so," he replied, almost timidly. "well, how old are you, steve?" "twenty-one." the corporal nodded approval. that was all right, then; no tedious formality of securing signed permission from parent or guardian was necessary. then began a string of personal questions as to previous employment, education, details of physical condition, moral record (for the army will have no ex-jailbirds), etc., and finally the question, "why do you want to join?" "they don't know why i ask that," says the corporal, "but i have a mighty good reason. from the way a boy answers i can decide which branch of the service he ought to be connected with. if he wants to be a soldier just for travel and adventure, i advise the infantry or the cavalry; but if he seriously wants to learn and study, i recommend him to the coast artillery or the engineers." then comes the physical examination, a vigorous but not exacting course of sprouts designed to find out if the applicant is capable of violent exertion and to discover any minor weaknesses; an examination of eyes, ears, teeth, and nose; and, finally, a cursory scrutiny for functional disorders. "i'll take you, steve," the corporal finally says. "in about a week we'll send you to the barracks." "but what am i goin' to do till then? i ain't got a cent." "don't worry about that. you'll eat and sleep at mrs. barrows's,"--naming a good, clean boarding-house in the town, the owner of which has a yearly contract with the government to take care of just such embryo recruits; "in the daytime you can hang around town, and the police won't bother you if you behave yourself. if they call you for loafin' tell them you're waitin' to get into the army." in a week the district recruiting officer, a young lieutenant, drops in on his regular circuit. the men who have been accepted by the non-commissioned officer are put through their paces again, and so expert is the corporal in judging good material that none of steve's group of eight are rejected. "all right," says the corporal when the lieutenant has gone; "here's your tickets to the training station at columbus, ohio, and twenty-eight cents apiece for coffee on the way. in these boxes you'll find four big, healthy lunches for each one of you. that'll keep you until you get to columbus." one of the new recruits is given charge of the form ticket issued by the railway expressly for the government; is told that when meal-time comes he can get off the train with the others and for fifty cents buy a big pail of hot coffee for the bunch at the station lunch-room. then the corporal takes them all down to the train, tells them briefly but plainly what is expected in the way of conduct from a soldier, and winds up with the admonition: "and, boys, remember this first of all; the first duty of a soldier is this: do what you're told to do, do it without question, and _do it quick_. good-bye." in twenty-four hours steve and his companions are at the training station, have taken the oath of allegiance, and are safely and well on their way to full membership in the family of uncle sam. chapter vi writing the article value of a plan. just as a builder would hesitate to erect a house without a carefully worked-out plan, so a writer should be loath to begin an article before he has outlined it fully. in planning a building, an architect considers how large a house his client desires, how many rooms he must provide, how the space available may best be apportioned among the rooms, and what relation the rooms are to bear to one another. in outlining an article, likewise, a writer needs to determine how long it must be, what material it should include, how much space should be devoted to each part, and how the parts should be arranged. time spent in thus planning an article is time well spent. outlining the subject fully involves thinking out the article from beginning to end. the value of each item of the material gathered must be carefully weighed; its relation to the whole subject and to every part must be considered. the arrangement of the parts is of even greater importance, because much of the effectiveness of the presentation will depend upon a logical development of the thought. in the last analysis, good writing means clear thinking, and at no stage in the preparation of an article is clear thinking more necessary than in the planning of it. amateurs sometimes insist that it is easier to write without an outline than with one. it undoubtedly does take less time to dash off a special feature story than it does to think out all of the details and then write it. in nine cases out of ten, however, when a writer attempts to work out an article as he goes along, trusting that his ideas will arrange themselves, the result is far from a clear, logical, well-organized presentation of his subject. the common disinclination to make an outline is usually based on the difficulty that most persons experience in deliberately thinking about a subject in all its various aspects, and in getting down in logical order the results of such thought. unwillingness to outline a subject generally means unwillingness to think. the length of an article. the length of an article is determined by two considerations: the scope of the subject, and the policy of the publication for which it is intended. a large subject cannot be adequately treated in a brief space, nor can an important theme be disposed of satisfactorily in a few hundred words. the length of an article, in general, should be proportionate to the size and the importance of the subject. the deciding factor, however, in fixing the length of an article is the policy of the periodical for which it is designed. one popular publication may print articles from to words, while another fixes the limit at words. it would be quite as bad judgment to prepare a -word article for the former, as it would be to send one of words to the latter. periodicals also fix certain limits for articles to be printed in particular departments. one monthly magazine, for instance, has a department of personality sketches which range from to words in length, while the other articles in this periodical contain from to words. the practice of printing a column or two of reading matter on most of the advertising pages influences the length of articles in many magazines. to obtain an attractive make-up, the editors allow only a page or two of each special article, short story, or serial to appear in the first part of the magazine, relegating the remainder to the advertising pages. articles must, therefore, be long enough to fill a page or two in the first part of the periodical and several columns on the pages of advertising. some magazines use short articles, or "fillers," to furnish the necessary reading matter on these advertising pages. newspapers of the usual size, with from to words in a column, have greater flexibility than magazines in the matter of make-up, and can, therefore, use special feature stories of various lengths. the arrangement of advertisements, even in the magazine sections, does not affect the length of articles. the only way to determine exactly the requirements of different newspapers and magazines is to count the words in typical articles in various departments. selection and proportion. after deciding on the length of his article, the writer should consider what main points he will be able to develop in the allotted space. his choice will be guided by his purpose in writing the article. "is this point essential to the accomplishment of my aim?" is the test he should apply. whatever is non-essential must be abandoned, no matter how attractive it may be. having determined upon the essential topics, he next proceeds to estimate their relative value for the development of his theme, so that he may give to each one the space and the prominence that are proportionate to its importance. arrangement of material. the order in which to present the main topics requires thoughtful study. a logical development of a subject by which the reader is led, step by step, from the first sentence to the last in the easiest and most natural way, is the ideal arrangement. an article should march right along from beginning to end, without digressing or marking time. the straight line, in writing as in drawing, is the shortest distance between two points. in narration the natural order is chronological. to arouse immediate interest, however, a writer may at times deviate from this order by beginning with a striking incident and then going back to relate the events that led up to it. this method of beginning _in medias res_ is a device well recognized in fiction. in exposition the normal order is to proceed from the known to the unknown, to dovetail the new facts into those already familiar to the reader. when a writer desires by his article to create certain convictions in the minds of his readers, he should consider the arrangement best calculated to lead them to form such conclusions. the most telling effects are produced, not by stating his own conclusions as strongly as possible, but rather by skillfully inducing his readers to reach those conclusions by what they regard as their own mental processes. that is, if readers think that the convictions which they have reached are their own, and were not forced upon them, their interest in these ideas is likely to be much deeper and more lasting. it is best, therefore, to understate conclusions or to omit them entirely. in all such cases the writer's aim in arranging his material should be to direct his readers' train of thought so that, after they have finished the last sentence, they will inevitably form the desired conclusion. with the main topics arranged in the best possible order, the writer selects from his available material such details as he needs to amplify each point. examples, incidents, statistics, and other particulars he jots down under each of the chief heads. the arrangement of these details, in relation both to the central purpose and to each other, requires some consideration, for each detail must have its logical place in the series. having thus ordered his material according to a systematic plan, he has before him a good working outline to guide him in writing. planning a typical article. the process of gathering, evaluating, and organizing material may best be shown by a concrete example. the publication in a new york paper of a news story to the effect that the first commencement exercises were about to be held in the only factory school ever conducted in the city, suggested to a special feature writer the possibility of preparing an article on the work of the school. to obtain the necessary material, he decided to attend the exercises and to interview both the principal of the school and the head of the factory. in thinking over the subject beforehand, he jotted down these points upon which to secure data: ( ) the origin and the purpose of the school; ( ) its relation to the work of the factory; ( ) the methods of instruction; ( ) the kind of pupils and the results accomplished for them; ( ) the cost of the school; ( ) its relation to the public school system. at the close of the graduation exercises, he secured the desired interviews with the teacher in charge and with the head of the firm, copied typical examples from the exhibition of the pupils' written work, and jotted down notes on the decoration and furnishing of the schoolroom. since the commencement exercises had been reported in the newspapers, he decided to refer to them only incidentally in his story. after considering the significance of the work of the school and what there was about it that would appeal to different classes of readers, he decided to write his story for the magazine section of the new york newspaper that he believed was most generally read by business men who operated factories similar to the one described. his purpose he formulated thus: "i intend to show how illiterate immigrant girls can be transformed quickly into intelligent, efficient american citizens by means of instruction in a factory school; this i wish to do by explaining what has been accomplished in this direction by one new york factory." he hoped that his article would lead readers to encourage the establishment of similar schools as a means of americanizing alien girls. the expository type of article containing concrete examples, description, and interviews he concluded to adopt as the form best suited to his subject. the average length of the special feature stories, in the magazine section of the paper to which he intended to submit the article, proved to be about words. in order to accomplish his purpose in an article of this length, he selected five main topics to develop: ( ) the reasons that led the firm to establish the school; ( ) the results obtained; ( ) the methods of instruction; ( ) the cost of the school; ( ) the schoolroom and its equipment. "what part of my material will make the strongest appeal to the readers of this newspaper?" was the question he asked himself, in order to select the best point with which to begin his article. the feature that would attract the most attention, he believed, was the striking results obtained by the school in a comparatively short time. in reviewing the several types of beginnings to determine which would best suit the presentation of these remarkable results, he found two possibilities: first, the summary lead with a striking statement for the first sentence; and second, a concrete example of the results as shown by one of the pupils. he found, however, that he did not have sufficient data concerning any one girl to enable him to tell the story of her transformation as an effective concrete case. he determined, therefore, to use a striking statement as the feature of a summary lead. from his interview with the head of the firm, and from a formal statement of the purpose of the school printed on the commencement program, he obtained the reasons why the school had been established. these he decided to give _verbatim_ in direct quotation form. to show most interestingly the results of the teaching, he picked out four of the six written exercises that he had copied from those exhibited on the walls of the schoolroom. the first of these dealt with american history, the second with thrift and business methods, and the third with personal hygiene. for the fourth he selected the work of a woman of forty whose struggles to get into the school and to learn to write the teacher had described to him. figures on the cost of the school he had secured from the head of the firm according to his preliminary plan. these covered the expense both to the employers and to the city. his description of the schoolroom he could base on his own observation, supplemented by the teacher's explanations. for his conclusion he determined to summarize the results of this experiment in education as the firm stated them on the commencement program, and to give his own impression of the success of the school. thus he sought to give final reinforcement to the favorable impression of the school that he wished his article to create, with the aim of leading readers to reach the conclusion that such schools should be encouraged as invaluable aids to the americanization of alien girls. outlining the article. having selected the main topics and having decided in a general way how he intended to develop each one, he then fixed upon the best order in which to present them. after his introduction giving the striking results of the school in a summary lead, it seemed logical to explain the firm's purpose in undertaking this unusual enterprise. he accordingly jotted down for his second topic, "purpose in establishing the school," with the two sub-topics, "firm's statement on program" and "head of firm's statement in interview." the methods of-instruction by which the remarkable success was attained, impressed him as the next important point. his readers, having learned the results and the purpose of the school, would naturally want to know by what methods these girls had been transformed in so short a time. as his third topic, therefore, he put down, "methods of instruction." for his fourth division he had to choose between ( ) the results as shown by the pupils' written work, ( ) the cost of the school, and ( ) the schoolroom and its equipment. from the point of view of logical order either the results or the schoolroom might have been taken up next, but, as all the explanations of the methods of instruction were quoted directly in the words of the teacher, and as the pupils' exercises were to be given _verbatim_, he thought it best to place his own description of the schoolroom between these two quoted parts. greater variety, he foresaw, would result from such an arrangement. "the schoolroom," then, became the fourth topic. since the pupils' work which he planned to reproduce had been exhibited on the walls of the schoolroom, the transition from the description of the room to the exhibits on the walls was an easy and logical one. by this process of elimination, the cost of the school became the sixth division, to be followed by the summary conclusion. he then proceeded to fill in the details needed to develop each of these main topics, always keeping his general purpose in mind. the result of this organization of material was the following outline: i. summary lead . striking results--time required . commencement--when and where held . graduates--number, nationality, certificates . school--when and where established . example to other firms ii. purpose of school . firm's statement on commencement program . head of firm's statement in interview iii. methods of instruction . practical education . letter writing--geography, postal regulations, correspondence . arithmetic--money, expense accounts, reports of work . civics--history, biography, holidays, citizenship, patriotism . personal hygiene--cleanliness, physical culture, first aid, food . cotton goods--growing cotton, spinning, shipping . means of communication--telephone, directory, map of city, routes of travel, telephone book . study outside of classroom iv. the schoolroom . location--floor space, windows . decorations--flowers, motto, photograph of miss jessie wilson . furnishings--piano, phonograph . library--reading to the girls, _the promised land_, mary antin, library cards v. results shown by pupils' work . italian's theme and her remarkable progress . russian's essay on saving . polish girl's exercise about picture . woman of forty and her work vi. cost of school . expense to firm . cost to board of education--salaries and supplies . entire cost per pupil . returns to firm outweigh cost, says employer vii. summary conclusion . results quoted from program . impression made by girls receiving diplomas the completed article. since the establishment of a school in a factory was the novel feature of the enterprise, he worked out a title based on this idea, with a sub-title presenting the striking results accomplished by the school. the completed article follows, with a brief analysis of the methods used in developing the outline. taking the school to the factory how alien girls are being changed into intelligent american workers by instruction during working hours in from twenty to thirty-five weeks i. summary lead an illiterate immigrant girl can be . striking results transformed into an intelligent, efficient striking statement american citizen, in this city, in two sentence to without interfering with the daily work avoid unwieldy sentence. by which she earns her living. only forty-five minutes a day in a factory schoolroom is required to accomplish such striking results. this has just been demonstrated at . commencement the first commencement of the only timeliness brought school conducted in a new york factory. out immediately after the classes have been held on striking statement one of the upper floors of the white goods factory of d. e. sicher & co., west st street, where the graduation address has local exercises were held last thursday interest evening. forty girls--italians, poles, russians, . graduates hungarians, austrians among note concrete details the number--received the first "certificates of literacy" ever issued by the board of education. twenty weeks striking results ago many of these young women could emphasized by device not speak english; many of them had of contrast never been to school a day in their lives. every one present on thursday impression on audience night felt that this was indeed a commencement of remarkable for these girls. results it is due to the instruction of miss teacher's name has florence meyers, formerly a public local interest school teacher, that the girls can now speak english, write good letters, make out money-orders, cash checks, and send telegrams. they have also been additional concrete taught the principles of our government, details of striking the importance of personal hygiene, results and the processes by which cotton goods used in their work are manufactured. the school was organized this year . school at the suggestion of dudley e. sicher, head of the firm, in coöperation with the board of education, and has been under the supervision of miss lizzie e. principal and school rector, public school no. , manhattan. have local interest. what has been accomplished in this . example to other factory, which is the largest white firms goods muslin underwear plant in the veiled suggestion to world, will doubtless serve as an example readers to be followed by other firms. its purpose the firm expresses in ii. purpose of school these words: "to hasten assimilation . firm's statement necessary to national unity, to promote industrial betterment, by reducing statement in general the friction caused by failure to comprehend terms directions, and to decrease the waste and loss of wage incidental to the illiterate worker." "when a girl understands english . head of firm's statement and has been taught american business and factory methods," says mr. sicher, "she doesn't hesitate and statement in concrete blunder; she understands what she is terms told and she does it. "intelligent employees do much better work than illiterate ones, and since we can afford to pay them better wages, they are much more contented. from a business point of view, the school is a good investment." the instruction that has accomplished iii. methods of instruction such remarkable results has been eminently practical. "there . practical education was no time to spend in teaching the girls anything but the most necessary teacher's statement things," explains miss meyers, "for i of her problem could have each one of them for only forty-five minutes a day, and there was much to be done in that time. "here was a girl, for example, who problem concretely could hardly say 'good morning.' shown here was another who had never written a word in her life, either in english or in any other language. the problem was how to give each of them what she most needed in the short time allotted statement of general every day. this essentially plan practical training i organized under several subjects, each of which was broadly inclusive. "when i undertook to teach letter . letter writing writing, it meant teaching the english language, as well as writing and spelling. it meant teaching the geography of the country, the postal regulations, and the forms of business and personal correspondence. "in teaching arithmetic, i use money . arithmetic and show them how to make change by means of addition, subtraction, and division. i also ask them to keep personal expense accounts and to make out reports of the work that they do. "civics included american history, . civics the lives of our statesmen--for these girls are so eager to be true americans that they want to know about our great men--the origin of legal holidays, the merits of our system of government, the meaning of citizenship, and the essence of patriotism. "hygiene is another important . personal hygiene subject. american standards of living, personal cleanliness, and sanitary regulations have to be emphasized. to aid in counteracting the effects of long hours at the sewing machines, we have physical culture exercises. instruction in first aid measures is also given so that they will know what to do in case of an accident. the nutritive value of different foods in relation to their cost is discussed to enable them to maintain their health by a proper diet. "as these young women are engaged . cotton goods in making muslin underwear, it seemed desirable for them to know where cotton grows, how it is spun, where the mills are and how it is shipped to new york. after they understand the various processes through which the material goes before it reaches them, they take much more interest in their work, as a part of the manufacture of cotton goods into clothing." the use of the telephone, the telegraph, . means of communication the subway, surface lines, and railways is another subject of instruction. a dummy 'phone, telegraph method of presentation blanks, the city directory, maps with in this paragraph routes of rapid transit lines, and the changed for telephone book, are some of the practical variety laboratory apparatus and textbooks that are employed. "we encourage them to learn for . study outside of themselves outside of school hours classroom many of the necessary things that we have not time for in the classroom," says the teacher. to reach the schoolroom in which iv. the schoolroom this work has been carried on, you take . location the elevator to the last floor but one of note effect of using the factory building. there you find "you" only a portion of the floor space cleared for tables and chairs. it is a clean, airy room with big windows opening on the street, made gay with boxes of flowers. flags of many nations about the . decorations room appropriately represent the many nationalities among the pupils. on note character of one wall hangs a card with the legend: decorations selected four things come not back: the spoken word the sped arrow the past life the neglected opportunity. a photograph of miss jessie wilson, now mrs. francis b. sayre, occupies the space between the two windows. the picture was presented to the girls by miss wilson herself, just before she this shows enterprising was married, when a party of them with spirit on the miss meyers went to washington to part of teacher, girls, give her a white petticoat they had and firm made themselves, as a wedding present. after miss wilson had shown them through the white house and they had seen her wedding presents, she gave them this signed photograph. a piano and a phonograph at one . furnishings end of the room make it possible for the girls to enjoy dancing during the noon hours on three days of the week, and to have musicals on other occasions. shelves filled with books line the . library walls of a smaller office room opening off the schoolroom. on two days of the week during the noon hour, the teacher read aloud to the girls until they were able to read for themselves. then they were permitted to take books home with them. besides this, they have been encouraged to use the public libraries, after being shown how to make out applications for library cards. "one girl is reading 'the promised concrete example land,' by mary antin," miss meyers has "human interest," tells you, "and thinks it is a wonderful as related in book. she was so much interested in the teacher's own it that i asked her to tell the others words about it. although a little shy at first, she soon forgot herself in her eagerness to relate miss antin's experiences. she told the story with such dramatic effect that she quite carried away her classmates. if we had done no more than to teach this girl to read a book that meant so much to her, i believe our school would have justified its existence." mary antin herself accepted the is this paragraph girls' invitation to attend the graduation out of logical order? exercises, and made a short address. the pupils' written work was exhibited v. results shown by on the walls of the room on the occasion pupils' work of the exercises, and showed conclusively the proficiency that they have attained. the greatest progress made by any . italian's theme and of the pupils was probably that of an progress italian girl. before coming to this country, she had attended school and example of greatest besides this she had been teaching her progress is put father at night whatever she had first learned during the day. her short essay on her adopted country read: this country is the united states note use of narrow of america. it is the land of freedom measure without and liberty, because the people quotation marks for govern themselves. all citizens love examples quoted their country, because they know that this freedom was earned by men who gave their lives for it. the united states is in north america. north america is one of the greatest divisions of the earth. north america was discovered on october , , by christopher columbus. the fact that columbus, one of her is this comment by countrymen, had discovered the country the writer effective? in which she and her father had found a new life, doubtless appealed to her keen imagination. that a russian girl appreciated the . russian's essay on lessons she had received in the value of saving opening a dime-savings account, is indicated by this composition: i must save money out of my earnings to put in the bank. i know that money is safe in the bank. to deposit means to put money in the bank. cashing a cheque means changing a cheque for money. how practical lessons in personal hygiene . polish girl's essay may be emphasized in connection with the teaching of composition was illustrated in an essay of a polish girl written under a picture of a woman combing her hair: she wished to comb her hair. she takes the comb in her hand. she combs her hair. she wishes to brush her hair. she takes the brush in her hand. she brushes her hair. she combs and brushes her hair every morning. she washes her hair often with soap and water. the pathetic eagerness of one woman . woman of forty of forty to learn to read and write was and her work told by miss meyers in connection with one of the pieces of work exhibited. "she was an old woman; at least she "human interest" seems to me to be over fifty, although appeal heightened she gave her age as only forty," explained by quoting teacher the teacher. "she couldn't _verbatim_ read or even write her name. despite her age, she begged for a long time to be permitted to enter the school, but there were so many young girls who desired to learn that they were given the preference. she pleaded so hard that finally i asked to have her admitted on trial." "it was hard work to teach her," progress in penmanship continued miss meyers as she pointed could not be to some of the woman's writing. the shown by quoting first attempts were large, irregular exercise letters that sprawled over the sheet like the work of a child when it begins to write. after twenty weeks of struggle, her work took on a form that, although still crude, was creditable for one who had never written until she was over forty. "her joy at her success was great enough to repay me many times over for my efforts to teach her," remarked miss meyers. the exact cost to the firm of conducting vi. cost of school the school, including the wages . expense to firm paid for the time spent by the girls in the classroom, has been itemized by mr. sicher for the year just closed, as follows: floor space $ . short table of figures rent, light, and heat . is comprehensible janitor . and not uninteresting wages at ¢ an hr., girls . ------- total cost, girls $ . total cost per girl . the board of education, for its part . cost to board of of the school, paid out $ for the education teacher's salary and for supplies. this was an expense of $ . for each pupil. the entire cost for educating each . entire cost per pupil one of the forty girl workers, therefore, was only $ . . that this money has been well spent . returns outweigh is the opinion of the employer, for the cost school work increases the efficiency in the factory sufficiently to make up for the time taken out of working hours. "i would rather have these girls in head of firm's statement my employ whom i can afford to pay given to convince from ten to twenty dollars a week," readers declares mr. sicher, "than many more whom i have to pay low wages simply because they aren't worth higher ones. from a business point of view, it saves space and space is money." that the result has been what the vii. summary conclusion firm had anticipated in establishing the school is shown by the following . results quoted from statement which was made on the commencement program program: "it is the present belief of the firm that the workers note appeal of who have been thus trained have "efficiency" to gained from to per cent in efficiency." practical readers how much the girls themselves have . impression given gained more vital to them even than by girls efficiency was very evident to everyone note patriotic appeal who looked into their faces as they received in closing the certificates that recognize phrase, which was them as "literate american citizens." a happy choice. another article on the same subject. this commencement at the factory school furnished another writer, nixola greeley smith, with material for a special feature story which was sent out by a syndicate, the newspaper enterprise association, for publication in several hundred newspapers. her story contains only words and is thus less than one fifth the length of the other article. the author centers the interest in one of the pupils, and shows the value of the school in terms of this girl's experience. the girl's own account of what the school has meant to her makes a strong "human interest" appeal. by thus developing one concrete example effectively, the author is able to arouse more interest in the results of the school than she would have done if in the same space she had attempted to give a greater number of facts about it. unlike the longer article, her story probably would not suggest to the reader the possibility of undertaking a similar enterprise, because it does not give enough details about the organization and methods of the school to show how the idea could be applied elsewhere. the beginning of the shorter story was doubtless suggested by the presence at the exercises of mary antin, the author of "the promised land," who addressed the girls. the first sentence of it piques our curiosity to know how "the promised land" has kept its promise, and the story proceeds to tell us. the article, with an analysis of its main points, follows: wonderful america! thinks little austrian who graduates from factory school "the promised land" has kept its i. story of rebecca promise to rebecca meyer! meyer eight months ago an illiterate austrian . striking statement immigrant girl, unable to speak or beginning write english, went to work in a new note effective use of york garment factory. device of contrast to-day, speaking and writing fluently the language of her adopted country, second and third proficient in other studies, she paragraphs show proudly cherishes the first "certificate striking results in of literacy" issued by a factory--a one concrete case. factory which has paid her for going to school during working hours! it was rebecca meyer who received . commencement this first certificate, at the graduation note that rebecca exercises held on the top floor of the is the central figure big women's wear factory of d.e. sicher & co. it was rebecca meyer who delivered the address of welcome to the members of the board of education, the members of the firm, her fellow employees, and all the others gathered at these exercises--the first of dash used to set off their kind ever held in any commercial unique element establishment, anywhere! "isn't it wonderful!" she said. . rebecca's statement "when i came from austria, i hoped slightly unidiomatic to find work. that was all. how i english is suggestive should learn to speak the english language, i did not know. it might take me years, i thought. that i should go to school every day, while i worked--who could dream of such a thing? it could not be in any other country except america." dudley e. sicher, head of the firm, ii. story of the school in whose workrooms a regularly organized . origin of school class of the new york public note method of schools has held its sessions all winter, introducing head of firm stood smiling in the background. mr. sicher is president of the cotton goods manufacturers' association. it was he who conceived the idea, about a year ago, of increasing the efficiency of his women employees by giving them an education free of cost, during working hours. "one of the first and most noticeable . results of school results of the factory school has statement of head been a marked decrease in the friction of firm and the waste of time caused by the inability of employees to comprehend directions. a girl who understands english, and has been enabled thereby to school herself in factory methods and conditions, doesn't hesitate and blunder; she understands, and does. and what then? why, higher pay." no wonder rebecca meyer is grateful iii. conclusion for the minutes a day in which rebecca again made button-sewing has given place to study--no the central figure wonder she thinks america must appeal to reader's be the wonderland of all the world! pride in his country. articles composed of units. the study of the two special feature stories on the factory school shows how articles of this type are built up out of a number of units, such as examples, incidents, and statistics. a similar study of the other types of articles exemplified in chapter v will show that they also are made up of various kinds of units. again, if we turn to the types of beginnings illustrated in chapter vii, we shall find that they, too, are units, which in some cases might have been used in the body of the article instead of as an introduction. since, then, every division of a subject may be regarded as a unit that is complete in itself whatever its position in the article, each of the several kinds of units may be studied separately. for this purpose we may discuss five common types of units: ( ) examples, ( ) incidents, ( ) statistics, ( ) scientific and technical processes, and ( ) recipes and directions. methods of developing units. in order to present these units most effectively, and to vary the form of presentation when occasion demands, a writer needs to be familiar with the different methods of developing each one of these types. four common methods of handling material within these units are: ( ) exposition, narration, or description in the writer's own words; ( ) dialogue; ( ) the interview; ( ) direct or indirect quotation. statistics and recipes may also be given in tabular form. when a unit may be developed with equal effectiveness by any one of several methods, a writer should choose the one that gives variety to his article. if, for example, the units just before and after the one under consideration are to be in direct quotation, he should avoid any form that involves quoted matter. examples. in all types of articles the concrete example is the commonest and most natural means of explaining a general idea. to most readers, for instance, the legal provisions of an old age pension law would be neither comprehensible nor interesting, but a story showing how a particular old man had been benefited by the law would appeal to practically every one. that is, to explain the operation and advantages of such a law, we give, as one unit, the concrete example of this old man. actual examples are preferable to hypothetical ones, but the latter may occasionally be used when real cases are not available. imaginary instances may be introduced by such phrases as, "if, for example," or "suppose, for instance, that." to explain why companies that insure persons against loss of their jewelry are compelled to investigate carefully every claim filed with them, a writer in the _buffalo news_ gave several cases in which individuals supposed that they were entitled to payment for losses although subsequent investigation showed that they had not actually sustained any loss. one of these cases, that given below, he decided to relate in his own words, without conversation or quotation, although he might have quoted part of the affidavit, or might have given the dialogue between the detective and the woman who had lost the pin. no doubt he regarded the facts themselves, together with the suspense as to the outcome of the search, as sufficiently interesting to render unnecessary any other device for creating interest. another woman of equal wealth and equally undoubted honesty lost a horseshoe diamond pin. she and her maid looked everywhere, as they thought, but failed to find it. so she made her "proof of loss" in affidavit form and asked the surety company with which she carried the policy on all her jewelry to replace the article. she said in her affidavit that she had worn the pin in a restaurant a few nights before and had lost it that night, either in the restaurant or on her way there or back. the restaurant management had searched for it, the restaurant help had been questioned closely, the automobile used that night had been gone over carefully, and the woman's home had been ransacked. particular attention had been given to the gown worn by the woman on that occasion; every inch of it had been examined with the idea that the pin, falling from its proper place, had caught in the folds. the surety company assigned one of its detectives to look for the pin. from surface indications the loss had the appearance of a theft--an "inside job." the company, however, asked that its detective be allowed to search the woman's house itself. the request was granted readily. the detective then inquired for the various gowns which the woman had worn for dress occasions within the preceding several weeks. this line of investigation the owner of the pin considered a waste of time, since she remembered distinctly wearing the pin to the restaurant on that particular night, and her husband also remembered seeing it that night and put his memory in affidavit form. but the detective persisted and with the help of a maid examined carefully those other gowns. in the ruffle at the bottom of one of them, worn for the last time at least a week before the visit to the restaurant, she found the pin. the woman and her husband simply had been mistaken--honestly mistaken. she hadn't worn the pin to the restaurant, and her husband hadn't seen it that night. the error was unintentional, but it came very near costing the surety company a large sum of money. the benefits of a newly established clinic for animals were demonstrated in a special feature article in the _new york times_ by the selection of several animal patients as typical cases. probably the one given below did not seem to the writer to be sufficiently striking if only the bare facts were given, and so he undertook to create sympathy by describing the poor, whimpering little dog and the distress of the two young women. by arousing the sympathies of the readers, he was better able to impress them with the benefits of the clinic. the other day daisy, a little fox terrier, was one of the patients. she was a pretty little thing, three months old, with a silky coat and big, pathetic eyes. she was escorted to the clinic by two hatless young women, in shawls, and three children. the children waited outside in the reception room, standing in a line, grinning self-consciously, while the women followed daisy into the examination room. there she was gently muzzled with a piece of bandage, and the doctor examined her. there was something the matter with one hind leg, and the poor little animal whimpered pitifully, as dogs do, while the doctor searched for a broken bone. it was too much for one of the women. she left the room, and, standing outside the door, put her fingers in her ears, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "well, i wouldn't cry for a dog," said a workman, putting in some s.p.c.a. receiving boxes, with a grin, while the three children--and children are always more or less little savages--grinned sympathetically. but it was a very real sorrow for daisy's mistress. there was no reason for alarm; it was only a sprain, caused by her mistress' catching the animal by the leg when she was giving her a bath. her friends were told to take her home, bathe the leg with warm water, and keep her as quiet as possible. her mistress, still with a troubled face, wrapped her carefully in the black shawl she was wearing, so that only the puppy's little white head and big, soft eyes peeped out, and the small procession moved away. in a special feature story designed to show how much more intelligently the first woman judge in this country could deal with cases of delinquent girls in the juvenile court than could the ordinary police court judge, a writer selected several cases that she had disposed of in her characteristic way. the first case, which follows, he decided could best be reported _verbatim_, as by that method he could show most clearly the kindly attitude of the judge in dealing with even the least appreciative of girls. the first case brought in the other day was that of a girl of , who hated her home and persisted in running away, sometimes to a married sister, and sometimes to a friend. she was accompanied by her mother and older sister, both with determined lower jaws and faces as hard as flint. she swaggered into the room in an impudent way to conceal the fact that her bravado was leaving her. "ella," said miss bartelme, looking up from her desk, "why didn't you tell me the truth when you came in here the other day? you did not tell me where you had been. don't you understand that it is much easier for me to help you if you speak the truth right away?" ella hung her head and said nothing. the older sister scowled at the girl and muttered something to the mother. "no," refused the mother, on being questioned. "we don't want nothing more to do with her." "humph," snorted ella, "you needn't think i want to come back. i don't want nothing more to do with you, either." miss bartelme often lets the family fight things out among themselves; for in this way, far more than by definite questioning, she learns the attitude of the girl and the family toward each other, and indirectly arrives at most of the actual facts of the case. "how would you like to go into a good home where some one would love you and care for you?" asked the judge. "i don't want nobody to love me." "why, ella, wouldn't you like to have a kind friend, somebody you could confide in and go walking with and who would be interested in you?" "i don't want no friends. i just want to be left alone." "well, ella," said the judge, patiently, ignoring her sullenness, "i think we shall send you back to park ridge for a while. but if you ever change your mind about wanting friends let us know, because we'll be here and shall feel the same way as we do now about it." to explain to readers of the _kansas city star_ how a bloodhound runs down a criminal, a special feature writer asked them to imagine that a crime had been committed at a particular corner in that city and that a bloodhound had been brought to track the criminal; then he told them what would happen if the crime were committed, first, when the streets were deserted, or second, when they were crowded. in other words, he gave two imaginary instances to illustrate the manner in which bloodhounds are able to follow a trail. obviously these two hypothetical cases are sufficiently plausible and typical to explain the idea. if a bloodhound is brought to the scene of the crime within a reasonable length of time after it has been committed, and the dog has been properly trained, he will unfailingly run down the criminal, provided, of course, that thousands of feet have not tramped over the ground. if, for instance, a crime were committed at twelfth and walnut streets at o'clock in the morning, when few persons are on the street, a well-trained bloodhound would take the trail of the criminal at daybreak and stick to it with a grim determination that appears to be uncanny, and he would follow the trail as swiftly as if the hunted man had left his shadow all along the route. but let the crime be committed at noon when the section is alive with humanity and remain undiscovered until after dark, then the bloodhound is put at a disadvantage and his wonderful powers would fail him, no doubt. incidents. narrative articles, such as personal experience stories, confessions, and narratives in the third person, consist almost entirely of incidents. dialogue and description are very frequently employed in relating incidents, even when the greater part of the incident is told in the writer's own words. the incidents given as examples of narrative beginnings on pages - are sufficient to illustrate the various methods of developing incidents as units. statistics. to make statistical facts comprehensible and interesting is usually a difficult problem for the inexperienced writer. masses of figures generally mean very little to the average reader. unless the significance of statistics can be quickly grasped, they are almost valueless as a means of explanation. one method of simplifying them is to translate them into terms with which the average reader is familiar. this may often be done by reducing large figures to smaller ones. instead of saying, for example, that a press prints , newspapers an hour, we may say that it prints papers a second, or a minute. to most persons , papers an hour means little more than a large number, but papers and one second are figures sufficiently small to be understood at a glance. statistics sometimes appear less formidable if they are incorporated in an interview or in a conversation. in undertaking to explain the advantages of a coöperative community store, a writer was confronted with the problem of handling a considerable number of figures. the first excerpt below shows how he managed to distribute them through several paragraphs, thus avoiding any awkward massing of figures. in order to present a number of comparative prices, he used the concrete case, given below, of an investigator making a series of purchases at the store. ( ) here's the way the manager of the community store started. he demonstrated to his neighbors by actual figures that they were paying anywhere from $ to $ a week more for their groceries and supplies than they needed to. this represented the middlemen's profits. he then proposed that if a hundred families would pay him regularly cents a week, he would undertake to supply them with garden truck, provisions and meats at wholesale prices. to clinch the demonstration he showed that an average family would save this -cent weekly fee in a few days' purchases. * * * * * there is no difference in appearance between the community store and any other provision store. there is no difference in the way you buy your food. the only difference is that you pay cents a week on a certain day each week and buy food anywhere from to per cent less than at the commercial, non-coöperative retail stores. ( ) the other day an investigator from the department of agriculture went to the washington community store to make an experiment. he paid his -cent weekly membership fee and made some purchases. he bought a -cent carton of oatmeal for cents; a -cent loaf of bread for cents; one-half peck of string beans for cents, instead of for cents, the price in the non-coöperative stores; three pounds of veal for cents instead of cents; a half dozen oranges for cents instead of the usual price of from to cents. his total purchases amounted to $ . , and the estimated saving was cents--within cent of the entire weekly fee. since to the average newspaper reader it would not mean much to say that the cost of the public schools amounted to several hundred thousand dollars a year, a special feature writer calculated the relation of the school appropriation to the total municipal expenditure and then presented the results as fractions of a dollar, thus: of every dollar that each taxpayer in this city paid to the city treasurer last year, cents was spent on the public schools. this means that nearly one-half of all the taxes were expended on giving boys and girls an education. of that same dollar only cents went to maintain the police department, cents to keep up the fire department, and cents for general expenses of the city offices. out of the cents used for school purposes, over one-half, or cents, was paid as salaries to teachers and principals. only cents went for operation, maintenance, and similar expenses. how statistics may be effectively embodied in an interview is demonstrated by the following excerpt from a special feature story on a workmen's compensation law administered by a state industrial board: judge j.b. vaughn, who is at the head of the board, estimates that the system of settling compensation by means of a commission instead of by the regular courts has saved the state $ , , a year since its inception in . "under the usual court proceedings," he says, "each case of an injured workman versus his employer costs from $ to $ . under the workings of the industrial board the average cost is no more than $ . "in three and one-half years , cases have come before us. nine out of every ten have been adjusted by our eight picked arbitrators, who tour the state, visiting promptly each scene of an accident and adjusting the compensation as quickly as possible. the tenth case, which requires a lengthier or more painstaking hearing, is brought to the board. "seven million dollars has been in this time ordered to be paid to injured men and their families. of this no charge of any sort has been entered against the workers or their beneficiaries. the costs are taken care of by the state. fully per cent of all the cases are settled within the board, which means that only per cent are carried further into the higher courts for settlement." processes. to make scientific and technical processes sufficiently simple to appeal to the layman, is another problem for the writer of popular articles. a narrative-descriptive presentation that enables the reader to visualize and follow the process, step by step, as though it were taking place before his eyes, is usually the best means of making it both understandable and interesting. in a special feature story on methods of exterminating mosquitoes, a writer in the _detroit news_ undertook to trace the life history of a mosquito. in order to popularize these scientific details, he describes a "baby mosquito" in a concrete, informal manner, and, as he tells the story of its life, suggests or points out specifically its likeness to a human being. the baby mosquito is a regular little water bug. you call him a "wiggler" when you see him swimming about in a puddle. his head is wide and flat and his eyes are set well out at the sides, while in front of them he has a pair of cute little horns or feelers. while the baby mosquito is brought up in the water, he is an air-breather and comes to the top to breathe as do frogs and musk-rats and many other water creatures of a higher order. like most babies the mosquito larva believes that his mission is to eat as much as he can and grow up very fast. this he does, and if the weather is warm and the food abundant, he soon outgrows his skin. he proceeds to grow a new skin underneath the old one, and when he finds himself protected, he bursts out of his old clothes and comes out in a spring suit. this molting process occurs several times within a week or two, but the last time he takes on another form. he is then called a pupa, and is in a strange transition period during which he does not eat. he now slowly takes on the form of a true mosquito within his pupal skin or shell. after two or three days, or perhaps five or six, if conditions are not altogether favorable, he feels a great longing within him to rise to something higher. his tiny shell is floating upon the water with his now winged body closely packed within. the skin begins to split along the back and the true baby mosquito starts to work himself out. it is a strenuous task for him and consumes many minutes. at last he appears and sits dazed and exhausted, floating on his old skin as on a little boat, and slowly working his new wings in the sunlight, as if to try them out before essaying flight. it is a moment of great peril. a passing ripple may swamp his tiny craft and shipwreck him to become the prey of any passing fish or vagrant frog. a swallow sweeping close to the water's surface may gobble him down. some ruthless city employe may have flooded the surface of the pond with kerosene, the merest touch of which means death to a mosquito. escaping all of the thousand and one accidents that may befall, he soon rises and hums away seeking whom he may devour. a mechanical process, that of handling milk at a model dairy farm, was effectively presented by constance d. leupp in an article entitled, "the fight for clean milk," printed in the _outlook_. by leading "you," the reader, to the spot, as it were, by picturing in detail what "you" would see there, and then by following in story form the course of the milk from one place to another, she succeeded in making the process clear and interesting. here at five in the afternoon you may see long lines of sleek, well-groomed cows standing in their cement-floored, perfectly drained sheds. the walls and ceilings are spotless from constant applications of whitewash, ventilation is scientifically arranged, doors and windows are screened against the flies. here the white-clad, smooth-shaven milkers do their work with scrubbed and manicured hands. you will note that all these men are studiously low-voiced and gentle in movement; for a cow, notwithstanding her outward placidity, is the most sensitive creature on earth, and there is an old superstition that if you speak roughly to your cow she will earn no money for you that day. as each pail is filled it is carried directly into the milk-house; not into the bottling-room, for in that sterilized sanctum nobody except the bottler is admitted, but into the room above, where the pails are emptied into the strainer of a huge receptacle. from the base of this receptacle it flows over the radiator in the bottling-room, which reduces it at once to the required temperature, thence into the mechanical bottler. the white-clad attendant places a tray containing several dozen empty bottles underneath, presses a lever, and, presto! they are full and not a drop spilled. he caps the bottles with another twist of the lever, sprays the whole with a hose, picks up the load and pushes it through the horizontal dumb-waiter, where another attendant receives it in the packing-room. the second man clamps a metal cover over the pasteboard caps and packs the bottles in ice. less than half an hour is consumed in the milking of each cow, the straining, chilling, bottling, and storing of her product. practical guidance units. to give in an attractive form complete and accurate directions for doing something in a certain way, is another difficult problem for the inexperienced writer. for interest and variety, conversation, interviews and other forms of direct quotation, as well as informal narrative, may be employed. various practical methods of saving fuel in cooking were given by a writer in _successful farming_, in what purported to be an account of a meeting of a farm woman's club at which the problem was discussed. by the device of allowing the members of the club to relate their experiences, she was able to offer a large number of suggestions. two units selected from different portions of the article illustrate this method: "i save dollars by cooking in my furnace," added a practical worker. "potatoes bake nicely when laid on the ledge, and beans, stews, roasts, bread--in fact the whole food list--may be cooked there. but one must be careful not to have too hot a fire. i burned several things before i learned that even a few red coals in the fire-pot will be sufficient for practically everything. and then it does blacken the pans! but i've solved that difficulty by bending a piece of tin and setting it between the fire and the cooking vessel. this prevents burning, too, if the fire should be hot. another plan is to set the vessel in an old preserving kettle. if this outer kettle does not leak, it may be filled with water, which not only aids in the cooking process but also prevents burning. for broiling or toasting, a large corn popper is just the thing." * * * * * "my chief saving," confided the member who believes in preparedness, "consists in cooking things in quantities, especially the things that require long cooking, like baked beans or soup. i never think of cooking less than two days' supply of beans, and as for soup, that is made up in quantity sufficient to last a week. if i have no ice, reheating it each day during warm weather prevents spoiling. most vegetables are not harmed by a second cooking, and, besides the saving in fuel it entails, it's mighty comforting to know that you have your dinner already prepared for the next day, or several days before for that matter. in cold weather, or if you have ice, it will not be necessary to introduce monotony into your meals in order to save fuel, for one can wait a day or two before serving the extra quantity. sauces, either for vegetables, meats or puddings, may just as well be made for more than one occasion, altho if milk is used in their preparation, care must be taken that they are kept perfectly cold, as ptomaines develop rapidly in such foods. other things that it pays to cook in large portions are chocolate syrup for making cocoa, caramel for flavoring, and apple sauce." by using a conversation between a hostess and her guest, another writer in the same farm journal succeeded in giving in a novel way some directions for preparing celery. "your escalloped corn is delicious. where did you get your recipe?" mrs. field smiled across the dining table at her guest. "out of my head, i suppose, for i never saw it in print. i just followed the regulation method of a layer of corn, then seasoning, and repeat, only i cut into small pieces a stalk or two of celery with each layer of corn." "celery and corn--a new combination, but it's a good one. i'm so glad to learn of it; but isn't it tedious to cut the celery into such small bits?" "not at all, with my kitchen scissors. i just slash the stalk into several lengthwise strips, then cut them crosswise all at once into very small pieces." "you always have such helpful ideas about new and easy ways to do your work. and economical, too. why, celery for a dish like this could be the outer stalks or pieces too small to be used fresh on the table." "that's the idea, exactly. i use such celery in soups and stews of all kinds; it adds such a delicious flavor. it is especially good in poultry stuffings and meat loaf. then there is creamed celery, of course, to which i sometimes add a half cup of almonds for variety. and i use it in salads, too. not a bit of celery is wasted around here. even the leaves may be dried out in the oven, and crumbled up to flavor soups or other dishes." "that's fine! celery is so high this season, and much of it is not quite nice enough for the table, unless cooked." a number of new uses for adhesive plaster were suggested by a writer in the _new york tribune_, who, in the excerpt below, employs effectively the device of the direct appeal to the reader. aside from surgical "first aid" and the countless uses to which this useful material may be put, there are a great number of household uses for adhesive plaster. if your pumps are too large and slip at the heel, just put a strip across the back and they will stay in place nicely. when your rubbers begin to break repair them on the inside with plaster cut to fit. if the children lose their rubbers at school, write their names with black ink on strips of the clinging material and put these strips inside the top of the rubber at the back. in the same way labels can be made for bottles and cans. they are easy to put on and to take off. if the garden hose, the rubber tube of your bath spray, or your hot water bag shows a crack or a small break, mend it with adhesive. a cracked handle of a broom, carpet sweeper, or umbrella can be repaired with this first aid to the injured. in the same way the handles of golf sticks, baseball bats, flagstaffs and whips may be given a new lease on life. if your sheet music is torn or the window shade needs repairing, or there is a cracked pane of glass in the barn or in a rear window, apply a strip or patch of suitable size. in an article in the _philadelphia ledger_ on "what can i do to earn money?" mary hamilton talbot gave several examples of methods of earning money, in one of which she incorporated practical directions, thus: a resourceful girl who loved to be out-of-doors found her opportunity in a bed of mint and aromatic herbs. she sends bunches of the mint neatly prepared to various hotels and cafés several times a week by parcel post, but it is in the over-supply that she works out best her original ideas. among the novelties she makes is a candied mint that sells quickly. here is her formula: cut bits of mint, leaving three or four small leaves on the branch; wash well; dry and lay in rows on a broad, level surface. thoroughly dissolve one pound of loaf sugar, boil until it threads and set from the fire. while it is still at the boiling point plunge in the bits of mint singly with great care. remove them from the fondant with a fork and straighten the leaves neatly with a hatpin or like instrument. if a second plunging is necessary, allow the first coating to become thoroughly crystalized before dipping them again. lay the sweets on oiled paper until thoroughly dry. with careful handling these mints will preserve their natural aroma, taste, and shape, and will keep for any length of time if sealed from the air. they show to best advantage in glass. the sweet-smelling herbs of this girl's garden she dries and sells to the fancy goods trade, and they are used for filling cushions, pillows, and perfume bags. the seasoning herbs she dries, pulverizes, and puts in small glasses, nicely labeled, which sell for cents each, and reliable grocers are glad to have them for their fastidious customers. chapter vii how to begin importance of the beginning. the value of a good beginning for a news story, a special feature article, or a short story results from the way in which most persons read newspapers and magazines. in glancing through current publications, the average reader is attracted chiefly by headlines or titles, illustrations, and authors' names. if any one of these interests him, he pauses a moment or two over the beginning "to see what it is all about." the first paragraphs usually determine whether or not he goes any further. a single copy of a newspaper or magazine offers so much reading matter that the casual reader, if disappointed in the introduction to one article or short story, has plenty of others to choose from. but if the opening sentences hold his attention, he reads on. "well begun is half done" is a saying that applies with peculiar fitness to special feature articles. structure of the beginning. to accomplish its purpose an introduction must be both a unit in itself and an integral part of the article. the beginning, whether a single paragraph in form, or a single paragraph in essence, although actually broken up into two or more short paragraphs, should produce on the mind of the reader a unified impression. the conversation, the incident, the example, or the summary of which it consists, should be complete in itself. unless, on the other hand, the introduction is an organic part of the article, it fails of its purpose. the beginning must present some vital phase of the subject; it should not be merely something attractive attached to the article to catch the reader's notice. in his effort to make the beginning attractive, an inexperienced writer is inclined to linger over it until it becomes disproportionately long. its length, however, should be proportionate to the importance of that phase of the subject which it presents. as a vital part of the article, the introduction must be so skillfully connected with what follows that a reader is not conscious of the transition. close coherence between the beginning and the body of the article is essential. the four faults, therefore, to be guarded against in writing the beginning are: ( ) the inclusion of diverse details not carefully coordinated to produce a single unified impression; ( ) the development of the introduction to a disproportionate length; ( ) failure to make the beginning a vital part of the article itself; ( ) lack of close connection or of skillful transition between the introduction and the body of the article. types of beginnings. because of the importance of the introduction, the writer should familiarize himself with the different kinds of beginnings, and should study them from the point of view of their suitability for various types of articles. the seven distinct types of beginnings are: ( ) summary; ( ) narrative; ( ) description; ( ) striking statement; ( ) quotation; ( ) question; ( ) direct address. combinations of two or more of these methods are not infrequent. summary beginnings. the general adoption by newspapers of the summary beginning, or "lead," for news stories has accustomed the average reader to finding most of the essential facts of a piece of news grouped together in the first paragraph. the lead, by telling the reader the nature of the event, the persons and things concerned, the time, the place, the cause, and the result, answers his questions, what? who? when? where? why? how? not only are the important facts summarized in such a beginning, but the most striking detail is usually "played up" in the first group of words of the initial sentence where it catches the eye at once. thus the reader is given both the main facts and the most significant feature of the subject. unquestionably this news story lead, when skillfully worked out, has distinct advantages alike for the news report and for the special article. summary beginnings ( ) (_kansas city star_) a fresh air palace ready a palace of sunshine, a glass house of fresh air, will be the christmas offering of kansas city to the fight against tuberculosis, the "great white plague." ten miles from the business district of the city, overlooking a horizon miles away over valley and hill, stands the finest tuberculosis hospital in the united states. the newly completed institution, although not the largest hospital of the kind, is the best equipped and finest appointed. it is symbolic of sunshine and pure air, the cure for the disease. ( ) (_new york world_) stopping the cost of living leaks by marie coolidge rask after ten weeks' instruction in domestic economy at a new york high school, a girl of thirteen has been the means of reducing the expenditure in a family of seven to the extent of five dollars a week. the girl is anna scheiring, american born, of austrian ancestry, living with her parents and brothers and sisters in a five-room apartment at no. east one hundred and fifty-eighth street, where her father, joseph scheiring is superintendent of the building. the same economic practices applied by little anna scheiring are at the present time being worked out in two thousand other new york homes whose daughters are pupils in the washington irving high school. ( ) (_the outlook_) the fight for clean milk by constance d. leupp two million quarts of milk are shipped into new york every day. one hundred thousand of those who drink it are babies. the milk comes from forty-four thousand dairy farms scattered through new york, new jersey, connecticut, massachusetts, pennsylvania, vermont, and even ohio. a large proportion of the two million quarts travels thirty-six hours before it lands on the front doorstep of the consumer. the situation in new york is duplicated in a less acute degree in every city in the united states. narrative beginnings. to begin a special feature article in the narrative form is to give it a story-like character that at once arouses interest. it is impossible in many instances to know from the introduction whether what follows is to be a short story or a special article. an element of suspense may even be injected into the narrative introduction to stimulate the reader's curiosity, and descriptive touches may be added to heighten the vividness. if the whole article is in narrative form, as is the case in a personal experience or confession story, the introduction is only the first part of a continuous story, and as such gives the necessary information about the person involved. narrative beginnings that consist of concrete examples and specific instances are popular for expository articles. sometimes several instances are related in the introduction before the writer proceeds to generalize from them. the advantage of this inductive method of explanation grows out of the fact that, after a general idea has been illustrated by an example or two, most persons can grasp it with much less effort and with much greater interest than when such exemplification follows the generalization. other narrative introductions consist of an anecdote, an incident, or an important event connected with the subject of the article. since conversation is an excellent means of enlivening a narrative, dialogue is often used in the introduction to special articles, whether for relating an incident, giving a specific instance, or beginning a personal experience story. narrative beginnings ( ) (_the outlook_) booker t. washington by emmett j. scott and lyman beecher stowe it came about that in the year , in macon county, alabama, a certain ex-confederate colonel conceived the idea that if he could secure the negro vote he could beat his rival and win the seat he coveted in the state legislature. accordingly the colonel went to the leading negro in the town of tuskegee and asked him what he could do to secure the negro vote, for negroes then voted in alabama without restriction. this man, lewis adams by name, himself an ex-slave, promptly replied that what his race most wanted was education, and what they most needed was industrial education, and that if he (the colonel) would agree to work for the passage of a bill appropriating money for the maintenance of an industrial school for negroes, he, adams, would help to get for him the negro vote and the election. this bargain between an ex-slaveholder and an ex-slave was made and faithfully observed on both sides, with the result that the following year the legislature of alabama appropriated $ , a year for the establishment of a normal and industrial school for negroes in the town of tuskegee. on the recommendation of general armstrong, of hampton institute, a young colored man, booker t. washington, a recent graduate of and teacher at the institute, was called from there to take charge of this landless, buildingless, teacherless, and studentless institution of learning. ( ) (_leslie's weekly_) millionaires made by war by homer croy a tall, gaunt, barefooted missouri hill-billy stood beside his rattly, dish-wheeled wagon waiting to see the mighty proprietor of the saw mill who guessed only too well that the hill-billy had something he wanted to swap for lumber. "what can i do for you?" the hillman shifted his weight uneasily. "i 'low i got somethun of powerful lot of interest to yuh." reaching over the side of the wagon he placed his rough hand tenderly on a black lump. "i guess yuh know what it is." the saw mill proprietor glanced at it depreciatingly and turned toward the mill. "it's lead, pardner, pure lead, and i know where it come from. i could take you right to the spot--ef i wanted to." the mill proprietor hooked a row of fingers under the rough stone and tried to lift it. but he could not budge it. "it does seem to have lead in it. what was you calc'lating askin' for showin' me where you found it?" the farmer from the foothills cut his eyes down to crafty slits. "i was 'lowing just tother day as how a house pattern would come in handy. ef you'll saw me out one i'll take you to the spot." and so the deal was consummated, the hill-billy gleefully driving away, joyous over having got a fine house pattern worth $ for merely showing a fellow where you could pick up a few hunks of lead. that was forty-five years ago and it was thus that the great joplin lead and zinc district was made known to the world. ( ) (_munsey's magazine_) frank a. scott, chairman of the war industries board by theodore tiller one day in the year a twelve-year-old boy, who had to leave school and make his own way in the world on account of his father's death, applied for a job in a railroad freight-office in cleveland, ohio. "i'm afraid you won't do," said the chief. "we need a boy, but you're not tall enough to reach the letter-press." "well, couldn't i stand on a box?" suggested the young seeker of employment. that day a box was added to the equipment of the freight-office and the name of frank a. scott to the payroll. ( ) (_new york times_) new yorker invents new explosive and gives it to the united states nine young men recently rowed to the middle of the hudson river with a wooden box to which wires were attached, lying in the bottom of the boat. they sank the box in deep water very cautiously, and then rowed slowly back to land, holding one end of the wire. presently a column of water feet through and feet high shot into the air, followed by a deafening detonation, which tore dead branches from trees. the nine young men were congratulating one man of the group on the explosion when an irate farmer ran up, yelling that every window in his farmhouse, nearly a mile away, had been shattered. the party of young men didn't apologize then; they gathered about the one who was being congratulated and recongratulated him. the farmer did not know until later that the force which broke his windows and sent the huge column of water into the air was the war department's newest, safest, and most powerful explosive; that the young men composed the dynamite squad of the engineer corps of the new york national guard; and that the man they were congratulating was lieut. harold chase woodward, the inventor of the explosive. ( ) (_system_) why the employees run our business a business of the workers, by the workers, and for the workers--how it succeeds. by edward a. filene "i know i am right. leave it to any fair-minded person to decide." "good enough," i replied; "you name one, i will name another, and let them select a third." she agreed; we selected the umpires and they decided against the store! it had come about in this way. the store rule had been that cashiers paid for shortages in their accounts as--in our view--a penalty for carelessness; we did not care about the money. this girl had been short in an account; the amount had been deducted from her pay, and, not being afraid to speak out, she complained: "if i am over in my accounts, it is a mistake; but if i am short, am i a thief? why should i pay back the money? why can't a mistake be made in either direction?" this arbitration--although it had caused a decision against us--seemed such a satisfactory way of ending disputes that we continued the practice in an informal way. out of it grew the present arbitration board, which is the corner-stone of the relation between our store and the employees, because it affords the machinery for getting what employees are above all else interested in--a square deal. descriptive beginnings. just as description of characters or of scene and setting is one method of beginning short stories and novels, so also it constitutes a form of introduction for an article. in both cases the aim is to create immediate interest by vivid portrayal of definite persons and places. the concrete word picture, like the concrete instance in a narrative beginning, makes a quick and strong appeal. an element of suspense or mystery may be introduced into the description, if a person, a place, or an object is described without being identified by name until the end of the portrayal. the possibilities of description are not limited to sights alone; sounds, odors and other sense impressions, as well as emotions, may be described. frequently several different impressions are combined. to stir the reader's feelings by a strong emotional description is obviously a good method of beginning. a descriptive beginning, to be clear to the rapid reader, should be suggestive rather than detailed. the average person can easily visualize a picture that is sketched in a few suggestive words, whereas he is likely to be confused by a mass of details. picture-making words and those imitative of sounds, as well as figures of speech, may be used to advantage in descriptive beginnings. for the description of feelings, words with a rich emotional connotation are important. descriptive beginnings ( ) (_munsey's magazine_) our highest court by horace towner "the honorable the supreme court of the united states!" nearly every week-day during the winter months, exactly at noon, these warning words, intoned in a resonant and solemn voice, may be heard by the visitor who chances to pass the doors of the supreme court chamber in the capitol of the united states. the visitor sees that others are entering those august portals, and so he, too, makes bold to step softly inside. if he has not waited too long, he finds himself within the chamber in time to see nine justices of our highest court, clad in long, black robes, file slowly into the room from an antechamber at the left. every one within the room has arisen, and all stand respectfully at attention while the justices take their places. then the voice of the court crier is heard again: "_oyez, oyez, oyez_! all persons having business with the supreme court of the united states are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the court is now sitting." then, after a slight pause: "god save the united states and this honorable court!" the justices seat themselves; the attorneys at the bar and visitors do likewise. the supreme court of the united states, generally held to be the most powerful tribunal on earth, is in session. ( ) (_collier's weekly_) james whitcomb brougher, a preacher to the procession by peter clark macfarlane imagine the hippodrome--the largest playhouse of new york and of the new world! imagine it filled with people from foot-lights to the last row in the topmost gallery--orchestra, dress circle, and balconies--a huge uprising, semicircular bowl, lined with human beings. imagine it thus, and then strip the stage; take away the indians and the soldiers, the elephants and the camels; take away the careening stage coaches and the thundering hoofs of horses, and all the strange conglomeration of dramatic activities with which these inventive stage managers are accustomed to panoply their productions. instead of all this, people the stage with a chorus choir in white smocks, and in front of the choir put a lean, upstanding, shock-headed preacher; but leave the audience--a regular hippodrome audience on the biggest saturday night. imagine all of this, i say, and what you have is not the hippodrome, not the greatest play in the new world, nor any playhouse at all, but the temple baptist church of los angeles, california, with james whitcomb brougher, d.d., in the pulpit. ( ) (_the independent_) the little red schoolhouse a "fake" what the country schoolhouse really is, and why by edna m. hill the schoolhouse squats dour and silent in its acre of weeds. a little to the rear stand two wretched outbuildings. upon its gray clapboarded sides, window blinds hang loose and window sashes sag away from their frames. groaning upon one hinge the vestibule door turns away from lopsided steps, while a broken drain pipe sways perilously from the east corner of the roof. within and beyond the vestibule is the schoolroom, a monotony of grimy walls and smoky ceiling. cross lights from the six windows shine upon rows of desks of varying sizes and in varying stages of destruction. a kitchen table faces the door. squarely in the middle of the rough pine floor stands a jacketed stove. a much torn dictionary and a dented water pail stand side by side on the shelf below the one blackboard. and this is the "little red schoolhouse" to which i looked forward so eagerly during the summer--nothing but a tumbledown shack set in the heart of a prosperous farming district. ( ) (_new york tribune_) the one woman official at plattsburg by elene foster the tramp, tramp of feet on a hard road; long lines of khaki figures moving over the browning grass of the parade ground; rows of faces, keen and alert, with that look in the eyes that one sees in lepage's jeanne d'arc; the click, click of bullets from the distant rifle range blended with a chorus of deep voices near at hand singing "over there"; a clear, blue sky, crisp autumn air and the sparkling waters of lake champlain--that's plattsburg. ( ) (_good housekeeping_) new england mill slaves by mary alden hopkins in the pale light of an early winter morning, while a flat, white moon awaited the dawn and wind-driven clouds flung faint scudding shadows across the snow, two little girls, cloaked, shawled, hooded out of all recognition, plodded heavily along a vermont mountain road. each carried a dangling dinner pail. the road was lonely. once they passed a farmhouse, asleep save for a yellow light in a chamber. somewhere a cock crowed. a dog barked in the faint distance. where the road ascended the mountain--a narrow cut between dark, pointed firs and swaying white-limbed birches--the way was slushy with melting snow. the littler girl, half dozing along the accustomed way, slipped and slid into puddles. at the top of the mountain the two children shrank back into their mufflers, before the sweep of the wet, chill wind; but the mill was in sight--beyond the slope of bleak pastures outlined with stone walls--sunk deep in the valley beside a rapid mountain stream, a dim bulk already glimmering with points of light. toward this the two little workwomen slopped along on squashy feet. they were spinners. one was fifteen. she had worked three years. the other was fourteen. she had worked two years. the terse record of the national child labor committee lies before me, unsentimental, bare of comment: "they both get up at four fifteen a.m. and after breakfast start for the mill, arriving there in time not to be late, at six. their home is two and one-half miles from the mill. each earns three dollars a week--so they cannot afford to ride. the road is rough, and it is over the mountains." ( ) (_providence journal_) how to sing the national songs to interpret the text successfully the singer must memorize, visualize, rhythmize, and emphasize by john g. archer the weary eye of the toastmaster looks apologetically down long rows of tables as he says with a sorry-but-it-must-be-done air, "we will now sing 'the star spangled banner'"; the orchestra starts, the diners reach frantically for their menus and each, according to his musical inheritance and patriotic fervor, plunges into the unknown with a resolute determination to be in on the death of the sad rite. some are wrecked among the dizzy altitudes, others persevere through uncharted shoals, all make some kind of a noisy noise, and lo, it is accomplished; and intense relief sits enthroned on every dewy brow. in the crowded church, the minister announces the "battle hymn of the republic," and the organist, armed with plenary powers, crashes into the giddy old tune, dragging the congregation resistingly along at a hurdy gurdy pace till all semblance of text or meaning is irretrievably lost. happy are they when the refrain, "glory, glory, hallelujah," provides a temporary respite from the shredded syllables and scrambled periods, and one may light, as it were, and catch up with himself and the organist. at the close of an outdoor public meeting the chairman, with fatuous ineptitude, shouts that everybody will sing three verses of "america." granting that the tune is pitched comfortably, the first verse marches with vigor and certitude, but not for long; dismay soon smites the crowd in sections as the individual consciousness backs and fills amid half learned lines. the trick of catching hopefully at a neighbor's phrase usually serves to defeat itself, as it unmasks the ignorance of said neighbor, and the tune ends in a sort of polyglot mouthing which is not at all flattering to the denizens of an enlightened community. these glimpses are not a whit over-drawn, and it is safe to say that they mirror practically every corner of our land to-day. why is it, then, that the people make such a sorry exhibition of themselves when they attempt to sing the patriotic songs of our country? is it the tunes or the words or we ourselves? beginning with a striking statement. when the thought expressed in the first sentence of an article is sufficiently unusual, or is presented in a sufficiently striking form, it at once commands attention. by stimulating interest and curiosity, it leads the average person to read on until he is satisfied. a striking statement of this sort may serve as the first sentence of one of the other types of beginning, such as the narrative or the descriptive introduction, the quotation, the question, or the direct address. but it may also be used entirely alone. since great size is impressive, a statement of the magnitude of something is usually striking. numerical figures are often used in the opening sentences to produce the impression of enormous size. if these figures are so large that the mind cannot grasp them, it is well, by means of comparisons, to translate them into terms of the reader's own experience. there is always danger of overwhelming and confusing a person with statistics that in the mass mean little or nothing to him. to declare in the first sentence that something is the first or the only one of its kind immediately arrests attention, because of the universal interest in the unique. an unusual prediction is another form of striking statement. to be told at the beginning of an article of some remarkable thing that the future holds in store for him or for his descendants, fascinates the average person as much as does the fortune-teller's prophecy. there is danger of exaggeration, however, in making predictions. when writers magnify the importance of their subject by assuring us that what they are explaining will "revolutionize" our ideas and practices, we are inclined to discount these exaggerated and trite forms of prophecy. a striking figure of speech--an unusual metaphor, for example--may often be used in the beginning of an article to arouse curiosity. as the comparison in a metaphor is implied rather than expressed, the points of likeness may not immediately be evident to the reader and thus the figurative statement piques his curiosity. a comparison in the form of a simile, or in that of a parable or allegory, may serve as a striking introduction. a paradox, as a self-contradictory statement, arrests the attention in the initial sentence of an article. although not always easy to frame, and hence not so often employed as it might be, a paradoxical expression is an excellent device for a writer to keep in mind when some phase of his theme lends itself to such a striking beginning. besides these readily classified forms of unusual statements, any novel, extraordinary expression that is not too bizarre may be employed. the chief danger to guard against is that of making sensational, exaggerated, or false statements, merely to catch the reader's notice. striking statement beginnings ( ) (_illustrated world_) fire writes a heart's record by h.g. hunting a human heart, writing its own record with an actual finger of flame, is the startling spectacle that has recently been witnessed by scientists. it sounds fanciful, doesn't it? but it is literally a fact that the automatic recording of the heart's action by means of tracings from the point of a tiny blaze appears to have been made a practicable method of determining the condition of the heart, more reliable than any other test that can be applied. ( ) (_boston transcript_) taking hospitals to the emergency by f.w. coburn taking the hospital to the emergency instead of the emergency to the hospital is the underlying idea of the bay state's newest medical unit--one which was installed in three hours on the top of corey hill, and which in much less than half that time may tomorrow or the next day be en route post haste for peru, plymouth, or pawtucketville. ( ) (_kansas city star_) must your home burn? autumn is the season of burning homes. furnaces and stoves will soon be lighted. they have been unused all summer and rubbish may have been piled near them or the flues may have rusted and slipped out of place unobserved in the long period of disuse. persons start their fires in a sudden cold snap. they don't take time to investigate. then the fire department has work to do. ( ) (_new york times_) only public school for children with poor eyes there was opened down hester street way last week the only public school in the world for children with defective eyes. bad eyesight has been urged for years as a cause of backwardness and incorrigibility in school children. now the public school authorities plan, for the first time, not only to teach children whose eyes are defective, but to cure them as well. ( ) (_the outlook_) diseased teeth and bad health by matthias nicoll, jr. the complete disappearance of teeth from the human mouth is the condition towards which the most highly cultivated classes of humanity are drifting. we have already gone far on a course that leads to the coming of a toothless age in future generations. only by immediate adoption of the most active and widespread measures of prevention can the human tooth be saved from the fate that has befallen the leg of the whale. ( ) (_harper's weekly_) the span of life by walter e. weyl you who begin this sentence may not live to read its close. there is a chance, one in three or four billions, that you will die in a second, by the tick of the watch. the chair upon which you sit may collapse, the car in which you ride may collide, your heart may suddenly cease. or you may survive the sentence and the article, and live twenty, fifty, eighty years longer. no one knows the span of your life, and yet the insurance man is willing to bet upon it. what is life insurance but the bet of an unknown number of yearly premiums against the payment of the policy? * * * * the length of your individual life is a guess, but the insurance company bets on a sure thing, on the average death rate. ( ) (_the outlook_) "americans first" by gregory mason every third man you meet in detroit was born in a foreign country. and three out of every four persons there were either born abroad or born here of foreign-born parents. in short, in detroit, only every fourth person you meet was born in this country of american parents. such is the make-up of the town which has been called "the most american city in the united states." ( ) (_kansas city star_) a kansas town feels its own pulse lawrence, kas., was not ill. most of its citizens did not even think it was ailing, but there were some anxious souls who wondered if the rosy exterior were not the mockery of an internal fever. they called in physicians, and after seven months spent in making their diagnosis, they have prescribed for lawrence, and the town is alarmed to the point of taking their medicine. that is the medical way of saying that lawrence has just completed the most thorough municipal survey ever undertaken by a town of its size, and in so doing has found out that it is afflicted with a lot of ills that all cities are heir to. lawrence, however, with kansas progressiveness, proposes to cure these ills. prof. f.w. blackmar, head of the department of sociology at the university of kansas, and incidentally a sort of city doctor, was the first "physician" consulted. he called his assistant, prof. b.w. burgess, and rev. william a. powell in consultation, and about one hundred and fifty club women were taken into the case. then they got busy. that was april . this month they completed the examination, set up an exhibit to illustrate what they had to report, and read the prescription. ( ) (_popular science monthly_) breaking the chain that binds us to earth by charles nevers holmes man is chained to this earth, his planet home. his chain is invisible, but the ball is always to be seen--the earth itself. the chain itself is apparently without weight, while the chain's ball weighs about , , , , , , , tons! ( ) (_associated sunday magazine_) in tune when out of tune by john warren how many persons who own pianos and play them can explain why a piano cannot be said to be in tune unless it is actually out of tune? ( ) (_railroad man's magazine_) making steel rails by charles frederick carter to make steel rails, take pounds of iron ore, pound of coke, ½ pound of limestone, and ½ pounds of air for each pound of iron to be produced. mix and melt, cast in molds, and roll to shape while hot. serve cold. rail-making certainly does seem to be easy when stated in its simplest terms; it also seems attractive from a business standpoint. ( ) (_leslie's weekly_) what electricity means to you one cent's worth of electricity at ten cents per kilowatt-hour will operate: sixteen candle-power mazda lamp for five hours six pound flatiron minutes radiant toaster long enough to produce ten slices of toast sewing machine for two hours fan inches in diameter for two hours percolator long enough to make five cups of coffee heating pad from two to four hours domestic buffer for ¼ hours chafing dish minutes radiant grill for minutes curling iron once a day for two weeks luminous watt radiator for minutes hardly as old as a grown man, the electrical industry--including railways, telephones and telegraphs--has already invested $ , , , in the business of america. its utility companies alone pay uncle sam $ , , every year for taxes--seven out of every ten use it in some form every day. it is unmistakably the most vital factor to-day in america's prosperity. its resources are boundless. as secretary of the interior lane expresses it, there is enough hydro-electric energy running to waste to equal the daily labor of , , , men or times our adult population. beginning with a quotation. words enclosed in quotation marks or set off in some distinctive form such as verse, an advertisement, a letter, a menu, or a sign, immediately catch the eye at the beginning of an article. every conceivable source may be drawn on for quotations, provided, of course, that what is quoted has close connection with the subject. if the quotation expresses an extraordinary idea, it possesses an additional source of interest. verse quotations may be taken from a well-known poem, a popular song, a nursery rhyme, or even doggerel verse. sometimes a whole poem or song prefaces an article. when the verse is printed in smaller type than the article, it need not be enclosed in quotation marks. in his typewritten manuscript a writer may indicate this difference in size of type by single-spacing the lines of the quotation. prose quotations may be taken from a speech or an interview, or from printed material such as a book, report, or bulletin. the more significant the quoted statement, the more effective will be the introduction. when the quotation consists of several sentences or of one long sentence, it may comprise the first paragraph, to be followed in the second paragraph by the necessary explanation. popular sayings, slogans, or current phrases are not always enclosed in quotation marks, but are often set off in a separate paragraph as a striking form of beginning. the most conspicuous quotation beginnings are reproductions of newspaper clippings, advertisements, price lists, menus, telegrams, invitations, or parts of legal documents. these are not infrequently reproduced as nearly as possible in the original form and may be enclosed in a frame, or "box." quotation beginnings ( ) (_new york evening post_) "dignified and stately" being an account of some high and low jinks practiced about this time on college class days by eva elise vom baur _our sorrows are forgotten, and our cares are flown away, while we go marching through princeton_. singing these words, 'round and 'round the campus they marched, drums beating time which no one observed, band clashing with band, in tune with nothing but the dominant note--the joy of reunion. a motley lot of men they are--sailors and traction engineers, pierrots, soldiers, and even vestal virgins--for the june commencement is college carnival time. then hundreds upon thousands of men, east, west, north and south, drop their work and their worries, and leaving families and creditors at home, slip away to their respective alma maters, "just to be boys again" for a day and a night or two. ( ) (_harper's monthly_) the party of the third part by walter e. weyl "the quarrel," opined sir lucius o'trigger, "is a very pretty quarrel as it stands; we should only spoil it by trying to explain it." something like this was once the attitude of the swaggering youth of britain and ireland, who quarreled "genteelly" and fought out their bloody duels "in peace and quietness." something like this, also, after the jump of a century, was the attitude of employers and trade-unions all over the world toward industrial disputes. words were wasted breath; the time to strike or to lock out your employees was when you were ready and your opponent was not. if you won, so much the better; if you lost--at any rate, it was your own business. outsiders were not presumed to interfere. "faith!" exclaimed sir lucius, "that same interruption in affairs of this nature shows very great ill-breeding." ( ) (_mcclure's magazine_) riding on bubbles by waldemar kaempffert "and the prince sped away with his princess in a magic chariot, the wheels of which were four bubbles of air." suppose you had read that in an andersen or a grimm fairy tale in the days when you firmly believed that cinderella went to a ball in a state coach which had once been a pumpkin; you would have accepted the magic chariot and its four bubbles of air without question. what a pity it is that we have lost the credulity and the wonder of childhood! we have our automobiles--over two and a half million of them--but they have ceased to be magic chariots to us. and as for their tires, they are mere "shoes" and "tubes"--anything but the bubbles of air that they are. in the whole mechanism of modern transportation there is nothing so paradoxical, nothing so daring in conception as these same bubbles of air which we call tires. ( ) (_good housekeeping_) geraldine farrar's advice to aspiring singers interview by john corbin "when did i first decide to be an opera singer?" miss farrar smiled. "let me see. at least as early as the age of eight. this is how i remember. at school i used to get good marks in most of my studies, but in arithmetic my mark was about sixty. that made me unhappy. but once when i was eight, i distinctly remember, i reflected that it didn't really matter because i was going to be an opera singer. how long before that i had decided on my career i can't say." ( ) (_the delineator_) how to start a cafeteria by agnes athol "if john could only get a satisfactory lunch for a reasonable amount of money!" sighs the wife of john in every sizable city in the united states, where work and home are far apart. "he hates sandwiches, anyway, and has no suitable place to eat them; and somehow he doesn't feel that he does good work on a cold box lunch. but those clattery quick-lunch places which are all he has time for, or can afford, don't have appetizing cooking or surroundings, and all my forethought and planning over our good home meals may be counteracted by his miserable lunch. i believe half the explanation of the 'tired business man' lies in the kind of lunches he eats." twenty-five cents a day is probably the outside limit of what the great majority of men spend on their luncheons. some cannot spend over fifteen. what a man needs and so seldom gets for that sum is good, wholesome, appetizing food, quickly served. he wants to eat in a place which is quiet and not too bare and ugly. he wants to buy real food and not table decorations. he is willing to dispense with elaborate service and its accompanying tip, if he can get more food of better quality. the cafeteria lunch-room provides a solution for the mid-day lunch problem and, when wisely located and well run, the answer to many a competent woman or girl who is asking: "what shall i do to earn a living?" ( ) (_newspaper enterprise association_) americanization of america is planned by e.c. rodgers washington, d.c.--america americanized! that's the goal of the naturalization bureau of the united states department of labor, as expressed by raymond p. crist, deputy commissioner, in charge of the americanization program. ( ) (_tractor and gas engine review_) fire insurance that doesn't insure by a.b. brown "this entire policy, unless otherwise provided by agreement endorsed hereon, or added hereto, shall be void if the interest of the insured be other than unconditional and sole ownership." if any farmer anywhere in the united states will look up the fire insurance policy on his farm building, and will read it carefully, in nine cases out of ten, he will find tucked away somewhere therein a clause exactly like the one quoted above, or practically in the same words. beginning with a question. every question is like a riddle; we are never satisfied until we know the answer. so a question put to us at the beginning of an article piques our curiosity, and we are not content until we find out how the writer answers it. instead of a single question, several may be asked in succession. these questions may deal with different phases of the subject or may repeat the first question in other words. it is frequently desirable to break up a long question into a number of short ones to enable the rapid reader to grasp the idea more easily. greater prominence may be gained for each question by giving it a separate paragraph. rhetorical questions, although the equivalent of affirmative or negative statements, nevertheless retain enough of their interrogative effect to be used advantageously for the beginning of an article. that the appeal may be brought home to each reader personally, the pronoun "you," or "yours," is often embodied in the question, and sometimes readers are addressed by some designation such as "mr. average reader," "mrs. voter," "you, high school boys and girls." the indirect question naturally lacks the force of the direct one, but it may be employed when a less striking form of beginning is desired. the direct question, "do you know why the sky is blue?" loses much of its force when changed into the indirect form, "few people know why the sky is blue"; still it possesses enough of the riddle element to stimulate thought. several indirect questions may be included in the initial sentence of an article. question beginnings ( ) (_kansas city star_) tracing the drouth to its lair what becomes of the rainfall in the plains states? this region is the veritable bread basket of our country; but in spite of the fact that we have an average rainfall of about thirty-six inches, lack of moisture, more frequently than any other condition, becomes a limiting factor in crop production. measured in terms of wheat production, a -inch rainfall, if properly distributed through the growing season and utilized only by the crop growing land, is sufficient for the production of ninety bushels of wheat an acre. the question as to what becomes of the rainfall, therefore, is of considerable interest in this great agricultural center of north america, where we do well if we average twenty-five bushels to the acre. ( ) (_new york evening sun_) we waste one-quarter of our food if a family of five using twenty-five bushels of potatoes a year at $ a bushel, lose per cent on a bushel by paring, how much has the family thrown into the garbage can during the year? answer, $ . applying this conservative estimate of dietitians to other foods, the average family might save at least $ a year on its table. ( ) (_new york times)_ farm wizard achieves agricultural wonders by robert g. skerrett can a farm be operated like a factory? can fickle nature be offset and crops be brought to maturity upon schedule time? these are questions that a farmer near bridgeton, n.j., has answered in the most practical manner imaginable. ( ) (_san francisco call_) does it pay the state to educate pretty girls for teachers? by katherine atkinson does it pay the state to educate its teachers? do normal school and university graduates continue teaching long enough to make adequate return for the money invested in their training? ( ) (_newspaper feature service_) how hunger is now measured and photographed just what hunger is, why all living creatures suffer this feeling and what the difference is between hunger and appetite have always been three questions that puzzled scientists. not until dr. a.j. carlson devised a method of ascertaining exactly the nature of hunger by measuring and comparing the degrees of this sensation, have investigators along this line of scientific research been able to reach any definite conclusion. ( ) (_the outlook_) grow old along with me by charles henry lerrigo are you interested in adding fifteen years to your life? perhaps you are one of those sound strong persons absolutely assured of perfect health. very well. two thousand young persons, mostly men, average age thirty, employees of commercial houses and banks in new york city, were given a medical examination in a recent period of six months; , of them were positive of getting a perfect bill of health. here are the findings: sixty-three were absolutely sound. the remaining , all suffered from some defect, great or small, which was capable of improvement. ( ) (_country gentleman_) simple accounts for farm business by morton o. cooper is your farm making money or losing it? what department is showing a profit? what one is piling up a loss? do you know? not one farmer in ten does know and it is all because not one in ten has any accounts apart from his bankbook so he can tell at the end of the year whether he has kept the farm or the farm has kept him. ( ) (_the outlook_) an enforced vacation by a city dweller have you, my amiable male reader, felt secretly annoyed when your friends--probably your wife and certainly your physician--have suggested that you cut your daily diet of havanas in two, feeling that your intimate acquaintance with yourself constituted you a better judge of such matters than they? have you felt that your physician's advice to spend at least three-quarters of an hour at lunch was good advice for somebody else, but that you had neither time nor inclination for it? have you felt that you would _like_ to take a month's vacation, but with so many "irons in the fire" things would go to smash if you did? do you know what it is to lie awake at night and plan your campaign for the following day? then _you_ are getting ready for an enforced vacation. ( ) (_leslie's weekly_) taking the starch out of the march by gerald mygatt don't most of us--that is, those of us who are unfamiliar with army life and with things military in general--don't most of us picture marching troops as swinging down a road in perfect step, left arms moving in unison, rifles held smartly at the right shoulder, head and eyes straight to the front (with never so much as a forehead wrinkled to dislodge a mosquito or a fly), and with the band of the fife-and-drum corps playing gaily at the head of the column? of course we do. because that's the way we see them on parade. a march is a far different thing. a march is simply the means of getting so many men from one place to another in the quickest time and in the best possible condition. and it may astonish one to be told that marching is the principal occupation of troops in the field--that it is one of the hardest things for troops to learn to do properly, and that it is one of the chief causes of loss. addressing the reader directly. a direct personal appeal makes a good opening for an article. the writer seems to be talking to each reader individually instead of merely writing for thousands. this form of address may seem to hark back to the days of the "gentle reader," but its appeal is perennial. to the pronoun "you" may be added the designation of the particular class of readers addressed, such as "you, mothers," or "you, mr. salaried man." the imperative verb is perhaps the strongest form of direct address. there is danger of overdoing the "do-this-and-don't-do-that" style, particularly in articles of practical guidance, but that need not deter a writer from using the imperative beginning occasionally. direct address beginnings ( ) (_new york times_) small chance for draft dodgers if doctors know their business a word with you, mr. would-be-slacker. if you 're thinking of trying to dodge the selective draft by pretending physical disability when you get before the local exemption board, here's a bit of advice: don't. since you are mr. would-be-slacker there is no use preaching patriotism to you. but here is something that will influence you: if you try to dodge the draft and are caught, there is a heavy penalty, both fine and imprisonment; and you're almost sure to get caught. ( ) (_american magazine_) the general manager of cowbell "holler" by bruce barton you would never in the world find cowbell "holler" alone, so i will tell you how to get there. you come over the big hill pike until you reach west pinnacle. it was from the peak of west pinnacle that daniel boone first looked out over the blue grass region of kentucky. you follow the pike around the base of the pinnacle, and there you are, right in the heart of cowbell "holler," and only two pastures and a creek away from miss adelia fox's rural social settlement--the first of its kind, so far as i know, in america. ( ) (_chicago tribune_) the road to retail success by benjamin h. jefferson you all know the retail druggist who has worked fifteen or sixteen hours a day all his life, and now, as an old man, is forced to discharge his only clerk. you all know the grocer who has changed from one store to another and another, and who finally turns up as a collector for your milkman. you all know the hard working milliner and, perhaps, have followed her career until she was lost to sight amid sickness and distress. you all have friends among stationers and newsdealers. you have seen them labor day in and day out, from early morning until late at night; and have observed with sorrow the small fruits of their many years of toil. why did they fail? ( ) (_illustrated sunday magazine_) the man who put the "pep" in printing look at your watch. how long is a second? gone as you look at the tiny hand, isn't it? yet within that one second it is possible to print, cut, fold and stack sixteen and two-thirds newspapers! watch the second hand make one revolution--a minute. within that minute it is possible to print, cut, fold and stack in neat piles one thousand big newspapers! to do that is putting "pep" in printing, and henry a. wise wood is the man who did it. chapter viii style style defined. style, or the manner in which ideas and emotions are expressed, is as important in special feature writing as it is in any other kind of literary work. a writer may select an excellent subject, may formulate a definite purpose, and may choose the type of article best suited to his needs, but if he is unable to express his thoughts effectively, his article will be a failure. style is not to be regarded as mere ornament added to ordinary forms of expression. it is not an incidental element, but rather the fundamental part of all literary composition, the means by which a writer transfers what is in his own mind to the minds of his readers. it is a vehicle for conveying ideas and emotions. the more easily, accurately, and completely the reader gets the author's thoughts and feelings, the better is the style. the style of an article needs to be adapted both to the readers and to the subject. an article for a boys' magazine would be written in a style different from that of a story on the same subject intended for a sunday newspaper. the style appropriate to an entertaining story on odd superstitions of business men would be unsuitable for a popular exposition of wireless telephony. in a word, the style of a special article demands as careful consideration as does its subject, purpose, and structure. since it may be assumed that any one who aspires to write for newspapers and magazines has a general knowledge of the principles of composition and of the elements and qualities of style, only such points of style as are important in special feature writing will be discussed in this chapter. the elements of style are: ( ) words, ( ) figures of speech, ( ) sentences, and ( ) paragraphs. the kinds of words, figures, sentences, and paragraphs used, and the way in which they are combined, determine the style. words. in the choice of words for popular articles, three points are important: ( ) only such words may be used as are familiar to the average person, ( ) concrete terms make a much more definite impression than general ones, and ( ) words that carry with them associated ideas and feelings are more effective than words that lack such intellectual and emotional connotation. the rapid reader cannot stop to refer to the dictionary for words that he does not know. although the special feature writer is limited to terms familiar to the average reader, he need not confine himself to commonplace, colloquial diction; most readers know the meaning of many more words than they themselves use in everyday conversation. in treating technical topics, it is often necessary to employ some unfamiliar terms, but these may readily be explained the first time they appear. whenever the writer is in doubt as to whether or not his readers will understand a certain term, the safest course is to explain it or to substitute one that is sure to be understood. since most persons grasp concrete ideas more quickly than abstract ones, specific words should be given the preference in popular articles. to create concrete images must be the writer's constant aim. instead of a general term like "walk," for example, he should select a specific, picture-making word such as hurry, dash, run, race, amble, stroll, stride, shuffle, shamble, limp, strut, stalk. for the word "horse" he may substitute a definite term like sorrel, bay, percheron, nag, charger, steed, broncho, or pony. in narrative and descriptive writing particularly, it is necessary to use words that make pictures and that reproduce sounds and other sense impressions. in the effort to make his diction specific, however, the writer must guard against bizarre effects and an excessive use of adjectives and adverbs. verbs, quite as much as nouns, adjectives, and adverbs, produce clear, vivid images when skillfully handled. some words carry with them associated ideas and emotions, while others do not. the feelings and ideas thus associated with words constitute their emotional and intellectual connotation, as distinct from their logical meaning, or denotation. the word "home," for example, denotes simply one's place of residence, but it connotes all the thoughts and feelings associated with one's own house and family circle. such a word is said to have a rich emotional connotation because it arouses strong feeling. it also has a rich intellectual connotation since it calls up many associated images. words and phrases that are peculiar to the bible or to the church service carry with them mental images and emotions connected with religious worship. in a personality sketch of a spiritual leader, for example, such words and phrases would be particularly effective to create the atmosphere with which such a man might very appropriately be invested. since homely, colloquial expressions have entirely different associations, they would be entirely out of keeping with the tone of such a sketch, unless the religious leader were an unconventional revivalist. a single word with the wrong connotation may seriously affect the tone of a paragraph. on the other hand, words and phrases rich in appropriate suggestion heighten immeasurably the effectiveness of an article. the value of concrete words is shown in the following paragraphs taken from a newspaper article describing a gas attack: there was a faint green vapor, which swayed and hung under the lee of the raised parapet two hundred yards away. it increased in volume, and at last rose high enough to be caught by the wind. it strayed out in tattered yellowish streamers toward the english lines, half dissipating itself in twenty yards, until the steady outpour of the green smoke gave it reinforcement and it made headway. then, creeping forward from tuft to tuft, and preceded by an acrid and parching whiff, the curling and tumbling vapor reached the english lines in a wall twenty feet high. as the grayish cloud drifted over the parapet, there was a stifled call from some dozen men who had carelessly let their protectors drop. the gas was terrible. a breath of it was like a wolf at the throat, like hot ashes in the windpipe. the yellowish waves of gas became more greenish in color as fresh volumes poured out continually from the squat iron cylinders which had now been raised and placed outside the trenches by the germans. the translucent flood flowed over the parapet, linking at once on the inner side and forming vague, gauzy pools and backwaters, in which men stood knee deep while the lighter gas was blown in their faces over the parapet. faults in diction. since newspaper reporters and correspondents are called upon day after day to write on similar events and to write at top speed, they are prone to use the same words over and over again, without making much of an effort to "find the one noun that best expresses the idea, the one verb needed to give it life, and the one adjective to qualify it." this tendency to use trite, general, "woolly" words instead of fresh, concrete ones is not infrequently seen in special feature stories written by newspaper workers. every writer who aims to give to his articles some distinction in style should guard against the danger of writing what has aptly been termed "jargon." "to write jargon," says sir arthur quiller-couch in his book, "on the art of writing," "is to be perpetually shuffling around in the fog and cotton-wool of abstract terms. so long as you prefer abstract words, which express other men's summarized concepts of things, to concrete ones which lie as near as can be reached to things themselves and are the first-hand material for your thoughts, you will remain, at the best, writers at second-hand. if your language be jargon, your intellect, if not your whole character, will almost certainly correspond. where your mind should go straight, it will dodge; the difficulties it should approach with a fair front and grip with a firm hand it will be seeking to evade or circumvent. for the style is the man, and where a man's treasure is there his heart, and his brain, and his writing, will be also." figures of speech. to most persons the term "figure of speech" suggests such figures as metonymy and synecdoche, which they once learned to define, but never thought of using voluntarily in their own writing. figures of speech are too often regarded as ornaments suited only to poetry or poetical prose. with these popular notions in mind, a writer for newspapers and magazines may quite naturally conclude that figurative expressions have little or no practical value in his work. figures of speech, however, are great aids, not only to clearness and conciseness, but to the vividness of an article. they assist the reader to grasp ideas quickly and they stimulate his imagination and his emotions. association of ideas is the principle underlying figurative expressions. by a figure of speech a writer shows his readers the relation between a new idea and one already familiar to them. an unfamiliar object, for example, is likened to a familiar one, directly, as in the simile, or by implication, as in the metaphor. as the object brought into relation with the new idea is more familiar and more concrete, the effect of the figure is to simplify the subject that is being explained, and to make it more easy of comprehension. a figure of speech makes both for conciseness and for economy of mental effort on the part of the reader. to say in a personality sketch, for example, that the person looks "like lincoln" is the simplest, most concise way of creating a mental picture. or to describe a smoothly running electric motor as "purring," instantly makes the reader hear the sound. scores of words may be saved, and clearer, more vivid impressions may be given, by the judicious use of figures of speech. as the familiar, concrete objects introduced in figures frequently have associated emotions, figurative expressions often make an emotional appeal. again, to say that a person looks "like lincoln" not only creates a mental picture but awakes the feelings generally associated with lincoln. the result is that readers are inclined to feel toward the person so described as they feel toward lincoln. even in practical articles, figurative diction may not be amiss. in explaining a method of splitting old kitchen boilers in order to make watering troughs, a writer in a farm journal happily described a cold chisel as "turning out a narrow shaving of steel and rolling it away much as the mold-board of a plow turns the furrow." the stimulating effect of a paragraph abounding in figurative expressions is well illustrated by the following passage taken from a newspaper personality sketch of a popular pulpit orator: his mind is all daylight. there are no subtle half-tones, or sensitive reserves, or significant shadows of silence, no landscape fading through purple mists to a romantic distance. all is clear, obvious, emphatic. there is little atmosphere and a lack of that humor that softens the contours of controversy. his thought is simple and direct and makes its appeal, not to culture, but to the primitive emotions. * * * * his strenuousness is a battle-cry to the crowd. he keeps his passion white hot; his body works like a windmill in a hurricane; his eyes flash lightnings; he seizes the enemy, as it were, by the throat, pommels him with breathless blows, and throws him aside a miserable wreck. sentences. for rapid reading the prime requisite of a good sentence is that its grammatical structure shall be evident; in other words, that the reader shall be able at a glance to see the relation of its parts. involved sentences that require a second perusal before they yield their meaning, are clearly not adapted to the newspaper or magazine. short sentences and those of medium length are, as a rule, more easily grasped than long ones, but for rapid reading the structure of the sentence, rather than its length, is the chief consideration. absolute clearness is of paramount importance. in hurried reading the eye is caught by the first group of words at the beginning of a sentence. these words make more of an impression on the reader's mind than do those in the middle or at the end of the sentence. in all journalistic writing, therefore, the position of greatest emphasis is the beginning. it is there that the most significant idea should be placed. such an arrangement does not mean that the sentence need trail off loosely in a series of phrases and clauses. firmness of structure can and should be maintained even though the strongest emphasis is at the beginning. in revising his article a writer often finds that he may greatly increase the effectiveness of his sentences by so rearranging the parts as to bring the important ideas close to the beginning. length of the sentence. sentences may be classified according to length as ( ) short, containing words or less; ( ) medium, from to words; and ( ) long, words or more. each of these types of sentence has its own peculiar advantages. the short sentence, because it is easily apprehended, is more emphatic than a longer one. used in combination with medium and long sentences it gains prominence by contrast. it makes an emphatic beginning and a strong conclusion for a paragraph. as the last sentence of an article it is a good "snapper." in contrast with longer statements, it also serves as a convenient transition sentence. the sentence of medium length lends itself readily to the expression of the average thought; but when used continuously it gives to the style a monotony of rhythm that soon becomes tiresome. the long sentence is convenient for grouping details that are closely connected. in contrast with the rapid, emphatic short sentence, it moves slowly and deliberately, and so is well adapted to the expression of dignified and impressive thoughts. to prevent monotony, variety of sentence length is desirable. writers who unconsciously tend to use sentences of about the same length and of the same construction, need to beware of this uniformity. the skillful use of single short sentences, of series of short sentences, of medium, and of long sentences, to give variety, to express thoughts effectively, and to produce harmony between the movement of the style and the ideas advanced, is well illustrated in the selection below. it is the beginning of a personality sketch of william ii, the former german emperor, published in the london _daily news_ before the world war, and written by mr. a.g. gardiner, the editor of that paper. when i think of the kaiser i think of a bright may morning at potsdam. it is the spring parade, and across from where we are gathered under the windows of the old palace the household troops are drawn up on the great parade ground, their helmets and banners and lances all astir in the jolly sunshine. officers gallop hither and thither shouting commands. regiments form and reform. swords flash out and flash back again. a noble background of trees frames the gay picture with cool green foliage. there is a sudden stillness. the closely serried ranks are rigid and moveless. the shouts of command are silenced. "the kaiser." he comes slowly up the parade ground on his white charger, helmet and eagle flashing in the sunshine, sitting his horse as if he lived in the saddle, his face turned to his men as he passes by. "morgen, meine kinder." his salutation rings out at intervals in the clear morning air. and back from the ranks in chorus comes the response: "morgen, majestät." and as he rides on, master of a million men, the most powerful figure in europe, reviewing his troops on the peaceful parade ground at potsdam, one wonders whether the day will ever come when he will ride down those ranks on another errand, and when that cheerful response of the soldiers will have in it the ancient ring of doom--"te morituri salutamus." for answer, let us look at this challenging figure on the white charger. what is he? what has he done? by the three short sentences in the first paragraph beginning "officers gallop," the author depicts the rapid movement of the soldiers. by the next three short sentences in the same paragraph beginning, "there is a sudden stillness," he produces an impression of suspense. to picture the kaiser coming up "slowly," he uses a long, leisurely sentence. the salutations "ring out" in short, crisp sentences. the more serious, impressive thought of the possibility of war finds fitting expression in the long, -word sentence, ending with the sonorous--"ring of doom," "te morituri salutamus." the transition between the introduction and the body of the sketch is accomplished by the last paragraph consisting of three short sentences, in marked contrast with the climactic effect with which the description closed. paragraphs. the paragraph is a device that aids a writer to convey to readers his thoughts combined in the same groups in which they are arranged in his own mind. since a small group of thoughts is more easily grasped than a large one, paragraphs in journalistic writing are usually considerably shorter than those of ordinary english prose. in the narrow newspaper column, there is room for only five or six words to a line. a paragraph of words, which is the average length of the literary paragraph, fills between forty and fifty lines of a newspaper column. such paragraphs seem heavy and uninviting. moreover, the casual reader cannot readily comprehend and combine the various thoughts in so large a group of sentences. although there is no standard column width for magazines, the number of words in a line does not usually exceed eight. a paragraph of words that occupies eight-word lines seems less attractive than one of half that length. the normal paragraph in journalistic writing seldom exceeds words and not infrequently is much shorter. as such a paragraph contains not more than four or five sentences, the general reading public has little difficulty in comprehending it. the beginning of the paragraph, like the beginning of the sentence, is the part that catches the eye. significant ideas that need to be impressed upon the mind of the reader belong at the beginning. if his attention is arrested and held by the first group of words, he is likely to read on. if the beginning does not attract him, he skips down the column to the next paragraph, glancing merely at enough words in the paragraph that he skips to "get the drift of it." an emphatic beginning for a paragraph will insure attention for its contents. revision. it is seldom that the first draft of an article cannot be improved by a careful revision. in going over his work, word by word and sentence by sentence, the writer will generally find many opportunities to increase the effectiveness of the structure and the style. such revision, moreover, need not destroy the ease and naturalness of expression. to improve the diction of his article, the writer should eliminate ( ) superfluous words, ( ) trite phrases, ( ) general, colorless words, ( ) terms unfamiliar to the average reader, unless they are explained, ( ) words with a connotation inappropriate to the context, ( ) hackneyed and mixed metaphors. the effectiveness of the expression may often be strengthened by the addition of specific, picture-making, imitative, and connotative words, as well as of figures of speech that clarify the ideas and stimulate the imagination. sentences may frequently be improved ( ) by making their grammatical structure more evident, ( ) by breaking up long, loose sentences into shorter ones, ( ) by using short sentences for emphasis, ( ) by varying the sentence length, ( ) by transferring important ideas to the beginning of the sentence. every paragraph should be tested to determine whether or not it is a unified, coherent group of thoughts, containing not more than words, with important ideas effectively massed at the beginning. finally, revision should eliminate all errors in grammar, spelling, punctuation, and capitalization. every minute spent in improving an article adds greatly to its chances of being accepted. chapter ix titles and headlines importance of head and title. headlines or titles, illustrations, and names of authors are the three things that first catch the eye of the reader as he turns over the pages of a newspaper or magazine. when the writer's name is unknown to him, only the illustrations and the heading remain to attract his attention. the "attention-getting" value of the headline is fully appreciated not only by newspaper and magazine editors but by writers of advertisements. just as the striking heads on the front page of a newspaper increase its sales, so, also, attractive titles on the cover of a magazine lead people to buy it, and so, too, a good headline in an advertisement arouses interest in what the advertiser is trying to sell. a good title adds greatly to the attractiveness of an article. in the first place, the title is the one thing that catches the eye of the editor or manuscript reader, as he glances over the copy, and if the title is good, he carries over this favorable impression to the first page or two of the article itself. to secure such favorable consideration for a manuscript among the hundreds that are examined in editorial offices, is no slight advantage. in the second place, what is true of the editor and the manuscript is equally true of the reader and the printed article. no writer can afford to neglect his titles. variety in form and style. because newspapers and magazines differ in the size and the "make-up" of their pages, there is considerable variety in the style of headlines and titles given to special feature articles. some magazine sections of newspapers have the full-size page of the regular edition; others have pages only half as large. some newspapers use large eight-column display heads on their special articles, while others confine their headlines for feature stories to a column or two. some papers regularly employ sub-titles in their magazine sections, corresponding to the "lines," "banks," and "decks" in their news headlines. this variety in newspapers is matched by that in magazines. despite these differences, however, there are a few general principles that apply to all kinds of titles and headlines for special feature articles. characteristics of a good title. to accomplish their purpose most effectively titles should be ( ) attractive, ( ) accurate, ( ) concise, and ( ) concrete. the attractiveness of a title is measured by its power to arrest attention and to lead to a reading of the article. as a statement of the subject, the title makes essentially the same appeal that the subject itself does; that is, it may interest the reader because the idea it expresses has timeliness, novelty, elements of mystery or romance, human interest, relation to the reader's life and success, or connection with familiar or prominent persons or things. not only the idea expressed, but the way in which it is expressed, may catch the eye. by a figurative, paradoxical, or interrogative form, the title may pique curiosity. by alliteration, balance, or rhyme, it may please the ear. it permits the reader to taste, in order to whet his appetite. it creates desires that only the article can satisfy. in an effort to make his titles attractive, a writer must beware of sensationalism and exaggeration. the lurid news headline on the front page of sensational papers has its counterpart in the equally sensational title in the sunday magazine section. all that has been said concerning unwholesome subject-matter for special feature stories applies to sensational titles. so, too, exaggerated, misleading headlines on news and advertisements are matched by exaggerated, misleading titles on special articles. to state more than the facts warrant, to promise more than can be given, to arouse expectations that cannot be satisfied--all are departures from truth and honesty. accuracy in titles involves, not merely avoidance of exaggerated and misleading statement, but complete harmony in tone and spirit between title and article. when the story is familiar and colloquial in style, the title should reflect that informality. when the article makes a serious appeal, the title should be dignified. a good title, in a word, is true to the spirit as well as to the letter. conciseness in titles is imposed on the writer by the physical limitations of type and page. because the width of the column and of the page is fixed, and because type is not made of rubber, a headline must be built to fit the place it is to fill. although in framing titles for articles it is not always necessary to conform to the strict requirements as to letters and spaces that limit the building of news headlines, it is nevertheless important to keep within bounds. a study of a large number of titles will show that they seldom contain more than three or four important words with the necessary connectives and particles. short words, moreover, are preferred to long ones. by analyzing the titles in the publication to which he plans to send his article, a writer can frame his title to meet its typographical requirements. the reader's limited power of rapid comprehension is another reason for brevity. a short title consisting of a small group of words yields its meaning at a glance. unless the reader catches the idea in the title quickly, he is likely to pass on to something else. here again short words have an advantage over long ones. concreteness in titles makes for rapid comprehension and interest. clean-cut mental images are called up by specific words; vague ones usually result from general, abstract terms. clear mental pictures are more interesting than vague impressions. sub-titles. sub-titles are often used to supplement and amplify the titles. they are the counterparts of the "decks" and "banks" in news headlines. their purpose is to give additional information, to arouse greater interest, and to assist in carrying the reader over, as it were, to the beginning of the article. since sub-titles follow immediately after the title, any repetition of important words is usually avoided. it is desirable to maintain the same tone in both title and sub-title. occasionally the two together make a continuous statement. the length of the sub-title is generally about twice that of the title; that is, the average sub-title consists of from ten to twelve words, including articles and connectives. the articles, "a," "an," and "the," are not as consistently excluded from sub-titles as they are from newspaper headlines. some types of titles. attempts to classify all kinds of headlines and titles involve difficulties similar to those already encountered in the effort to classify all types of beginnings. nevertheless, a separation of titles into fairly distinct, if not mutually exclusive, groups may prove helpful to inexperienced writers. the following are the nine most distinctive types of titles: ( ) label; ( ) "how" and "why" statement; ( ) striking statement, including figure of speech, paradox, and expression of great magnitude; ( ) quotation and paraphrase of quotation; ( ) question; ( ) direct address, particularly in imperative form; ( ) alliteration; ( ) rhyme; ( ) balance. the label title is a simple, direct statement of the subject. it has only as much interest and attractiveness as the subject itself possesses. such titles are the following: ( ) raising guinea pigs for a living one missouri man finds a ready market for all he can sell ( ) human nature as seen by a pullman porter ( ) the financial side of football ( ) confessions of an undergraduate ( ) bee-keeping on shares ( ) a community wood-chopping day ( ) what a woman on the farm thinks of price fixing the "how-to-do-something" article may be given a "how" title that indicates the character of the contents; for example: ( ) how i found health in the dentist's chair ( ) how to store your car in winter ( ) how a farmer's wife made $ extra ( ) how to succeed as a writer woman who "knew she could write" tells how she began and finally got on the right road the "how" title may also be used for an article that explains some phenomenon or process. examples of such titles are these: ( ) how a nettle stings ( ) how ripe olives are made ( ) how the freight car gets home articles that undertake to give causes and reasons are appropriately given "why" titles like the following: ( ) why caviar costs so much ( ) why i like a round barn ( ) why the coal supply is short a title may attract attention because of the striking character of the idea it expresses; for example: ( ) wanted: $ , men ( ) bushels of corn per acre ( ) fire writes a heart's record ( ) the psychology of second helpings the paradoxical form of title piques curiosity by seeming to make a self-contradictory statement, as, for example, the following: ( ) ships of stone seaworthy concrete vessels an accomplished fact ( ) christian pagans ( ) a telescope that points downward ( ) seeing with your ears ( ) making sailors without ships ( ) how to be at home while traveling ( ) canal-boats that climb hills a striking figure of speech in a title stimulates the reader's imagination and arouses his interest; for example: ( ) pulling the river's teeth ( ) the old house with two faces ( ) the honey-bee savings bank ( ) riding on bubbles ( ) the romance of nitrogen a familiar quotation may be used for the title and may stand alone, but often a sub-title is desirable to show the application of the quotation to the subject, thus: ( ) the shot heard 'round the world america's first victory in france ( ) "all wool and a yard wide" what "all wool" really means and why shoddy is necessary ( ) the servant in the house and why she won't stay in the house a well-known quotation or common saying may be paraphrased in a novel way to attract attention; for example: ( ) forward! the tractor brigade ( ) it's lo, the rich indian ( ) learning by undoing ( ) the guileless spider and the wily fly entomology modifies our ideas of the famous parlor since every question is like a riddle, a title in question form naturally leads the reader to seek the answer in the article itself. the directness of appeal may be heightened by addressing the question to the reader with "you," "your," or by presenting it from the reader's point of view with the use of "i," "we," or "ours." the sub-title may be another question or an affirmation, but should not attempt to answer the question. the following are typical question titles and sub-titles: ( ) what is a fair price for milk? ( ) how much heat is there in your coal? ( ) who's the best boss? would you rather work for a man or for a machine? ( ) "she sank by the bow"--but why? ( ) how shall we keep warm this winter? ( ) does deep plowing pay? what some recent tests have demonstrated ( ) shall i start a canning business? the reader may be addressed in an imperative form of title, as well as in a question, as the following titles show: ( ) blame the sun spots solar upheavals that make mischief on the earth ( ) eat sharks and tan their skins ( ) hoe! hoe! for uncle sam ( ) don't jump out of bed give your subconscious self a chance to awake gradually ( ) raise fish on your farm ( ) better stop! look! and listen! the attractiveness of titles may be heightened by such combinations of sounds as alliteration and rhyme, or by rhythm such as is produced by balanced elements. the following examples illustrate the use of alliteration, rhyme, and balance: ( ) the lure of the latch ( ) the diminishing dollar ( ) tracing telephone troubles ( ) boy culture and agriculture ( ) a little bill against billboards ( ) every campus a camp ( ) labor-lighteners and home-brighteners ( ) the artillery mill at old fort sill how uncle sam is training his field artillery officers ( ) scholars vs. dollars ( ) war on pests when the spray gun's away, crop enemies play ( ) more heat and less coal ( ) grain alcohol from green garbage how to frame a title. the application of the general principles governing titles may best be shown by means of an article for which a title is desired. a writer, for example, has prepared a popular article on soil analysis as a means of determining what chemical elements different kinds of farm land need to be most productive. a simple label title like "the value of soil analysis," obviously would not attract the average person, and probably would interest only the more enterprising of farmers. the analysis of soil not unnaturally suggests the diagnosis of human disease; and the remedying of worn-out, run-down farm land by applying such chemicals as phosphorus and lime, is analogous to the physician's prescription of tonics for a run-down, anæmic person. these ideas may readily be worked out as the following titles show: ( ) prescribing for run-down land what the soil doctor is doing to improve our farms ( ) the soil doctor and his tonics prescribing remedies for worn-out farm land ( ) diagnosing ills of the soil science offers remedies for depleted farms other figurative titles like the following may be developed without much effort from the ideas that soil "gets tired," "wears out," and "needs to be fed": ( ) when farm land gets tired scientists find causes of exhausted fields ( ) fields won't wear out if the warnings of soil experts are heeded ( ) balanced rations for the soil why the feeding of farm land is necessary for good crops chapter x preparing and selling the manuscript importance of good manuscript. after an article has been carefully revised, it is ready to be copied in the form in which it will be submitted to editors. because hundreds of contributions are examined every day in editorial offices of large publications, manuscripts should be submitted in such form that their merits can be ascertained as easily and as quickly as possible. a neatly and carefully prepared manuscript is likely to receive more favorable consideration than a badly typed one. the impression produced by the external appearance of a manuscript as it comes to an editor's table is comparable to that made by the personal appearance of an applicant for a position as he enters an office seeking employment. in copying his article, therefore, a writer should keep in mind the impression that it will make in the editorial office. form for manuscripts. editors expect all manuscripts to be submitted in typewritten form. every person who aspires to write for publication should learn to use a typewriter. until he has learned to type his work accurately, he must have a good typist copy it for him. a good typewriter with clean type and a fresh, black, non-copying ribbon produces the best results. the following elementary directions apply to the preparation of all manuscripts: ( ) write on only one side of the paper; ( ) allow a margin of about three quarters of an inch on all sides of the page; ( ) double space the lines in order to leave room for changes, sub-heads, and other editing. unruled white bond paper of good quality in standard letter size, ½ by inches, is the most satisfactory. a high grade of paper not only gives the manuscript a good appearance but stands more handling and saves the recopying of returned manuscripts. a carbon copy should be made of every manuscript so that, if the original copy goes astray in the mail or in an editorial office, the writer's work will not have been in vain. the carbon copy can also be used later for comparison with the printed article. such a comparison will show the writer the amount and character of the editing that was deemed necessary to adapt the material to the publication in which it appears. a cover sheet of the same paper is a convenient device. it not only gives the editorial reader some information in regard to the article, but it protects the manuscript itself. frequently, for purposes of record, manuscripts are stamped or marked in editorial offices, but if a cover page is attached, the manuscript itself is not defaced. when an article is returned, the writer needs to recopy only the cover page before starting the manuscript on its next journey. the form for such a cover page is given on page . the upper half of the first page of the manuscript should be left blank, so that the editor may write a new title and sub-title if he is not satisfied with those supplied by the author. the title, the sub-title, and the author's name should be repeated at the beginning of the article in the middle of the first page, even though they have been given on the cover page. at the left-hand side, close to the top of each page after the first, should be placed the writer's last name followed by a dash and the title of the article, thus: milton--confessions of a freshman. the pages should be numbered in the upper right-hand corner. by these simple means the danger of losing a page in the editorial offices is reduced to a minimum. to be paid for at usual written for the outlook rates, or to be returned with the ten ( ) cents in stamps enclosed, to arthur w. milton, wilson street, des moines, iowa. confessions of a freshman why i was dropped from college at the end of my first year by arthur w. milton (note. this article is based on the writer's own experience in a large middle western state university, and the statistics have been obtained from the registrars of four state universities. it contains , words.) four ( ) photographs are enclosed, as follows: . how i decorated my room . i spent hours learning to play my ukelele . when i made the freshman team . cramming for my final exams typographical style. every newspaper and magazine has its own distinct typographical style in capitalization, abbreviation, punctuation, hyphenation, and the use of numerical figures. some newspapers and periodicals have a style book giving rules for the preparation and editing of copy. a careful reading of several issues of a publication will show a writer the salient features of its typographical style. it is less important, however, to conform to the typographical peculiarities of any one publication than it is to follow consistently the commonly accepted rules of capitalization, punctuation, abbreviation, and "unreformed" spelling. printers prefer to have each page end with a complete sentence. at the close of the article it is well to put the end mark (#). when a special feature story for newspaper publication must be prepared so hastily that there is no time to copy the first draft, it may be desirable to revise the manuscript by using the marks commonly employed in editing copy. these are as follows: american three short lines under a letter or a = word indicate that it is to be set in - capital letters; thus, american. new york times two short lines under a letter or a = = = word indicate that it is to be set in - - - small capital letters; thus, new york times. sine qua non one line under a word or words indicates ---- --- --- that it is to be set in italics; thus, _sine qua non_. he is a /sophomore an oblique line drawn from right to left through a capital letter indicates that it is to be set in lower case; thus, he is a sophomore. ____ _____ there are | | in a |bu.| a circle around numerical figures or ---- ----- abbreviations indicates that they are to be spelled out; thus, there are ten in a bushel. ___________ _______ |professor| a.b.smith is |sixty|. a circle around words or figures ----------- ------- spelled out indicates that they are to be abbreviated or that numerical figures are to be used; thus, prof. a.b. smith is . not a it is complimentry to him a caret is placed at the point in the ^ ^ line where the letters or words written above the line are to be inserted; thus, it is not complimentary to him. __________ ______ to |carefullyxstudy| a line encircling two or more words ---------- ------ like an elongated figure " " indicates that the words are to be transposed; thus, to study carefully. to[=()]morrow half circles connecting words or letters indicate that they are to be brought together; thus, tomorrow. all/right a vertical line between parts of a word shows that the parts are to be separated; thus, all right. u s per cent. bonds a small cross or a period in a circle x x may be used to show that a period is to be used; thus, u.s. per cent. bonds. ")yes, ')love laughs at lock- quotation marks are often enclosed smiths(', you know(", he replied. in half circles to indicate whether they are beginning or end marks. ¶"how old are you?" he asked. the paragraph mark (¶) or the _|"sixteen", she said. sign [_|] may be used to call attention to the beginning of a new paragraph. mailing manuscripts. since manuscripts are written matter, they must be sent sealed as first-class mail at letter rates of postage. for the return of rejected articles stamps may be attached to the cover page by means of a clip, or a self-addressed envelope with stamps affixed may be enclosed. the writer's name and address should always be given on the envelope in which the manuscript is sent to the publishers. the envelope containing the article should be addressed to the "editor" of a magazine or to the "sunday editor" of a newspaper, as nothing is gained by addressing him or her by name. if a writer knows an editor personally or has had correspondence with him in regard to a particular article, it may be desirable to send the manuscript to him personally. an accompanying letter is not necessary, for the cover page of the manuscript gives the editor and his assistants all the information that they need. articles consisting of only a few pages may be folded twice and mailed in a long envelope; bulkier manuscripts should be folded once and sent in a manila manuscript envelope. photographs of sizes up to x inches may be placed in a manuscript that is folded once, with a single piece of stout cardboard for protection. when larger photographs, up to x inches, accompany the article, the manuscript must be sent unfolded, with two pieces of cardboard to protect the pictures. manuscripts should never be rolled. how manuscripts are handled. in order to handle hundreds of manuscripts as expeditiously as possible, most large editorial offices have worked out systems that, though differing slightly, are essentially the same. when a manuscript is received, a record is made of it on a card or in a book, with the name and address of the author, the title and character of the contribution, and the time of its receipt. the same data are entered on a blank that is attached to the manuscript by a clip. on this blank are left spaces for comments by each of the editorial assistants who read and pass upon the article. after these records have been made, the manuscript is given to the first editorial reader. he can determine by glancing at the first page or two whether or not the article is worth further consideration. of the thousands of contributions of all kinds submitted, a considerable proportion are not in the least adapted to the periodical to which they have been sent. the first reader, accordingly, is scarcely more than a skilled sorter who separates the possible from the impossible. all manuscripts that are clearly unacceptable are turned over to a clerk to be returned with a rejection slip. when an article appears to have merit, the first reader looks over it a second time and adds a brief comment, which he signs with his initials. the manuscript is then read and commented on by other editorial readers before it reaches the assistant editor. the best of the contributions are submitted to the editor for a final decision. by such a system every meritorious contribution is considered carefully by several critics before it is finally accepted or rejected. moreover, the editor and the assistant editor have before them the comments of several readers with which to compare their own impressions. in newspaper offices manuscripts are usually sorted by the assistant sunday editor, or assistant magazine editor, and are finally accepted or rejected by the sunday or magazine editor. rejected manuscripts. in rejecting contributions, editorial offices follow various methods. the commonest one is to send the author a printed slip expressing regret that the manuscript is not acceptable and encouraging him to submit something else. some ingenious editors have prepared a number of form letters to explain to contributors the various reasons why their manuscripts are unacceptable. the editorial assistant who rejects an unsuitable article indicates by number which of these form letters is to be sent to the author. a few editors send a personal letter to every contributor. sometimes an editor in rejecting a contribution will suggest some publication to which it might be acceptable. if a manuscript has merit but is not entirely satisfactory, he may suggest that it be revised and submitted to him again. keeping a manuscript record. every writer who intends to carry on his work in a systematic manner should keep a manuscript record, to assist him in marketing his articles to the best advantage. either a book or a card index may be used. the purpose of such a record is to show ( ) the length of time required by various publications to make a decision on contributions; ( ) the rate and the time of payment of each periodical; ( ) the present whereabouts of his manuscript and the periodicals to which it has already been submitted. it is important for a writer to know how soon he may expect a decision on his contributions. if he has prepared an article that depends on timeliness for its interest, he cannot afford to send it to an editor who normally takes three or four weeks to make a decision. another publication to which his article is equally well adapted, he may find from his manuscript record, accepts or rejects contributions within a week or ten days. naturally he will send his timely article to the publication that makes the quickest decision. if that publication rejects it, he will still have time enough to try it elsewhere. his experience with different editors, as recorded in his manuscript record, often assists him materially in placing his work to the best advantage. the rate and the time of payment for contributions are also worth recording. when an article is equally well suited to two or more periodicals, a writer will naturally be inclined to send it first to the publication that pays the highest price and that pays on acceptance. a manuscript record also indicates where each one of a writer's articles is at a given moment, and by what publications it has been rejected. for such data he cannot afford to trust his memory. a writer may purchase a manuscript record book or may prepare his own book or card index. at the top of each page or card is placed the title of the article, followed by the number of words that it contains, the number of illustrations that accompany it, and the date on which it was completed. on the lines under the title are written in turn the names of the periodicals to which the manuscript is submitted, with ( ) the dates on which it was submitted and returned or rejected; ( ) the rate and the time of payment; and ( ) any remarks that may prove helpful. a convenient form for such a page or card is shown on the next page: ___________________________________________________________________________ |confessions of a freshman. , words. photos. written, jan. , .| |-------------------------------------------------------------------------| | |sent |returned|accepted|paid |amount|remarks | |-------------------------------------------------------------------------| |the outlook | / / | / / | | | | | |the independent | / / | / / | | | | | |the kansas city star| / / | | / / | / / |$ . |$ a col.| | | | | | | | | |____________________|________|________|________|________|______|_________| accepted manuscripts. contributions accepted for publication are paid for at the time of their acceptance, at the time of their publication, or at some fixed date in the month following their acceptance or publication. nearly all well-established periodicals pay for articles when they are accepted. some publications do not pay until the article is printed, a method obviously less satisfactory to a writer than prompt payment, since he may have to wait a year or more for his money. newspapers pay either on acceptance or before the tenth day of the month following publication. the latter arrangement grows out of the practice of paying correspondents between the first and the tenth of each month for the work of the preceding month. after a manuscript has been accepted, a writer usually has no further responsibility concerning it. some magazines submit galley proofs to the author for correction and for any changes that he cares to make. it is desirable to make as few alterations as possible to avoid the delay and expense of resetting the type. corrected proofs should be returned promptly. unless specific stipulations are made to the contrary by the author, an article on being accepted by a periodical becomes its property and cannot be republished without its consent. usually an editor will grant an author permission to reprint an article in book or pamphlet form. by copyrighting each issue, as most magazines and some newspapers do, the publishers establish fully their rights to an author's work. syndicating articles. by sending copies of his articles to a number of newspapers for simultaneous publication, a writer of special feature stories for newspapers may add to his earnings. this method is known as syndicating. it is made possible by the fact that the circulation of newspapers is largely local. since, for example, chicago papers are not read in new york, or minneapolis papers in st. louis, these papers may well publish the same articles on the same day. organized newspaper syndicates furnish many papers with reading matter of all kinds. the same article must not, however, be sent to more than one magazine, but a single subject may be used for two entirely different articles intended for two magazines. if two articles are written on the same subject, different pictures should be secured, so that it will not be necessary to send copies of the same illustrations to two magazines. agricultural journals with a distinctly sectional circulation do not object to using syndicated articles, provided that the journals to which the article is sent do not circulate in the same territory. if a writer desires to syndicate his work, he must conform to several requirements. first, he must make as many good copies as he intends to send out and must secure separate sets of photographs to accompany each one. second, he must indicate clearly on each copy the fact that he is syndicating the article and that he is sending it to only one paper in a city. a special feature story, for instance, sent to the _kansas city star_ for publication in its sunday edition, he would mark, "exclusive for kansas city. release for publication, sunday, january ." third, he must send out the copies sufficiently far in advance of the release date to enable all of the papers to arrange for the publication of the article on that day. for papers with magazine sections that are made up a week or more before the day of publication, articles should be in the office of the editor at least two weeks before the release date. for papers that make up their sunday issues only a few days in advance, articles need be submitted only a week before the publication day. selling articles to syndicates. the syndicates that supply newspapers with various kinds of material, including special feature stories, are operated on the same principle that governs the syndicating of articles by the writer himself. that is, they furnish their features to a number of different papers for simultaneous publication. since, however, they sell the same material to many papers, they can afford to do so at a comparatively low price and still make a fair profit. to protect their literary property, they often copyright their features, and a line of print announcing this fact is often the only indication in a newspaper that the matter was furnished by a syndicate. among the best-known newspaper syndicates are the newspaper enterprise association, cleveland, ohio; the mcclure newspaper syndicate, new york; and the newspaper feature service, new york. a number of large newspapers, like the _new york evening post_, the _philadelphia ledger_, and the _new york tribune_, syndicate their popular features to papers in other cities. a writer may submit his special feature stories to one of the newspaper syndicates just as he would send it to a newspaper or magazine. these organizations usually pay well for acceptable manuscripts. it is not as easy, however, to discover the needs and general policy of each syndicate as it is those of papers and magazines, because frequently there is no means of identifying their articles when they are printed in newspapers. chapter xi photographs and other illustrations value of illustrations. the perfecting of photo-engraving processes for making illustrations has been one of the most important factors in the development of popular magazines and of magazine sections of newspapers, for good pictures have contributed largely to their success. with the advent of the half-tone process a generation ago, and with the more recent application of the rotogravure process to periodical publications, comparatively cheap and rapid methods of illustration were provided. newspapers and magazines have made extensive use of both these processes. the chief value of illustrations for special articles lies in the fact that they present graphically what would require hundreds of words to describe. ideas expressed in pictures can be grasped much more readily than ideas expressed in words. as an aid to rapid reading illustrations are unexcelled. in fact, so effective are pictures as a means of conveying facts that whole sections of magazines and sunday newspapers are given over to them exclusively. illustrations constitute a particularly valuable adjunct to special articles. good reproductions of photographs printed in connection with the articles assist readers to visualize and to understand what a writer is undertaking to explain. so fully do editors realize the great attractiveness of illustrations, that they will buy articles accompanied by satisfactory photographs more readily than they will those without illustrations. excellent photographs will sometimes sell mediocre articles, and meritorious articles may even be rejected because they lack good illustrations. in preparing his special feature stories, a writer will do well to consider carefully the number and character of the illustrations necessary to give his work the strongest possible appeal. securing photographs. inexperienced writers are often at a loss to know how to secure good photographs. professional photographers will, as a rule, produce the best results, but amateur writers often hesitate to incur the expense involved, especially when they feel uncertain about selling their articles. if prints can be obtained from negatives that photographers have taken for other purposes, the cost is so small that a writer can afford to risk the expenditure. money spent for good photographs is usually money well spent. every writer of special articles should become adept in the use of a camera. with a little study and practice, any one can take photographs that will reproduce well for illustrations. one advantage to a writer of operating his own camera is that he can take pictures on the spur of the moment when he happens to see just what he needs. unconventional pictures caught at the right instant often make the best illustrations. the charges for developing films and for making prints and enlargements are now so reasonable that a writer need not master these technicalities in order to use a camera of his own. if he has time and interest, however, he may secure the desired results more nearly by developing and printing his own pictures. satisfactory pictures can be obtained with almost any camera, but one with a high-grade lens and shutter is the best for all kinds of work. a pocket camera so equipped is very convenient. if a writer can afford to make a somewhat larger initial investment, he will do well to buy a camera of the so-called "reflex" type. despite its greater weight and bulk, as compared with pocket cameras, it has the advantage of showing the picture full size, right side up, on the top of the camera, until the very moment that the button is pressed. these reflex cameras are equipped with the fastest types of lens and shutter, and thus are particularly well adapted to poorly lighted and rapidly moving objects. a tripod should be used whenever possible. a hastily taken snap shot often proves unsatisfactory, whereas, if the camera had rested on a tripod, and if a slightly longer exposure had been given, a good negative would doubtless have resulted. requirements for photographs. all photographs intended for reproduction by the half-tone or the rotogravure process should conform to certain requirements. first: the standard size of photographic prints to be used for illustrations is x inches, but two smaller sizes, x and ½ x ½, as well as larger sizes such as ½ x ½ and x , are also acceptable. professional photographers generally make their negatives for illustrations in the sizes, x , ½ x ½, and x . if a writer uses a pocket camera taking pictures smaller than post-card size ( ½ x ½), he must have his negatives enlarged to one of the above standard sizes. second: photographic prints for illustrations should have a glossy surface; that is, they should be what is known as "gloss prints." prints on rough paper seldom reproduce satisfactorily; they usually result in "muddy" illustrations. prints may be mounted or unmounted; unmounted ones cost less and require less postage, but are more easily broken in handling. third: objects in the photograph should be clear and well defined; this requires a sharp negative. for newspaper illustrations it is desirable to have prints with a stronger contrast between the dark and the light parts of the picture than is necessary for the finer half-tones and rotogravures used in magazines. fourth: photographs must have life and action. pictures of inanimate objects in which neither persons nor animals appear, seem "dead" and unattractive to the average reader. it is necessary, therefore, to have at least one person in every photograph. informal, unconventional pictures in which the subjects seem to have been "caught" unawares, are far better than those that appear to have been posed. good snap-shots of persons in characteristic surroundings are always preferable to cabinet photographs. "action pictures" are what all editors and all readers want. fifth: pictures must "tell the story"; that is, they should illustrate the phase of the subject that they are designed to make clear. unless a photograph has illustrative value it fails to accomplish the purpose for which it is intended. captions for illustrations. on the back of a photograph intended for reproduction the author should write or type a brief explanation of what it represents. if he is skillful in phrasing this explanation, or "caption," as it is called, the editor will probably use all or part of it just as it stands. if his caption is unsatisfactory, the editor will have to write one based on the writer's explanation. a clever caption adds much to the attractiveness of an illustration. a caption should not be a mere label, but, like a photograph, should have life and action. it either should contain a verb of action or should imply one. in this and other respects, it is not unlike the newspaper headline. instead, for example, of the label title, "a large gold dredge in alaska," a photograph was given the caption, "digs out a fortune daily." a picture of a young woman feeding chickens in a backyard poultry run that accompanied an article entitled "did you ever think of a meat garden?" was given the caption "fresh eggs and chicken dinners reward her labor." to illustrate an article on the danger of the pet cat as a carrier of disease germs, a photograph of a child playing with a cat was used with the caption, "how epidemics start." a portrait of a housewife who uses a number of labor-saving devices in her home bore the legend, "she is reducing housekeeping to a science." "a smoking chimney is a bad sign" was the caption under a photograph of a chimney pouring out smoke, which was used to illustrate an article on how to save coal. longer captions describing in detail the subject illustrated by the photograph, are not uncommon; in fact, as more and more pictures are being used, there is a growing tendency to place a short statement, or "overline," above the illustration and to add to the amount of descriptive matter in the caption below it. this is doubtless due to two causes: the increasing use of illustrations unaccompanied by any text except the caption, and the effort to attract the casual reader by giving him a taste, as it were, of what the article contains. drawings for illustrations. diagrams, working drawings, floor plans, maps, or pen-and-ink sketches are necessary to illustrate some articles. articles of practical guidance often need diagrams. trade papers like to have their articles illustrated with reproductions of record sheets and blanks designed to develop greater efficiency in office or store management. if a writer has a little skill in drawing, he may prepare in rough form the material that he considers desirable for illustration, leaving to the artists employed by the publication the work of making drawings suitable for reproduction. a writer who has had training in pen-and-ink drawing may prepare his own illustrations. such drawings should be made on bristol board with black drawing ink, and should be drawn two or three times as large as they are intended to appear when printed. if record sheets are to be used for illustration, the ruling should be done with black drawing ink, and the figures and other data should be written in with the same kind of ink. typewriting on blanks intended for reproduction should be done with a fresh record black ribbon. captions are necessary on the back of drawings as well as on photographs. mailing photographs and drawings. it is best to mail flat all photographs and drawings up to x in size, in the envelope with the manuscript, protecting them with pieces of stout cardboard. only very large photographs or long, narrow panoramic ones should be rolled and mailed in a heavy cardboard tube, separate from the manuscript. the writer's name and address, as well as the title of the article to be illustrated, should be written on the back of every photograph and drawing. as photographs and drawings are not ordinarily returned when they are used with an article that is accepted, writers should not promise to return such material to the persons from whom they secure it. copies can almost always be made from the originals when persons furnishing writers with photographs and drawings desire to have the originals kept in good condition. part ii an outline for the analysis of special feature articles i. sources of material . what appears to have suggested the subject to the writer? . how much of the article was based on his personal experience? . how much of it was based on his personal observations? . was any of the material obtained from newspapers or periodicals? . what portions of the article were evidently obtained by interviews? . what reports, documents, technical periodicals, and books of reference were used as sources in preparing the article? . does the article suggest to you some sources from which you might obtain material for your own articles? ii. interest and appeal . is there any evidence that the article was timely when it was published? . is the article of general or of local interest? . does it seem to be particularly well adapted to the readers of the publication in which it was printed? why? . what, for the average reader, is the source of interest in the article? . does it have more than one appeal? . is the subject so presented that the average reader is led to see its application to himself and to his own affairs? . could an article on the same subject, or on a similar one, be written for a newspaper in your section of the country? . what possible subjects does the article suggest to you? iii. purpose . did the writer aim to entertain, to inform, or to give practical guidance? . does the writer seem to have had a definitely formulated purpose? . how would you state this apparent purpose in one sentence? . is the purpose a worthy one? . did the writer accomplish his purpose? . does the article contain any material that seems unnecessary to the accomplishment of the purpose? iv. type of article . to which type does this article conform? . is there any other type better adapted to the subject and material? . how far did the character of the subject determine the methods of treatment? . what other methods might have been used to advantage in presenting this subject? . is the article predominantly narrative, descriptive, or expository? . to what extent are narration and description used for expository purposes? . are concrete examples and specific instances employed effectively? . by what means are the narrative passages made interesting? . do the descriptive parts of the article portray the impressions vividly? v. structure . what main topics are taken up in the article? . could any parts of the article be omitted without serious loss? . could the parts be rearranged with gain in clearness, interest, or progress? . does the article march on steadily from beginning to end? . is the material so arranged that the average reader will reach the conclusion that the writer intended to have him reach? . is there variety in the methods of presentation? . is the length of the article proportionate to the subject? . what type of beginning is used? . is the type of beginning well adapted to the subject and the material? . would the beginning attract the attention and hold the interest of the average reader? . is the beginning an integral part of the article? . is the length of the beginning proportionate to the length of the whole article? . is the beginning skillfully connected with the body of the article? vi. style . is the article easy to read? why? . is the diction literary or colloquial, specific or general, original or trite, connotative or denotative? . are figures of speech used effectively? . do the sentences yield their meaning easily when read rapidly? . is there variety in sentence length and structure? . are important ideas placed at the beginning of sentences? . are the paragraphs long or short? . are they well-organized units? . do the paragraphs begin with important ideas? . is there variety in paragraph beginnings? . is the tone well suited to the subject? . do the words, figures of speech, sentences, and paragraphs in this article suggest to you possible means of improving your own style? vii. titles and headlines . is the title attractive, accurate, concise, and concrete? . to what type does it conform? . what is the character of the sub-title, and what relation does it bear to the title? (_boston herald_) teach children love of art through story-telling "----and so," ended the story, "st. george slew the dragon." a great sigh, long drawn and sibilant, which for the last five minutes had been swelling little thoraxes, burst out and filled the space of the lecture hall at the museum of fine arts. "o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" said little girls. "aw-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w, gosh!" said little boys. "say, mis' cronan, there wasn't no real dragon, was they?" a shock-headed youngster pushed his way to the platform where mrs. mary c. cronan, professional story teller, stood smiling and wistfully looked up at her. "they wasn't no really dragon, was they?" "'course they was a dragon! whadd'ye think the man wanted to paint the picture for if there wasn't a dragon? certn'y there was a dragon. i leave it to mis' cronan if there wasn't." steering a narrow course between fiction and truth, mrs. cronan told her class that she thought there certainly must have been a dragon or the picture wouldn't have been painted. it was at one of the regular morning story hours at the museum of fine arts, a department opened three years ago at the museum by mrs. cronan and mrs. laura scales, a department which has become so popular that now hundreds of children a week are entertained, children from the public playgrounds and from the settlement houses. on this particular day it was children from the bickford street playground under the guidance of two teachers from the lucretia crocker school, miss roche and miss hayes, who had, in some mysterious manner, convoyed these atoms to the museum by car without mishap and who apparently did not dread the necessity of getting them back again, although to the uninitiated it appeared a task beside which grasping a comet by the tail was a pleasant afternoon's amusement. for the most part the story of st. george and the dragon was a new thing to these children. they might stand for st. george, although his costume was a little out of the regular form at jamaica plain, but the dragon was another thing. "i don't believe it," insisted an -year-old. "i seen every animal in the zoo in the park and i don't see any of them things." but the wistful little boy kept insisting that there must be such an animal or mrs. cronan wouldn't say so. "that is the way they nearly always take it at first," said mrs. cronan. "nearly all of these children are here for the first time. later they will bring their fathers and mothers on sunday and you might hear them explaining the pictures upstairs as if they were the docents of the museum. "the object of the story hour is to familiarize the children with as many as possible of the pictures of the museum and to get them into the way of coming here of themselves. when they go away they are given cards bearing a reproduction of the picture about which the story of the day has been told, and on these cards is always an invitation to them to bring their families to the museum on saturday and sunday, when there is no entrance fee." the idea of the story hour was broached several years ago and at first it was taken up as an experiment. stereopticon slides were made of several of the more famous pictures in the museum, and mrs. cronan, who was at the time achieving a well earned success at the public library, was asked to take charge of the story telling. the plan became a success at once. later mrs. scales was called in to take afternoon classes, and now more than children go to the museum each week during july and august and hear stories told entertainingly that fix in their minds the best pictures of the world. following the stories they are taken through the halls of the museum and are given short talks on some art subject. one day it may be some interesting thing on thibetan amulets, or on tapestries or on some picture, stuart's washington or turner's slave ship, or a colorful canvas of claude monet. it is hoped that the movement may result in greater familiarity with and love for the museum, for it is intended by the officials that these children shall come to love the museum and to care for the collection and not to think of it, as many do, as a cold, unresponsive building containing dark mysteries, or haughty officials, or an atmosphere of "highbrow" iciness. "i believe," says mrs. cronan, "that our little talks are doing just this thing. and although some of them, of course, can't get the idea quite all at once, most of these children will have a soft spot hereafter for donatello's st. george." at least some of them were not forgetting it, for as they filed out the wistful little boy was still talking about it. "ya," he said to the scoffer, "you mightn't a seen him at the zoo. that's all right, but you never went over to the 'quarium. probably they got one over there. gee! i wish i could see a dragon. what color are they?" but the smallest boy of all, who had hold of miss hayes's hand and who had been an interested listener to all this, branched out mentally into other and further fields. "aw," said he, "i know a feller what's got a ginny pig wit' yeller spots on 'im and he--" and they all trailed out the door. * * * * * (_christian science monitor_) one illustration, a half-tone reproduction of a photograph showing the interior of the greenhouse with girls at work. where girls learn to wield spade and hoe to go to school in a potato patch; to say one's lessons to a farmer; to study in an orchard and do laboratory work in a greenhouse--this is the pleasant lot of the modern girl who goes to a school of horticulture instead of going to college, or perhaps after going to college. if ever there was a vocation that seemed specially adapted to many women, gardening would at first glance be the one. from the time of "mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" down to the busy city woman who to-day takes her recreation by digging in her flowerbeds, gardens have seemed a natural habitat for womankind, and garden activities have belonged to her by right. in various parts of the country there have now been established schools where young women may learn the ways of trees and shrubs, vegetables and flowers, and may do experimental work among the growing things themselves. some of these schools are merely adjuncts of the state agricultural colleges, with more or less limited courses of instruction; but, just out of philadelphia, there is a school, to which women only are admitted, that is located on a real farm, and covers a wide range of outdoor study. one begins to feel the homely charm of the place the moment instructions are given as to how to reach it. "out the old lime-kiln road," you are told. and out the old lime-kiln road you go, until you come to a farm which spells the perfection of care in every clump of trees and every row of vegetables. some girls in broad-brimmed hats are working in the strawberry bed--if you go in strawberry time--and farther on a group of women have gathered, with an overalled instructor, under an apple tree the needs of which are being studied. under some sedate shade trees, you are led to an old pennsylvania stone farmhouse--the administration building, if you please. beyond are the barns, poultry houses, nurseries and greenhouses, and a cottage which is used as a dormitory for the girls--as unlike the usual dormitory as the school is unlike the usual school. a bee colony has its own little white village near by. then the director, a trained woman landscape gardener, tells you all that this school of horticulture has accomplished since its founding five years ago. "women are naturally fitted for gardening, and for some years past there have been many calls for women to be teachers in school gardens, planners of private gardens, or landscape gardeners in institutions for women. very few women, however, have had the practical training to enable them to fill such positions, and five years ago there was little opportunity for them to obtain such training. at that time a number of women in and about philadelphia, who realized the need for thorough teaching in all the branches of horticulture, not merely in theory but in practice, organized this school. the course is planned to equip women with the practical knowledge that will enable them to manage private and commercial gardens, greenhouses or orchards. some women wish to learn how to care for their own well-loved gardens; some young girls study with the idea of establishing their own greenhouses and raising flowers as a means of livelihood; still others want to go in for fruit farming, and even for poultry raising or bee culture. "in other countries, schools of gardening for women are holding a recognized place in the educational world. in england, belgium, germany, italy, denmark and russia, such institutions have long passed the experimental stage; graduates from their schools are managing large estates or holding responsible positions as directors of public or private gardens, as managers of commercial greenhouses, or as consulting horticulturists and lecturers. in this country there is a growing demand for supervisors of home and school gardens, for work on plantations and model farms, and for landscape gardeners. such positions command large salaries, and the comparatively few women available for them are almost certain to attain success." already one of the graduates has issued a modest brown circular stating that she is equipped to supply ideas for gardens and personally to plant them; to expend limited sums of money to the best advantage for beauty and service; to take entire charge of gardens and orchards for the season and personally to supervise gardens during the owners' absence; to spray ornamental trees and shrubs, and prune them; and to care for indoor plants and window boxes. "she is making a success of it, too. she has all she can do," comments one of the women directors, who is standing by. a smiling strawberry student, who is passing, readily tells all that going to a garden school means. "each one of us has her own small plot of ground for which she is responsible. we have to plant it, care for it, and be marked on it. we all have special care of certain parts of the greenhouse, too, and each has a part of the nursery, the orchard and the vineyard. even the work that is too heavy for us we have to study about, so that we can direct helpers when the time comes. we have to understand every detail of it all. we have to keep a daily record of our work. this is the way to learn how long it takes for different seeds to germinate, and thus we watch the development of the fruits and flowers and vegetables. you see, the attendance at the school is limited to a small number; so each one of us receives a great deal of individual attention and help. "we learn simple carpentry, as part of the course, so that we shall be able to make window boxes, flats, cold frames and other articles that we need. we could even make a greenhouse, if we had to. we are taught the care and raising of poultry, we learn bee culture, and we have a course in landscape gardening. there is a course in canning and preserving, too, so that our fruits and berries can be disposed of in that way, if we should not be able to sell them outright, when we have the gardens of our own that we are all looking forward to." in the cozy cottage that serves as a dormitory, there is a large classroom, where the lectures in botany, entomology, soils and horticultural chemistry are given. there is a staff of instructors, all from well-known universities, and a master farmer to impart the practical everyday process of managing fields and orchards. special lectures are given frequently by experts in various subjects. in the cottage is a big, homelike living-room, where the girls read and sing and dance in the evening. each girl takes care of her own bedroom. the costumes worn by these garden students are durable, appropriate and most becoming. the school colors are the woodsy ones of brown and green, and the working garb is carried out in these colors. brown khaki or corduroy skirts, eight inches from the ground, with two large pockets, are worn under soft green smocks smocked in brown. the sweaters are brown or green, and there is a soft hat for winter and a large shade hat for summer. heavy working gloves and boots are provided, and a large apron with pockets goes with the outfit. all in all, you feel sure, as you go back down the "old lime-kiln road," that the motto of the school will be fulfilled in the life of each of its students: "so enter that daily thou mayst become more thoughtful and more learned. so depart that daily thou mayst become more useful to thyself and to all mankind." * * * * * (_boston transcript_) boys in search of jobs by raymond g. fuller one morning lately, if you had stood on kneeland street in sight of the entrance of the state free employment office, you would have seen a long line of boys--a hundred of them--waiting for the doors to open. they were of all sorts of racial extraction and of ages ranging through most of the teens. some you would have called ragamuffins, street urchins, but some were too well washed, combed and laundered for such a designation. some were eagerly waiting, some anxiously, some indifferently. some wore sober faces; some were standing soldierly stiff; but others were bubbling over with the spirits of their age, gossiping, shouting, indulging in colt-play. when they came out, some hustled away to prospective employers and others loitered in the street. disappointment was written all over some of them, from face to feet; on others the inscription was, "i don't care." two hundred boys applied for "jobs" at the employment office that day. half the number were looking for summer positions. others were of the vast army of boys who quit school for keeps at the eighth or ninth grade or thereabouts. several weeks before school closed the office had more than enough boy "jobs" to go around. with the coming of vacation time the ratio was reversed. the boy applicants were a hundred or two hundred daily. for the two hundred on the day mentioned there were fifty places. says mr. deady, who has charge of the department for male minors: "ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age, of all nationalities and beliefs, fresh from the influence of questionable home environment, boisterous and brimful of animation, without ideas and thoughtless to a marked degree--this is the picture of the ordinary boy who is in search of employment. he is without a care and his only thought, if he has one, is to obtain as high a wage as possible. it is safe to say that of the thousands of boys who apply annually at the employment office, two-thirds are between sixteen and eighteen years of age. before going further, we can safely say that twenty per cent of the youngest lads have left school only a few weeks before applying for work. approximately sixty per cent have not completed a course in the elementary grammar schools." the boy of foreign parentage seems to be more in earnest, more ambitious, than the american boy (not to quibble over the definition of the adjective "american"). walter l. sears, superintendent of the office in kneeland street, tells this story: an american youngster came in. "gotta job?" he asked. "yes, here is one"--referring to the card records--"in a printing office; four dollars a week." "'taint enough money. got anything else?" "here's a place in a grocery store--six dollars a week." "what time d'ye have to get to work in the morning?" "seven o'clock." "got anything else?" "here's something--errand boy--six a week, mornings at eight." "saturday afternoons off?" "nothing is said about it." "w-ell-l, maybe i'll drop around and look at it." american independence! an italian boy came in, looking for work. he was told of the printing office job. "all right. i'll take it." for what it is worth, it may be set down that a large proportion of the boy applicants carefully scrutinize the dollar sign when they talk wages. moreover, they are not unacquainted with that phrase concocted by those higher up, "the high cost of living." the compulsion of the thing, or the appeal of the phrase--which? the youthful unemployed, those who seek employment, would cast a good-sized vote in favor of "shoffer." a youngster comes to mr. sears. he wants to be a "shoffer." "why do you want to be a chauffeur?" "i don't know." "haven't you any reasons at all?" "no, sir." "isn't it because you have many times seen the man at the wheel rounding a corner in an automobile at a . clip and sailing down the boulevard at sixty miles an hour?" the boy's eyes light up with the picture. "isn't that it?" and the boy's eyes light up with discovery. "yes, i guess so." "well, have you ever seen the chauffeur at night, after being out all day with the car? overalls on, sleeves rolled up, face streaming with perspiration? repairing the mechanism, polishing the brass? tired to death?" "no, sir." the boy applicants seldom have any clear idea of the ultimate prospects in any line of work they may have in mind--as to the salary limit for the most expert, or the opportunities for promotion and the securing of an independent position. many of them have no preconceived idea even of what they want to do, to say nothing of what they ought to do. here is an instance. "i want a position," says a boy. "what kind of a position?" "i don't know." "haven't you ever thought about it?" "no." "haven't you ever talked it over at home or at school?" "no." "would you like to be a machinist?" "i don't know." "would you like to be a plumber?" "i don't know." similar questions, with similar answers, continue. finally: "would you like to be a doctor?" "i don't know--is that a good position?" sometimes a boy is accompanied to the office by his father. "my son is a natural-born electrician," the father boasts. "what has he done to show that?" "why, he's wired the whole house from top to bottom." it is found by further questions that the lad has installed a push-bell button at the front door and another at the back door. he had bought dry batteries, wire and buttons at a hardware store in a box containing full directions. it is nevertheless hard to convince the father that the boy may not be a natural-born electrician, after all. in frequent cases the father has not considered the limitations and opportunities in the occupation which he chooses for his son. mr. deady has this to say on the subject of the father's relation to the boy's "job": "the average boy while seeking employment in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is unaccompanied by either parent. such a condition is deplorable. it not only shows a lack of interest in the boy's welfare on the part of the parents, but also places the youthful applicant in an unfair position. oftentimes, owing to inexperience, a boy accepts a position without inquiring into the details and nature of the same. his main thought is the amount of the wage to be received. consequently there is but one obvious result. the hours are excessive, the work is beyond the boy's strength or is hazardous, and finally the lad withdraws without notice. it is this general apathy on the part of the parents of a boy, combined with over-zealousness on the part of an ordinary employer to secure boy labor for a mere trifle, that accounts for the instability of juvenile labor." the coming of vacation invariably brings a great influx of boys to the state employment office, some looking for summer work, others for permanent employment. most of them show lack of intelligent constructive thought on the matter in hand. few of them have had any counsel, or any valuable counsel from their parents or others. to mr. sears and his assistants--and they have become very proficient at it--is left the task of vocational guidance, within such limitations as those of time and equipment. what can be done to get the boy and his sponsors to thinking intelligently about the question of an occupation for the boy, with proper regard to their mutual fitness? superintendent sears has some suggestions to offer. in his opinion the subject of occupational choice should be debated thoroughly in the public schools. he favors the introduction of some plan embodying this idea in the upper grades of the grammar school, under conditions that would give each boy an opportunity to talk, and that would encourage him to consult his parents and teachers. the debates might be held monthly, and preparation should be required. experts or successful men in various occupations might be called in to address the pupils and furnish authoritative information. the questions debated should involve the advisability of learning a trade and the choice of a trade, and the same considerations with respect to the professions, the mercantile pursuits, and so on. the pupils should be allowed to vote on the merits of each question debated. by such a method, thinks mr. sears, the boys would gain the valuable training which debating gives, would devote considerable thought to the question of their future employment, would acquire much information, and would get their parents more interested in the matter than many of them are. * * * * * (_new york evening post_) girls and a camp now it is that many coveys of students are headed toward lake and mountain--just how it pays with the sudden plunge into a muggy heat, more suggestive of july than of the rare june weather of poets, there has begun the exodus of summer camp folk, those men and women who add to the slender salary of the teaching profession the additional income made by running camps for boys and girls during the long vacation. they stretch, these camps, in rapidly extending area from canada through maine and northern new england, into the adirondacks and the alleghenies, and then across toward the northwest and the rockies. it is quite safe to assert that there is not a private school of importance that does not take under its protection and support at least one such institution, while large numbers of teachers either own camps or assist in their management as instructors. one group, unmistakably the advance guard of a girls' camp, assembled at the grand central station on wednesday. there were two alert, dignified women, evidently the co-principals; a younger woman, who, at least so the tired suburban shopper decided, was probably the athletic instructor; two neat colored women, and a small girl of twelve, on tiptoe with excitement, talking volubly about the fun she would have when they got to the lake and when all the other girls arrived. her excited chatter also revealed the fact that father and mother had just sailed for europe, and, while she thought of them with regret, there was only pleasure in prospect as she started northward. there was much baggage to be attended to, and consultation over express and freight bills, with interesting references to tents, canoes, and tennis nets. success is an excellent testimonial, and there is no longer any need to point out the advantages of such camps for boys and girls. they fill a real place for the delicate, the lazy, or the backward, who must needs do extra work to keep up with their school grade, for those who otherwise would be condemned to hotel life, or for the children whose parents, because of circumstances, are compelled to spend the summer in cities. even the most jealously anxious of mothers are among the converts to the movement. as one said the other day of her only son, "yes, david will go to mr. d.'s camp again this summer. it will be his third year. i thought the first time that i simply could not part with him. i pictured him drowned or ill from poor food or severe colds. indeed, there wasn't a single terror i didn't imagine. but he enjoyed it so, and came home so well and happy, that i've never worried since." from the child's point of view, summer camps are a blessing, and, as such, they have come to stay. but there are those who doubt their benefits, even the financial ones, for the teachers, who mortgage their vacations to conduct them. unfortunately, as every one knows, almost every teacher has to mortgage her spare time in one way or another in order to make a more than bare living. call the roll of those whom you may know, and you will be surprised--no, scarcely surprised; merely interested--to find that nine-tenths of them do some additional work. it may be extra tutoring, hack writing, translating, the editing of school texts or the writing of text-books, taking agencies for this, that, or the other commodity, conducting travel parties, lecturing at educational institutes, running women's clubs, or organizing nature classes. some outside vocation is necessary if the teacher is to enjoy the advantages her training makes almost imperative, or the comforts her tired, nervous organism demands. so, as one philosopher was heard to remark, it is perhaps best to run a summer camp, since in the doing of it there is at least the advantage of being in the open and of leading a wholesomely sane existence. two good friends and fellow-teachers who have conducted a camp in northern maine for the last five years have been extremely frank in setting forth their experiences for the benefit of those who are standing on the brink of a similar venture. and their story is worth while, because from every point of view they have been successful. any pessimistic touches in their narrative cannot be laid at the door of failure. indeed, in their first year they cleared expenses, and that is rare; and their clientèle has steadily increased until now they have a camp of forty or more girls, at the very topmost of camp prices. again, as there were two of them and they are both versatile, they have needed little assistance; the mother of one has been house mother and general camp counsellor. with all this as optimistic preamble, let us hear their story. perhaps their first doubt arises with regard to the wear and tear of camp life upon those most directly responsible for its conduct. "for years we even refused to consider it," said the senior partner, "although urged by friends and would-be patrons, because we realized the unwisdom of working the year around and living continuously with school girls--but the inevitable happened. our income did not keep pace with our expenses, and it was start a camp or do something less agreeable. just at the psychological moment one of our insistent friends found the right spot, we concluded negotiations, and, behold, we are camp proprietors, not altogether sure, in our most uncompromisingly frank moments, that we have done the best thing." that a girls' camp is a far more difficult proposition than one for boys is evident on the face of it. mother may shed tears over parting with johnny, but, after all, he's a boy, and sooner or later must depend upon himself. but sister sue is another matter. can she trust any one else to watch over her in the matter of flannels and dry stockings? do these well-meaning but spinster teachers know the symptoms of tonsilitis, the first signs of a bilious attack, or the peculiarities of a spoiled girl's diet? and will not sue lose, possibly, some of the gentle manners and dainty ways inculcated at home, by close contact with divers other ways and manners? she is inclined to be skeptical, is mother. "and so," acknowledged the senior partner, "the first summer we were deluged by visits long and short from anxious ladies who could not believe on hearsay evidence that we knew how to care for their delicate daughters. they not only came, but they stayed, and as the nearest hotel was distant many devious miles of mountain road, we were forced to put them up; finally the maids had to sleep in the old barn, and we were camping on cots in the hall of the farmhouse which is our headquarters. naturally we had to be polite, for we were under the necessity of making a good impression that first year, but it was most distracting, for while they stayed they were unconsciously but selfishly demanding a little more than a fair share of time and attention for their daughters." and, indeed, all this maternal anxiety is not entirely misplaced. sue is a good deal harder to take care of than johnny. she needs a few more comforts, although camp life aims at eliminating all but the essentials of simple living. her clothes, even at a minimum, are more elaborate, which increases the difficulty of laundering, always a problem in camping. she is infinitely more dependent upon her elders for direction in the veriest a b c's of daily existence. "even the matter of tying a hair-ribbon or cleaning a pair of white canvas shoes is a mountain to a good many of my girls," said the successful camp counsellor. homesickness is "a malady most incident to maids." boys may suffer from it, but they suffer alone. if tears are shed they are shed in secret, lest the other fellows find it out. except in the case of the very little chaps, the masters are not disturbed. but girls have no such reserves; and the teachers in charge of twenty-five strange girls, many in the throes of this really distressing ailment, are not to be envied. "frankly speaking," went on the confession, "there isn't a moment of the day when we can dismiss them from our thoughts. are they swimming in charge of the director of athletics, a most capable girl, one of us must be there, too, because, should anything happen, we, and not she, are directly responsible. when the lesson hour is on, we not only teach, but must see that each girl's work is adapted to her needs, as they come from a dozen different schools. there are disputes to settle, plans for outings and entertainments to be made, games to direct, letters to the home folks to be superintended, or half the girls would never write at all, to say nothing of the marketing and housekeeping, and our own business correspondence, that has to be tucked into the siesta hour after luncheon. indeed, in the nine weeks of camp last summer i never once had an hour that i could call my very own." "and that is only the day's anxiety," sighed her colleague reflectively. "my specialty is prowling about at night to see that everybody is properly covered. not a girl among them would have sense enough to get up and close windows in case of rain, so i sleep with one ear pricked for the first patter on the roof. occasionally there are two or three who walk in their sleep, and i'm on pins and needles lest harm come to them, so i make my rounds to see that they're safe. oh, it is a peacefully placid existence, i assure you, having charge of forty darling daughters. some of them have done nothing for themselves in their entire lives, and what a splendid place camp is for such girls. but while they're learning we must be looking out for their sins of omission, such, for instance, as throwing a soaking wet bathing suit upon a bed instead of hanging it upon the line." these are some of the few worries that attach to the care of sensitive and delicately brought up girls that the boys' camp never knows. but if the financial return is adequate there will naturally be some compensation for all these pinpricks. here again the senior partner is inclined to hem and haw. "given a popular head of camp," says she, "who has been fortunate enough to secure a desirable site and a paying clientèle, and she will certainly not lose money. her summer will be paid for. however, that is not enough to reward her for the additional work and worry. camp work does not confine itself to the nine weeks of residence. there are the hours and days spent in planning and purchasing equipment, the getting out of circulars, the correspondence entailed and the subsequent keeping in touch with patrons." her own venture has so far paid its own way, and after the first year has left a neat margin of profit. but this profit, because of expansion, has immediately been invested in new equipment. this year, for example, there has been erected a bungalow for general living purposes. a dozen new tents and four canoes were bought, and two dirt tennis courts made. then each year there must be a general replenishing of dishes, table and bed linen, athletic goods, and furniture. the garden has been so enlarged that the semi-occasional man-of-all-work has been replaced by a permanent gardener. naturally, such extension does mean ultimate profit, and, given a few more years of continued prosperity, the summer will yield a goodly additional income. but the teacher who undertakes a camp with the idea that such money is easily made, is mistaken. one successful woman has cleared large sums, so large, indeed, that she has about decided to sever her direct connection with the private school where she has taught for years, and trust to her camp for a living. she has been so fortunate, it is but fair to explain, because her camp is upon a government reserve tract in canada, and she has had to make no large investment in land; nor does she pay taxes. desirable locations are harder to find nowadays and much more expensive to purchase. a fortunate pioneer in the movement bought seven acres, with five hundred feet of lake frontage, for three hundred dollars six years ago. that same land is worth ten times as much to-day. and the kind of woman who should attempt the summer camp for girls as a means of additional income? first of all, the one who really loves outdoor life, who can find in woods and water compensation for the wear and tear of summering with schoolgirls. again, she who can minimize the petty worries of existence to the vanishing point. and, last of all, she who has business acumen. for what does it profit a tired teacher if she fill her camp list and have no margin of profit for her weeks of hard labor? * * * * * _(saturday evening post)_ two half-tone reproductions of wash-drawings by a staff artist. your porter by edward hungerford he stands there at the door of his car, dusky, grinning, immaculate--awaiting your pleasure. he steps forward as you near him and, with a quick, intuitive movement born of long experience and careful training, inquires: "what space you got, guv'nor?" "lower five," you reply. "are you full-up, george?" "jus' toler'bul, guv'nor." he has your grips, is already slipping down the aisle toward section five. and, after he has stowed the big one under the facing bench and placed the smaller one by your side, he asks again: "shake out a pillow for you, guv'nor?" that "guv'nor," though not a part of his official training, is a part of his unofficial--his subtlety, if you please. another passenger might be the "kunnel"; still another, the "jedge." but there can be no other guv'nor save you on this car and trip. and george, of the pullmans, is going to watch over you this night as a mother hen might watch over her solitary chick. the car is well filled and he is going to have a hard night of it; but he is going to take good care of you. he tells you so; and, before you are off the car, you are going to have good reason to believe it. before we consider the sable-skinned george of to-day, give a passing thought to the pullman itself. the first george of the pullmans--george m. pullman--was a shrewd-headed carpenter who migrated from a western new york village out into illinois more than half a century ago and gave birth to the idea of railroad luxury at half a cent a mile. there had been sleeping cars before pullman built the pioneer, as he called his maiden effort. there was a night car, equipped with rough bunks for the comfort of passengers, on the cumberland valley railroad along about . other early railroads had made similar experiments, but they were all makeshifts and crude. pullman set out to build a sleeping car that would combine a degree of comfort with a degree of luxury. the pioneer, viewed in the eyes of , was really a luxurious car. it was as wide as the sleeping car of to-day and nearly as high; in fact, so high and so wide was it that there were no railroads on which it might run, and when pullman pleaded with the old-time railroad officers to widen the clearances, so as to permit the pioneer to run over their lines, they laughed at him. "it is ridiculous, mr. pullman," they told him smilingly in refusal. "people are never going to pay their good money to ride in any such fancy contraption as that car of yours." then suddenly they ceased smiling. all america ceased smiling. morse's telegraph was sobering an exultant land by telling how its great magistrate lay dead within the white house, at washington. and men were demanding a funeral car, dignified and handsome enough to carry the body of abraham lincoln from washington to springfield. suddenly somebody thought of the pioneer, which rested, a virtual prisoner, in a railroad yard not far from chicago. the pioneer was quickly released. there was no hesitation now about making clearances for her. almost in the passing of a night, station platforms and other obstructions were being cut away, and the first of all the pullman cars made a triumphant though melancholy journey to new york, to washington, and back again to illinois. abraham lincoln, in the hour of death--fifty years ago this blossoming spring of --had given birth to the pullman idea. the other day, while one of the brisk federal commissions down at washington was extending consideration to the pullman porter and his wage, it called to the witness stand the executive head of the pullman company. and the man who answered the call was robert t. lincoln, the son of abraham lincoln. when pullman built the pioneer he designated it a, little dreaming that eventually he might build enough cars to exhaust the letters of the alphabet. to-day the pullman company has more than six thousand cars in constant use. it operates the entire sleeping-car service and by far the larger part of the parlor-car service on all but half a dozen of the railroads of the united states and canada, with a goodly sprinkling of routes south into mexico. on an average night sixty thousand persons--a community equal in size to johnstown, pennsylvania, or south bend, indiana--sleep within its cars. and one of the chief excuses for its existence is the flexibility of its service. a railroad in the south, with a large passenger traffic in the winter, or a railroad in the north, with conditions reversed and travel running at high tide throughout the hot summer months, could hardly afford to place the investment in sleeping and parlor cars to meet its high-tide needs, and have those cars grow rusty throughout the long, dull months. the pullman company, by moving its extra cars backward and forward over the face of the land in regiments and in battalions, keeps them all earning money. it meets unusual traffic demands with all the resources of its great fleet of traveling hotels. last summer, when the knights templars held their convention in denver, it sent four hundred and fifty extra cars out to the capital of colorado. and this year it is bending its resources toward finding sufficient cars to meet the demands for the long overland trek to the expositions on the pacific coast. the transition from the pioneer to the steel sleeping car of today was not accomplished in a single step. a man does not have to be so very old or so very much traveled to recall the day when the pullman was called a palace ear and did its enterprising best to justify that title. it was almost an apotheosis of architectural bad taste. disfigured by all manner of moldings, cornices, grilles and dinky plush curtains--head-bumping, dust-catching, useless--it was a decorative orgy, as well as one of the very foundations of the newspaper school of humor. suddenly the pullman company awoke to the absurdity of it all. more than ten years ago it came to the decision that architecture was all right in its way, but that it was not a fundamental part of car building. it separated the two. it began to throw out the grilles and the other knickknacks, even before it had committed itself definitely to the use of the steel car. recently it has done much more. it has banished all but the very simplest of the moldings, and all the hangings save those that are absolutely necessary to the operation of the car. it has studied and it has experimented until it has produced in the sleeping car of to-day what is probably the most efficient railroad vehicle in the world. our foreign cousins scoff at it and call it immodest; but we may reserve our own opinion as to the relative modesty of some of their institutions. * * * * * this, however, is not the story of the pullman car. it is the story of that ebony autocrat who presides so genially and yet so firmly over it. it is the story of george the porter--the six thousand georges standing to-night to greet you and the other traveling folk at the doors of the waiting cars. and george is worthy of a passing thought. he was born in the day when the negro servant was the pride of america--when the black man stood at your elbow in the dining rooms of the greatest of our hotels; when a colored butler was the joy of the finest of the homes along fifth avenue or round rittenhouse square. transplanted, he quickly became an american institution. and there is many a man who avers that never elsewhere has there been such a servant as a good negro servant. fashions change, and in the transplanting of other social ideas the black man has been shoved aside. it is only in the pullman service that he retains his old-time pride and prestige. that company to-day might almost be fairly called his salvation, despite the vexing questions of the wages and tips of the sleeping-car porters that have recently come to the fore. yet it is almost equally true that the black man has been the salvation of the sleeping-car service. experiments have been made in using others. one or two of the canadian roads, which operate their own sleeping cars, have placed white men as porters; down in the southwest the inevitable mexicano has been placed in the familiar blue uniform. none of them has been satisfactory; and, indeed, it is not every negro who is capable of taking charge of a sleeping car. the pullman company passes by the west indians--the type so familiar to every man who has ridden many times in the elevators of the apartment houses of upper new york. it prefers to recruit its porters from certain of the states of the old south--georgia and the carolinas. it almost limits its choice to certain counties within those states. it shows a decided preference for the sons of its employees; in fact, it might almost be said that to-day there are black boys growing up down there in the cotton country who have come into the world with the hope and expectation of being made pullman car porters. the company that operates those cars prefers to discriminate--and it does discriminate. that is its first step toward service--the careful selection of the human factor. the next step lies in the proper training of that factor; and as soon as a young man enters the service of the pullmans he goes to school--in some one of the large railroad centers that act as hubs for that system. sometimes the school is held in one of the division offices, but more often it goes forward in the familiar aisle of a sleeping car, sidetracked for the purpose. its curriculum is unusual but it is valuable. one moment it considers the best methods to "swat the fly"--to drive him from the vehicle in which he is an unwelcome passenger; the next moment the class is being shown the proper handling of the linen closet, the proper methods of folding and putting away clean linen and blankets, the correct way of stacking in the laundry bags the dirty and discarded bedding. the porter is taught that a sheet once unfolded cannot be used again. though it may be really spotless, yet technically it is dirty; and it must make a round trip to the laundry before it can reenter the service. all these things are taught the sophomore porters by a wrinkled veteran of the service; and they are minutely prescribed in the voluminous rule book issued by the pullman company, which believes that the first foundation of service is discipline. so the school and the rule book do not hesitate at details. they teach the immature porter not merely the routine of making up and taking down beds, and the proper maintenance of the car, but they go into such finer things as the calling of a passenger, for instance. noise is tabooed, and so even a soft knocking on the top of the berth is forbidden. the porter must gently shake the curtains or the bedding from without. when the would-be porter is through in this schoolroom his education goes forward out on the line. under the direction of one of the grizzled autocrats he first comes in contact with actual patrons--comes to know their personalities and their peculiarities. also, he comes to know the full meaning of that overused and abused word--service. after all, here is the full measure of the job. he is a servant. he must realize that. and as a servant he must perfect himself. he must rise to the countless opportunities that will come to him each night he is on the run. he must do better--he must anticipate them. take such a man as eugene roundtree, who has been running a smoking car on one of the limited trains between new york and boston for two decades--save for that brief transcendent hour when charles s. mellen saw himself destined to become transportation overlord of new england and appropriated roundtree for a personal servant and porter of his private car. roundtree is a negro of the very finest type. he is a man who commands respect and dignity--and receives it. and roundtree, as porter of the pullman smoker on the merchants' limited, has learned to anticipate. he knows at least five hundred of the big bankers and business men of both new york and boston--though he knows the boston crowd best. he knows the men who belong to the somerset and the algonquin clubs--the men who are boston enough to pronounce peabody "pebbuddy." and they know him. some of them have a habit of dropping in at the new haven ticket offices and demanding: "is eugene running up on the merchants' to-night?" "it isn't just knowing them and being able to call them by their names," he will tell you if you can catch him in one of his rarely idle moments. "i've got to remember what they smoke and what they drink. when mr. blank tells me he wants a cigar it's my job to remember what he smokes and to put it before him. i don't ask him what he wants. i anticipate." and by anticipating roundtree approaches a sort of _n_th degree of service and receives one of the "fattest" of all the pullman runs. george sylvester is another man of the roundtree type--only his run trends to the west from new york instead of to the east, which means that he has a somewhat different type of patron with which to deal. sylvester is a porter on the twentieth century limited; and, like roundtree, he is a colored man of far more than ordinary force and character. he had opportunity to show both on a winter night, when his train was stopped and a drunken man--a man who was making life hideous for other passengers on sylvester's car--was taken from the train. the fact that the man was a powerful politician, a man who raved the direst threats when arrested, made the porter's job the more difficult. the pullman company, in this instance alone, had good cause to remember sylvester's force and courage--and consummate tact--just as it has good cause in many such episodes to be thankful for the cool-headedness of its black man in a blue uniform who stands in immediate control of its property. sylvester prefers to forget that episode. he likes to think of the nice part of the century's runs--the passengers who are quiet, and kind, and thoughtful, and remembering. they are a sort whom it is a pleasure for a porter to serve. they are the people who make an excess-fare train a "fat run." there are other fat runs, of course: the overland, the olympian, the congressional--and of general henry forrest, of the congressional, more in a moment--fat trains that follow the route of the century. it was on one of these, coming east from cleveland on a snowy night in february last, that a resourceful porter had full use for his store of tact; for there is, in the community that has begun to stamp sixth city on its shirts and its shoe tabs, a bank president who--to put the matter lightly--is a particular traveler. more than one black man, rising high in porter service, has had his vanity come to grief when this crotchety personage has come on his car. and the man himself was one of those who are marked up and down the pullman trails. an unwritten code was being transmitted between the black brethren of the sleeping cars as to his whims and peculiarities. it was well that every brother in service in the cleveland district should know the code. when mr. x entered his drawing-room--he never rides elsewhere in the car--shades were to be drawn, a pillow beaten and ready by the window, and matches on the window sill. x would never ask for these things; but god help the poor porter who forgot them! so you yourself can imagine the emotions of whittlesey warren, porter of the car thanatopsis, bound east on number six on the snowy february night when x came through the portals of that scarabic antique, the union depot at cleveland, a redcap with his grips in the wake. warren recognized his man. the code took good care as to that. he followed the banker down the aisle, tucked away the bags, pulled down the shades, fixed the pillow and placed the matches on the window sill. the banker merely grunted approval, lighted a big black cigar and went into the smoker, while warren gave some passing attention to the other patrons of his car. it was passing attention at the best; for after a time the little bell annunciator began to sing merrily and persistently at him--and invariably its commanding needle pointed to d.r. and on the drawing-room whittlesey warren danced a constant attention. "here, you nigger!" x shouted at the first response. "how many times have i got to tell all of you to put the head of my bed toward the engine?" whittlesey warren looked at the bed. he knew the make-up of the train. the code had been met. the banker's pillows were toward the locomotive. but his job was not to argue and dispute. he merely said: "yas-suh. scuse me!" and he remade the bed while x lit a stogy and went back to the smoker. that was at erie--erie, and the snow was falling more briskly than at cleveland. slowing into dunkirk, the banker returned and glanced through the car window. he could see by the snow against the street lamps that the train was apparently running in the opposite direction. his chubby finger went against the push button. whittlesey warren appeared at the door. the language that followed cannot be reproduced in the saturday evening post. suffice it to say that the porter remembered who he was and what he was, and merely remade the bed. the banker bit off the end of another cigar and retired once again to the club car. when he returned, the train was backing into the buffalo station. at that unfortunate moment he raised his car shade--and porter whittlesey warren again reversed the bed, to the accompaniment of the most violent abuse that had ever been heaped on his defenseless head. yet not once did he complain--he remembered that a servant a servant always is. and in the morning x must have remembered; for a folded bill went into warren's palm--a bill of a denomination large enough to buy that fancy vest which hung in a haberdasher's shop over on san juan hill. if you have been asking yourself all this while just what a fat run is, here is your answer: tips; a fine train filled with fine ladies and fine gentlemen, not all of them so cranky as x, of cleveland--thank heaven for that!--though a good many of them have their peculiarities and are willing to pay generously for the privilege of indulging those peculiarities. despite the rigid discipline of the pullman company the porter's leeway is a very considerable one. his instructions are never to say "against the rules!" but rather "i do not know what can be done about it"--and then to make a quick reference to the pullman conductor, who is his arbiter and his court of last resort. his own initiative, however, is not small. two newspaper men in new york know that. they had gone over to boston for a week-end, had separated momentarily at its end, to meet at the last of the afternoon trains for gotham. a had the joint finances and tickets for the trip; but b, hurrying through the traffic tangle of south station, just ninety seconds before the moment of departure, knew that he would find him already in the big pullman observation car. he was not asked to show his ticket at the train gate. boston, with the fine spirit of the tea party still flowing in its blue veins, has always resented that as a sort of railroad impertinence. b did not find a. he did not really search for him until back bay was passed and the train was on the first leg of its journey, with the next stop at providence. then it was that a was not to be found. then b realized that his side partner had missed the train. he dropped into a corner and searched his own pockets. a battered quarter and three pennies came to view--and the fare from boston to providence is ninety cents! then it was that the initiative of a well-trained pullman porter came into play. he had stood over the distressed b while he was making an inventory of his resources. "done los' something, boss?" said the autocrat of the car. b told the black man his story in a quick, straightforward manner; and the black man looked into his eyes. b returned the glance. perhaps he saw in that honest ebony face something of the expression of the faithful servants of wartime who refused to leave their masters even after utter ruin had come upon them. the porter drew forth a fat roll of bills. "ah guess dat, ef you-all'll give meh yo' business cyard, ah'll be able to fee-nance yo' trip dis time." to initiative the black man was adding intuition. he had studied his man. he was forever using his countless opportunities to study men. it was not so much of a gamble as one might suppose. a pretty well-known editor was saved from a mighty embarrassing time; and some other people have been saved from similarly embarrassing situations through the intuition and the resources of the pullman porter. the conductor--both of the train and of the sleeping-car service--is not permitted to exercise such initiative or intuition; but the porter can do and frequently does things of this very sort. his recompense for them, however, is hardly to be classed as a tip. the tip is the nub of the whole situation. almost since the very day when the pioneer began to blaze the trail of luxury over the railroads of the land, and the autocrat of the pullman car created his servile but entirely honorable calling, it has been a mooted point. recently a great federal commission has blazed the strong light of publicity on it. robert t. lincoln, son of the emancipator, and, as we have already said, the head and front of the pullman company, sat in a witness chair at washington and answered some pretty pointed questions as to the division of the porter's income between the company and the passenger who employed him. wages, it appeared, are twenty-seven dollars and a half a month for the first fifteen years of the porter's service, increasing thereafter to thirty dollars a month, slightly augmented by bonuses for good records. the porter also receives his uniforms free after ten years of service, and in some cases of long service his pay may reach forty-two dollars a month. the rest of his income is in the form of tips. and mr. lincoln testified that during the past year the total of these tips, to the best knowledge and belief of his company, had exceeded two million three hundred thousand dollars. the pullman company is not an eleemosynary institution. though it has made distinct advances in the establishment of pension funds and death benefits, it is hardly to be classed as a philanthropy. it is a large organization; and it generally is what it chooses to consider itself. sometimes it avers that it is a transportation company, at other times it prefers to regard itself as a hotel organization; but at all times it is a business proposition. it is not in business for its health. its dividend record is proof of that. all of which is a preface to the statement that the pullman company, like any other large user of labor, regulates its wage scale by supply and demand. if it can find enough of the colored brethren competent and willing and anxious to man its cars at twenty-seven dollars and a half a month--with the fair gamble of two or three or four times that amount to come in the form of tips--it is hardly apt to pay more. no wonder, then, the tip forms the nub of the situation. to-day all america tips. you tip the chauffeur in the taxi, the redcap in the station, the barber, the bootblack, the manicure, the boy or girl who holds your coat for you in the barber's shop or hotel. in the modern hotel tipping becomes a vast and complex thing--waiters, doormen, hat boys, chambermaids, bell boys, porters--the list seems almost unending. the system may be abominable, but it has certainly fastened itself on us--sternly and securely. and it may be said for the pullman car that there, at least, the tip comes to a single servitor--the black autocrat who smiles genially no matter how suspiciously he may, at heart, view the quarter you have placed within his palm. a quarter seems to be the standard pullman tip--for one person, each night he may be on the car. some men give more; some men--alas for poor george!--less. a quarter is not only average but fairly standard. it is given a certain official status by the auditing officers of many large railroads and industrial corporations, who recognize it as a chargeable item in the expense accounts of their men on the road. a man with a fat run--lower berths all occupied, with at least a smattering of riders in the uppers, night after night--ought to be able easily to put aside a hundred and fifty dollars a month as his income from this item. there are hundreds of porters who are doing this very thing; and there are at least dozens of porters who own real estate, automobiles, and other such material evidences of prosperity. a tip is not necessarily a humiliation, either to the giver or to the taker. on the contrary, it is a token of meritorious service. and the smart porter is going to take good care that he gives such service. but how about the porter who is not so smart--the man who has the lean run? as every butcher and every transportation man knows, there is lean with the fat. and it does the lean man little good to know that his fat brother is preparing to buy a secondhand automobile. on the contrary, it creates an anarchist--or at least a socialist--down under that black skin. here is lemuel--cursed with a lean run and yet trying to maintain at least an appearance of geniality. lemuel runs on a "differential" between new york, chicago and st. louis. every passenger-traffic man knows that most of the differentials--as the roads that take longer hours, and so are permitted to charge a slightly lower through fare between those cities, are called--have had a hard time of it in recent years. it is the excess-fare trains, the highest-priced carriers--which charge you a premium of a dollar for every hour they save in placing you in the terminal--that are the crowded trains. and the differentials have had increasing difficulty getting through passengers. it seems that in this day and land a man who goes from new york to chicago or st. louis is generally so well paid as to make it worth dollars to him to save hours in the journey. it is modern efficiency showing itself in railroad-passenger travel. but the differentials, having local territory to serve, as well as on account of some other reasons, must maintain a sleeping-car service--even at a loss. there is little or no loss to the pullman company--you may be sure of that! the railroad pays it a mileage fee for hauling a half or three-quarter empty car over its own line--in addition to permitting the pullman system to take all the revenue from the car; but lemuel sees his end of the business as a dead loss. he leaves new york at two-thirty o'clock on monday afternoon, having reported at his car nearly three hours before so as to make sure that it is properly stocked and cleaned for its long trip. he is due at st. louis at ten-fifteen on tuesday evening--though it will be nearly two hours later before he has checked the contents of the car and slipped off to the bunking quarters maintained there by his company. on wednesday evening at seven o'clock he starts east and is due in new york about dawn on friday morning. he cleans up his car and himself, and gets to his little home on the west side of manhattan island sometime before noon; but by noon on saturday he must be back at his car, making sure that it is fit and ready by two-thirty o'clock--the moment the conductor's arm falls--and they are headed west again. this time the destination is chicago, which is not reached until about six o'clock sunday night. he bunks that night in the windy city and then spends thirty-two hours going back again to new york. he sees his home one more night; then he is off to st. louis again--started on a fresh round of his eternal schedule. talk of tips to lemuel! his face lengthens. you may not believe it, white man, but lemuel made fifty-three cents in tips on the last trip from new york to chicago. you can understand the man who gave him the columbian antique; but lemuel believes there can be no future too warm for that skinny man who gave him the three pennies! he thinks the gentleman might at least have come across with a subway ticket. it is all legal tender to him. all that saves this porter's bacon is the fact that he is in charge of the car--for some three hundred miles of its eastbound run he is acting as sleeping-car conductor, for which consolidated job he draws down a proportionate share of forty-two dollars a month. this is a small sop, however, to lemuel. he turns and tells you how, on the last trip, he came all the way from st. louis to new york--two nights on the road--without ever a "make-down," as he calls preparing a berth. no wonder then that he has difficulty in making fifty dollars a month, with his miserable tips on the lean run. nor is that all. though lemuel is permitted three hours' sleep--on the bunk in the washroom on the long runs--from midnight to three o'clock in the morning, there may come other times when his head begins to nod. and those are sure to be the times when some lynx-eyed inspector comes slipping aboard. biff! bang! pullman discipline is strict. something has happened to lemuel's pay envelope, and his coffee-colored wife in west twenty-ninth street will not be able to get those gray spats until they are clean gone out of style. what can be done for lemuel? he must bide his time and constantly make himself a better servant--a better porter, if you please. it will not go unnoticed. the pullman system has a method for noticing those very things--inconsequential in themselves but all going to raise the standard of its service. then some fine day something will happen. a big sleeping-car autocrat, in the smugness and false security of a fat run, is going to err. he is going to step on the feet of some important citizen--perhaps a railroad director--and the important citizen is going to make a fuss. after which lemuel, hard-schooled in adversity, in faithfulness and in courtesy, will be asked in the passing of a night to change places with the old autocrat. and the old autocrat, riding in the poverty of a lean run, will have plenty of opportunity to count the telegraph poles and reflect on the mutability of men and things. the pullman company denies that this is part of its system; but it does happen--time and time and time again. george, or lemuel, or alexander--whatever the name may be--has no easy job. if you do not believe that, go upstairs some hot summer night to the rear bedroom--that little room under the blazing tin roof which you reserve for your relatives--and make up the bed fifteen or twenty times, carefully unmaking it between times and placing the clothes away in a regular position. let your family nag at you and criticize you during each moment of the job--while somebody plays an obbligato on the electric bell and places shoes and leather grips underneath your feet. imagine the house is bumping and rocking--and keep a smiling face and a courteous tongue throughout all of it! or do this on a bitter night in midwinter; and between every two or three makings of the bed in the overheated room slip out of a linen coat and into a fairly thin serge one and go and stand outside the door from three to ten minutes in the snow and cold. in some ways this is one of the hardest parts of george's job. racially the negro is peculiarly sensitive to pneumonia and other pulmonary diseases; yet the rules of a porter's job require that at stopping stations he must be outside of the car--no matter what the hour or condition of the climate--smiling and ready to say: "what space you got, guv'nor?" however, the porter's job, like nearly every other job, has its glories as well as its hardships--triumphs that can be told and retold for many a day to fascinated colored audiences; because there are special trains--filled with pursy and prosperous bankers from hartford and rochester and terre haute--making the trip from coast to coast and back again, and never forgetting the porter at the last hour of the last day. there are many men in the pullman service like roger pryor, who has ridden with every recent president of the land and enjoyed his confidence and respect. and then there is general henry forrest, of the congressional limited, for twenty-four years in charge of one of its broiler cars, who stops not at presidents but enjoys the acquaintance of senators and ambassadors almost without number. the general comes to know these dignitaries by their feet. when he is standing at the door of his train under the pennsylvania terminal, in new york, he recognizes the feet as they come poking down the long stairs from the concourse. and he can make his smile senatorial or ambassadorial--a long time in advance. once forrest journeyed in a private car to san francisco, caring for a certain big man. he took good care of the certain big man--that was part of his job. he took extra good care of the certain big man--that was his opportunity. and when the certain big man reached the golden gate he told henry forrest that he had understood and appreciated the countless attentions. the black face of the porter wrinkled into smiles. he dared to venture an observation. "ah thank you, jedge!" said he. "an' ef it wouldn't be trespassin' ah'd lak to say dat when yo' comes home you's gwine to be president of dese united states." the certain big man shook his head negatively; but he was flattered nevertheless. he leaned over and spoke to henry forrest. "if ever i am president," said he, "i will make you a general." and so it came to pass that on the blizzardy dakota-made day when william howard taft was inaugurated president of these united states there was a parade--a parade in which many men rode in panoply and pride; but none was prouder there than he who, mounted on a magnificent bay horse, headed the philippine band. a promise was being kept. the bay horse started three times to bolt from the line of march, and this was probably because its rider was better used to the pompeian-red broiler car than to a pompeian-red bay mare. but these were mere trifles. despite them--partly because of them perhaps--the younger brethren at the terminals were no longer to address the veteran from the congressional merely as mr. forrest. he was general forrest now--a title he bears proudly and which he will carry with him all the long years of his life. what becomes of the older porters? sometimes, when the rush of the fast trains, the broken nights, the exposure and the hard, hard work begin to be too much for even sturdy afric frames, they go to the "super" and beg for the "sick man's run"--a leisurely sixty or a hundred miles a day on a parlor car, perhaps on a side line where travel is light and the parlor car is a sort of sentimental frippery; probably one of the old wooden cars: the alicia, or the lucille, or the celeste, still vain in bay windows and grilles, and abundant in carvings. for a sentimental frippery may be given a feminine name and may bear her years gracefully--even though she does creak in all her hundred joints when the track is the least bit uneven. as to the sick man's tips, the gratuity is no less a matter of keen interest and doubt at sixty than it is at twenty-six. and though there is a smile under that clean mat of kinky white hair, it is not all habit--some of it is still anticipation. but quarters and half dollars do not come so easily to the old man in the parlor car as to his younger brother on the sleepers, or those elect who have the smokers on the fat runs. to the old men come dimes instead--some of them miserable affairs bearing on their worn faces the faint presentments of the ruler on the north side of lake erie and hardly redeemable in baltimore or cincinnati. yet even these are hardly to be scorned--when one is sixty. after the sick man's job? perhaps a sandy farm on a carolina hillside, where an old man may sit and nod in the warm sun, and dream of the days when steel cars were new--perhaps of the days when the platform-vestibule first went bounding over the rails--may dream and nod; and then, in his waking moments, stir the pickaninnies to the glories of a career on a fast train and a fat run. for if it is true that any white boy has the potential opportunity of becoming president of the united states, it is equally true that any black boy may become the autocrat of the pullman car. * * * * * _(the independent)_ the gentle art of blowing bottles and the story of how sand is melted into glass by f. gregory hartswick remedies for our manifold ills; the refreshment that our infant lips craved; coolness in time of heat; yes--even tho july st has come and gone--drafts to assuage our thirst; the divers stays and supports of our declining years--all these things come in bottles. from the time of its purchase to the moment of its consignment to the barrel in the cellar or the rapacious wagon of the rag-and-bone man the bottle plays a vital part in our lives. and as with most inconspicuous necessities, but little is known of its history. we assume vaguely that it is blown--ever since we saw the bohemian glass blowers at the world's fair we have known that glass is blown into whatever shape fancy may dictate--but that is as far as our knowledge of its manufacture extends. as a matter of fact the production of bottles in bulk is one of the most important features of the glass industry of this country today. the manufacture of window glass fades into insignficance before the hugeness of the bottle-making business; and even the advent of prohibition, while it lessens materially the demand for glass containers of liquids, does not do so in such degree as to warrant very active uneasiness on the part of the proprietors of bottle factories. the process of manufacture of the humble bottle is a surprizingly involved one. it includes the transportation and preparation of raw material, the reduction of the material to a proper state of workability, and the shaping of the material according to design, before the bottle is ready to go forth on its mission. the basic material of which all glass is made is, of course, sand. not the brown sand of the river-bed, the well remembered "sandy bottom" of the swimmin' hole of our childhood, but the finest of white sand from the prehistoric ocean-beds of our country. this sand is brought to the factory and there mixed by experts with coloring matter and a flux to aid the melting. on the tint of the finished product depends the sort of coloring agent used. for clear white glass, called flint glass, no color is added. the mixing of a copper salt with the sand gives a greenish tinge to the glass; amber glass is obtained by the addition of an iron compound; and a little cobalt in the mixture gives the finished bottle the clear blue tone that used to greet the waking eye as it searched the room for something to allay that morning's morning feeling. the flux used is old glass--bits of shattered bottles, scraps from the floor of the factory. this broken glass is called "cullet," and is carefully swept into piles and kept in bins for use in the furnaces. the sand, coloring matter, and cullet, when mixed in the proper proportions, form what is called in bottle-makers' talk the "batch" or "dope." this batch is put into a specially constructed furnace--a brick box about thirty feet long by fifteen wide, and seven feet high at the crown of the arched roof. this furnace is made of the best refractory blocks to withstand the fierce heat necessary to bring the batch to a molten state. the heat is supplied by various fuels--producer-gas is the most common, tho oil is sometimes used. the gas is forced into the furnace and mixed with air at its inception; when the mixture is ignited the flame rolls down across the batch, and the burnt gases pass out of the furnace on the other side. the gases at their exit pass thru a brick grating or "checkerboard," which takes up much of the heat; about every half hour, by an arrangement of valves, the inlet of the gas becomes the outlet, and vice versa, so that the heat taken up by the checkerboard is used instead of being dissipated, and as little of the heat of combustion is lost as is possible. the batch is put into the furnace from the rear; as it liquefies it flows to the front, where it is drawn off thru small openings and blown into shape. the temperature in the furnace averages about degrees fahrenheit; it is lowest at the rear, where the batch is fed in, and graduates to its highest point just behind the openings thru which the glass is drawn off. this temperature is measured by special instruments called thermal couples--two metals joined and placed in the heat of the flame. the heat sets up an electric current in the joined metals, and this current is read on a galvanometer graduated to read degrees fahrenheit instead of volts, so that the temperature may be read direct. all furnaces for the melting of sand for glass are essentially the same in construction and principle. the radical differences in bottle manufacturing appear in the methods used in drawing off the glass and blowing it into shape. glass is blown by three methods: hand-blowing, semi-automatic blowing, and automatic blowing. the first used was the hand method, and tho the introduction of machines is rapidly making the old way a back number, there are still factories where the old-time glass blower reigns supreme. one of the great centers of the bottle industry in the united states is down in the southern end of new jersey. good sand is dug there--new jersey was part of the bed of the atlantic before it literally rose to its present state status--and naturally the factories cluster about the source of supply of material. within a radius of thirty miles the investigator may see bottles turned out by all three methods. the hand-blowing, while it is the slowest and most expensive means of making bottles, is by far the most picturesque. imagine a long, low, dark building--dark as far as daylight is concerned, but weirdly lit by orange and scarlet flashes from the great furnaces that crouch in its shelter. at the front of each of these squatting monsters, men, silhouetted against the fierce glow from the doors, move about like puppets on wires--any noise they may make is drowned in the mastering roar of the fire. a worker thrusts a long blowpipe (in glassworkers' terminology a wand) into the molten mass in the furnace and twirls it rapidly. the end of the wand, armed with a ball of refractory clay, collects a ball of semi-liquid glass; the worker must estimate the amount of glass to be withdrawn for the particular size of the bottle that is to be made. this ball of glowing material is withdrawn from the furnace; the worker rolls it on a sloping moldboard, shaping it to a cylinder, and passes the wand to the blower who is standing ready to receive it. the blower drops the cylinder of glass into a mold, which is held open for its reception by yet another man; the mold snaps shut; the blower applies his mouth to the end of the blowpipe; a quick puff, accompanied by the drawing away of the wand, blows the glass to shape in the mold and leaves a thin bubble of glass protruding above. the mold is opened; the shaped bottle, still faintly glowing, is withdrawn with a pair of asbestos-lined pincers, and passed to a man who chips off the bubble on a rough strip of steel, after which he gives the bottle to one who sits guarding a tiny furnace in which oil sprayed under pressure roars and flares. the rough neck of the bottle goes into the flame; the raw edges left when the bubble was chipped off are smoothed away by the heat; the neck undergoes a final polishing and shaping twirl in the jaws of a steel instrument, and the bottle is laid on a little shelf to be carried away. it is shaped, but not finished. the glass must not be cooled too quickly, lest it be brittle. it must be annealed--cooled slowly--in order to withstand the rough usage to which it is to be subjected. the annealing process takes place in a long, brick tunnel, heated at one end, and gradually cooling to atmospheric temperature at the other. the bottles are placed on a moving platform, which slowly carries them from the heated end to the cool end. the process takes about thirty hours. at the cool end of the annealing furnace the bottle is met by the packers and is made ready for shipment. these annealing furnaces are called "lehrs" or "leers"--either spelling is correct--and the most searching inquiry failed to discover the reason for the name. they have always been called that, and probably always will be. in the hand-blowing process six men are needed to make one bottle. there must be a gatherer to draw the glass from the furnace; a blower; a man to handle the mold; a man to chip off the bubble left by the blower; a shaper to finish the neck of the bottle; and a carrier-off to take the completed bottles to the lehr. usually the gatherer is also the blower, in which case two men are used, one blowing while the other gathers for his turn; but on one platform i saw the somewhat unusual sight of one man doing all the blowing while another gathered for him. the pair used two wands, so that their production was the same as tho two men were gathering and blowing. this particular blower was making quart bottles, and he was well qualified for the job. he weighed, at a conservative estimate, two hundred and fifty pounds, and when he blew something had to happen. i arrived at his place of labor just as the shifts were being changed--a glass-furnace is worked continuously, in three eight-hour shifts--and as the little whistle blew to announce the end of his day's toil the giant grabbed the last wand, dropped it into the waiting mold, and blew a mighty blast. a bubble of glass sprang from the mouth of the mold, swelled to two feet in diameter, and burst with a bang, filling the air with shimmering flakes of glass, light enough to be wafted like motes. when the shining shower had settled and i had opened my eyes--it would not be pleasant to get an eyeful of those beautiful scraps--the huge blower was diminishing in perspective toward his dinner, and the furnace door was, for the moment, without its usual hustling congregation of workers. i made bold to investigate the platform. close to me glared the mouth of the furnace, with masses of silver threads depending from it like the beard of some fiery gulleted ogre--the strings of glass left by the withdrawal of the wand. the heat three feet away was enough to make sand melt and run like water, but i was not unpleasantly warm. this was because i stood at the focus of three tin pipes, thru which streams of cold air, fan-impelled, beat upon me. without this cooling agent it would be impossible for men to work so close to the heat of the molten glass. later, in the cool offices of the company, where the roar of the furnaces penetrated only as a dull undertone, and electric fans whizzed away the heat of the summer afternoon, i learned more of the technique of the bottle industry. each shape demanded by the trade requires a special mold, made of cast iron and cut according to the design submitted. there are, of course, standard shapes for standard bottles; these are alluded to (reversing the usual practise of metonymy) by using thing contained for container, as "ginger ales," "olives," "mustards," "sodas" and (low be it spoken) "beers." but when a firm places an order for bottles of a particular shape, or ones with lettering in relief on the glass, special molds must be made; and after the lot is finished the molds are useless till another order for that particular design comes in. a few standard molds are made so that plates with lettering can be inserted for customers who want trademarks or firm names on their bottles; but the great majority of the lettered bottles have their own molds, made especially for them and unable to be used for any other lot. all bottles are blown in molds; it is in the handling of the molten glass and the actual blowing that machinery has come to take the place of men in the glass industry. the first type of machine to be developed was for blowing the bottle and finishing it, thus doing away with three of the six men formerly employed in making one bottle. in appearance the bottle-blowing machine is merely two circular platforms, revolving in the same horizontal plane, each carrying five molds. one of the platforms revolves close to the furnace door, and as each mold comes around it automatically opens and the gatherer draws from the furnace enough glass for the bottle which is being made at the time, and places it in the mold. the mold closes, and the platform turns on, bringing around another mold to the gatherer. meanwhile a nozzle has snapped down over the first mold, shaping the neck of the bottle, and beginning the blowing. as the mold comes to a point diametrically opposite the furnace door it opens again, and a handler takes the blank, as the bottle is called at this stage, and places it in a mold on the second revolving platform. this mold closes and compressed air blows out the bottle as the platform revolves. as the mold comes around to the handler again it opens and the handler takes out the finished bottle, replacing it with a new blank drawn from the mold on the first platform. this operation necessitates only three men--a gatherer, a handler, and a carrier-off. it is also much faster than the old method--an average of about forty bottles per minute as against barely twenty. a newer development of this machine does away with the gatherer. a long rod of refractory clay is given a churning movement in the mouth of the furnace, forcing the molten glass thru a tube. as enough glass for one bottle appears at the mouth of the tube a knife cuts the mass and the blob of glass falls into a trough which conveys it to the blank mold. by an ingenious device the same trough is made to feed three or four machines at one time. as many as fifty bottles a minute can be turned out by this combination blowing machine and feeder. but the apotheosis of bottle-making is to be seen in another factory in the south jersey district. here it is the boast of the superintendents that from the time the sand goes out of the freight cars in which it is brought to the plant till the finished bottle is taken by the packer, no human hand touches the product; and their statement is amply confirmed by a trip thru the plant. the sand, coloring matter and cullet are in separate bins; an electrical conveyor takes enough of each for a batch to a mixing machine; from there the batch goes on a long belt to the furnace. at the front of the furnace, instead of doors or mouths, is a revolving pan, kept level full with the molten glass. outside the furnace revolves a huge machine with ten arms, each of which carries its own mold and blowpipe. as each arm passes over the pan in the furnace the proper amount of glass is sucked into the mold by vacuum; the bottle is blown and shaped in the course of one revolution, and the mold, opening, drops the finished bottle into a rack which carries it to the lehr on a belt. it passes thru the lehr to the packers; and as each rack is emptied of its bottles the packers place it again on the belt, which carries it up to the machine, where it collects its cargo of hot bottles and conducts it again thru the lehr. the entire plant--mixing, feeding, actually making the bottles, delivery to the lehr, and packing--is synchronized exactly. men unload the cars of sand--men pack the bottles. the intermediate period is entirely mechanical. the plant itself is as well lighted and ventilated as a department store, and except in the immediate vicinity of the furnace there is no heat felt above the daily temperature. the machines average well over a bottle a second, and by an exceedingly clever arrangement of electrical recording appliances an accurate record of the output of each machine, as well as the temperatures of the furnaces and lehrs, is kept in the offices of the company. the entire equipment is of the most modern, from the boilers and motors in the power-plant and producer-gas-plant to the packing platforms. in addition, the plant boasts a complete machine shop where all the molds are made and the machines repaired. it is a far cry from human lung-power to the super-efficient machinery of the new plants; but it is the logical progress of human events, applying to every product of man's hands, from battleships to--bottles. * * * * * special feature articles (_new york world_) one illustration, a half-tone reproduction of a photograph of the exterior of the theater. the neighborhood playhouse a gift to the east side--how the settlement work of misses irene and alice lewisohn has culminated at last in a real theatre--its attractions and educational value the piece is the biblical "jephthah's daughter," adapted from the book of judges. the hero, "a mighty man of valor," has conquered the enemies of his people. there is great rejoicing over his victory, for the tribe of israel has been at its weakest. but now comes payment of the price of conquest. the leader of the victorious host promised to yield to god as a burnt sacrifice "whatsoever cometh forth from the doors of my house to meet me when i return from battle." and his daughter came forth. in the last act, the girl herself, young and beautiful, advances toward the altar on which fagots have been piled high. in her hand is the lighted torch which is to kindle her own death fire. the chorus chants old hebraic melodies. even the audience joins in the singing. the play takes on the aspect of an ancient religious ceremonial. old men and women are in tears, moved by the sad history of their race, forgetful of the horror of human sacrifice in the intensity of their religious fervor. such is the artistry of the piece; such the perfection of its production. yet this is no professional performance, but the work of amateurs. it is the opening night of the new community theatre of new york's densely populated east side. at no. grand street it stands, far away from broadway's theatrical district--a low-lying, little georgian building. it is but three stories high, built of light red brick, and finished with white marble. all around garish millinery shops display their showy goods. peddlers with pushcarts lit by flickering flames, vie with each other in their array of gaudy neckties and bargain shirtwaists. blazing electric signs herald the thrills of movie shows. and, salient by the force of extreme contrast, a plain little white posterboard makes its influence felt. it is lit by two iron lanterns, and reads simply, "the neighborhood playhouse." the misses irene and alice lewisohn of no. fifth avenue have built this theatre. it is their gift to the neighborhood, and symbolizes the culmination of a work which they have shared with the neighborhood's people. eight years ago the henry street settlement started its scheme of festivals and pantomimes, portraying through the medium of color, song, and dance such vague ideas as "impressions of spring." it was the boys and girls of the settlement who performed in these pantomimes. it was they who made the costumes, painted the necessary scenery, sang and danced. and both daughters of the late leonard lewisohn were always interested and active in promoting this work. out of it, in due time, there developed, quite naturally, a dramatic club. plays were given in the settlement gymnasium--full-grown pieces like "the silver box," by john galsworthy, and inspiring dramas like "the shepherd," a plea for russian revolutionists, by an american author, miss olive tilford dargan. such was the emotional response of the neighborhood to this drama that four performances had to be given at clinton hall; and as a result a substantial sum of money was forwarded to "the friends of russian freedom." then, in , came the famous pageant, which roused the entire district to a consciousness of itself--its history, its dignity and also its possibilities. that portion of the east side which surrounds the henry street settlement has seen many an invasion since the days when the dutch first ousted the indians. english, quakers, scotch have come and gone, leaving traces more or less distinct. the irish have given place to the italians, who have been replaced by the russians. in the pageant of all these settlers were represented by artistically clad groups who paraded the streets singing and dancing. no hall could have held the audience which thronged to see this performance; no host of matinée worshippers could have rivalled it in fervor of appreciation. when the misses lewisohn, then, built their new playhouse in grand street, it was not with the intention of rousing, but rather of satisfying, an artistic demand among the people of the neighborhood. and in the new home are to be continued all the varied activities of which the henry street settlement festival and dramatic clubs were but the centre. it is to be a genuine community enterprise in which each boy and girl will have a share. miss alice lewisohn herself thus expresses its many-sided work: "the costume designers and makers, fashioners of jewelry, painters and composers, musicians and seamstresses, as well as actors and directors, will contribute their share in varying degree. "putting aside for a moment the higher and artistic development which such work must bring, there is the craftsman side, too, which has practical value. the young men will become familiar with all the handiwork of the theatre, the construction and handling of scenery, the electrical equipment and its varied uses. it will be conceded, i think, that in this respect the community playhouse is really a college of instruction in the craft of the stage." it is a college with a very efficient and well-trained staff of professors. mrs. sarah cowell le moyne, already well known as a teacher of elocution and acting, will be one of its members. miss grace griswold, an experienced co-worker of the late augustine daly, will act as manager. the pupils of this novel school are to have amusement as well as work. the third floor has been planned to meet many more requirements than are usually considered in a theatre. across the front runs a large rehearsal room, large enough to make a fine dance hall when occasion demands. here, too, is a kitchenette which will be used to serve refreshments when social gatherings are in progress or when an over-long rehearsal tires out the cast. in warm weather the flat-tiled roof will be used as a playground. it will be the scene, too, of many open air performances. the neighborhood playhouse has been open only a few weeks. already it is in full swing. on the nights when the regular players do not appear the programme consists of motion pictures and music. there is a charming informality and ease about these entertainments; there is also genuine art, and a whole-hearted appreciation on the part of the neighborhood's people. * * * * * (_new york evening post_) the singular story of the mosquito man by helen bullitt lowry "now you just hold up a minute"--the bungalow-owner waved an indignant hand at the man in the little car chug-chugging over the bumpy road. "now i just want to tell you," he protested, "that a mosquito got into my room last night and bit me, and i want you to know that this has happened three times this week. i want it to stop." the man in the car had jumped out, and was turning an animated, and aggressive, but not at all provoked, face on the complainer. "are you certain your drains are not stopped up?" he asked. "oh, those drains are all right. it's that damp hollow over in miss k's woods that's making the trouble." "i'll go there immediately," said the aggressive one. "she promised me she would fill that place this week." "all right, then," answered the placated bungalow-owner, "i thought you'd fix it up if you found out about it. i certainly wouldn't have bought around darien if you had not cleared this place of mosquitoes." the aggressive one plunged into the connecticut woods and began his search for possible mosquito-breeding spots. he was the "mosquito man," the self-appointed guardian of the connecticut coast from stamford to westport. he was not born a mosquito man at all--in fact, he did not become one until he was forty years old and had retired from business because he had made enough money to rest and "enjoy life." but he did not rest, and did not get enjoyment, for the mosquitoes had likewise leased his place on the sound and were making good their title. came then big fat mosquitoes from the swamp. came mosquitoes from the salt marshes. some lighted on the owner's nose and some looked for his ankles, and found them. three days of this sort of rest made him decide to move away. then, because he was aggressive, he became the mosquito man. the idea occurred to him when he had gone over to a distant island and was watching the building of houses. "this place," he said to the head carpenter, "is going to be a little heaven." "more like a little other place," growled the head carpenter. "here they've dug out the centre of the island and carted it to the beach to make hills for the houses to be built on. one good rain will fill their little heaven with mosquitoes. why don't the people around here drain their country?" that night the mosquito man telephoned to a drainage expert in new york and demanded that he come out the next day. "i don't like to work on sunday," the expert objected. "it is absolutely essential that you come at once," he was told. "can you take the first train?" the first train and the expert arrived in darien at : . before the day was over a contract had been drawn up to the purport that the expert would drain the salt marshes between stamford and south norwalk for $ , . the mosquito man now began to talk mosquitoes to every one who would listen and to many who did not want to listen. "that bug," the old settlers called him at the time--for old settlers are very settled in their ways. the young women at the country club, whenever they saw him coming, made bets as to whether he would talk mosquitoes--and he always did. every property-owner in the township was asked for a subscription, and some gave generously and some gave niggardly and some did not give at all. the subscriptions were voluntary, for no one could be forced to remove a mosquito-breeding nuisance from his property. this was in , and only in has a mosquito law been passed in connecticut. the mosquito man was forced to use "indirect influence," which does not expedite matters. a subscription of $ , came from the big land corporation of the neighborhood, after the "indirect influence" had rather forcibly expressed itself. "i want $ , from you," said the mosquito man to the representative of the president--the president was in south america. the representative laughed, so the mosquito man spent several days explaining to him why property is more valuable when it is not infested with pests. but every time that the $ , was mentioned, the representative could not restrain the smile. "well," the mosquito man said, at last, "i will make the drainage on your property anyway, and it will cost me $ , . if you want it left you will have to pay me every cent of the $ , , not just the $ , that i am asking now. otherwise i shall fill up my ditches and let you enjoy your mosquitoes." the representative did not laugh at this, but cabled the president in south america. as the president had just been at panama, and had seen the mosquito extermination work, the $ , subscription came back by return cable. the darien board of health also was a spot against which in direct influence was knocking, for it was a rich board of health with $ at its disposal--and the mosquito man wanted that appropriation to flaunt in the faces of the old settlers. "god sent mosquitoes," objected one member of the board of health, "and it is going in the face of providence to try to get rid of them." all in all, the money was raised. some whom he asked for $ gave $ , and some whom he asked for $ gave $ , and some millionaires did not give at all--but a sail-maker is still telling proudly of how he gave $ , and "i haven't regretted a cent of it since." the draining now commenced, and the expert and the mosquito man were of the same stripe. the work was completed in six weeks. just about this time people stopped calling the mosquito man "a bug," and the members of the country club even tried to make him talk mosquitoes to them, while the sail-maker felt sure that his $ had done the whole job. hammocks were swung out in the yards--and a hammock hung outside of the screens is the barometer of the mosquito condition. the mosquito man was feeling very satisfied the night he went to a dance at the country club. but the east wind blew in the mosquitoes from the norwalk marshes. "it was the most embarrassing experience i have ever had," said the mosquito man. "i sat right behind a big fat lady whose dress was very low and i watched the mosquitoes bite her; her whole back was covered with red lumps. that night i telegraphed to the man who had done the draining and he telegraphed back that all of norwalk township must be drained." norwalk proved to be a much severer task than darien. in darien the mosquito man had found only indifference and prejudice; in norwalk he met active opposition. property owners and city councils seem to be afraid that the value of property will be brought down if any sanitation scandal is advertised. it really appeared to be simpler and better business to ignore the fact. to do away with this opposition, the mosquito man handled his campaign in a popular manner. the cooperation of the newspapers was gained and every day he published articles on the mosquito question; some of the articles were educational and others were facetious--while one came out that brought the property owners crying "murder" about his ears. this was the article in which he gave the statistics of norwalk's health rate in comparison with other connecticut towns. the smallest subscriptions were encouraged, for, after a man has given a dollar to a cause, that cause is his. many a child was received with a welcoming smile when he brought to the campaign offices a ten-cent donation. true, ten-cent donations were not suggested to adult contributors, and the mosquito man did much to induce the well-to-do citizens to subscribe according to their means. he still tells with relish of the club of women which took up a collection, after his talk, and presented him with two dollars, in small change. "the women, though, were my greatest help," he adds; "i found that the women are as a rule better citizens than the men and are glad to be organized to fight the mosquito and fly menace. of course, i found some uneducated ones that owned a piece of property a foot square, and were afraid that i would walk off with it in my pocket if i came to look it over--but, as for the educated women, i could not have managed my campaign without them." a large contributor to the fund was the monastery at kaiser island. for years this had been a summer resort for the monks, who filled the dormitories in the old days before the mosquitoes took the island. only one priest was there when the mosquito man visited the place to ask for a subscription. "very few come any more," said the priest. "it is because of the mosquitoes." "will you contribute $ to get rid of them?" asked the mosquito man. briefly, the mosquito man offered to repay the $ himself if he did not exterminate the mosquitoes. the mosquitoes went; the monks came back to kaiser island. yet, in spite of the occasional generous giver, the $ , was never quite raised, and the mosquito man himself had to make up the deficit. the citizens of norwalk, for instance, contributed only $ . this all happened three years ago, and now not a child in the twelve miles but can tell you all about mosquitoes and how a community can avoid having them. the mosquito man is appreciated now, and the community understands what he has done for them and what he is still doing--for the contract merely drained the salt marshes, doing away with the salt-water mosquitoes. there were still the fresh-water mosquitoes, and there was still much work for some one to do. that some one has been the mosquito man. during the three years, he has made it his business to drain every inland marsh within his territory, to turn over every tub which may collect water, to let the plug out of every old boat which is breeding mosquitoes, and to convince every ancestor-encumbered autocrat that his inherited woods can breed mosquitoes just as disastrously as do the tin cans of the hungarian immigrant down the road. the mosquito man has an assistant, paid by the towns of darien and norwalk--and together they traverse the country. "it was difficult finding a man who would go into mud to the waist when need was," said the mosquito man, "but i finally found a good man with the proper scorn of public opinion on the clothes question, and with a properly trained wife who cleaned without scolding." you can find traces of the two men any place you go in the woods of darien or norwalk. in a ferned dell where you are quite sure that yours is the first human presence, you come upon a ditch, as clean and smooth as a knife--or you find new grass in a place which you remember as a swamp. perhaps you may even be lucky enough to come on the two workers themselves, digging with their pick and spade--for all summer long the mosquito man is working eight hours a day at his self-appointed task. you might even find him in new york some off-day--and you will know him, for surely he will be telling some rebellious apartment-house owner that the tank on his roof is unscreened. for they do say that he carries his activities into any part of the world where he may chance to be; they do say that, when he was in italy not so very long ago, he went out to investigate the mosquitoes which had disturbed his rest the night before. "now you must oil your swamp," said he to the innkeeper. that night there was no salad for dinner, for the innkeeper had obeyed the order to the best of his ability. he had poured all of his best olive oil on the mosquito marsh. * * * * * _(country gentleman)_ five half-tone illustrations, with the following captions: . "a traction ditcher at work digging trench for tile." . "ditch dug with dynamite through woods." . "apple packing house and cold storage at ransomville." . "nelson r. peet, county agent and manager of the niagara county farm bureau, new york." . "part of the crowd listening to the speakers." a county service station where new york farmers get help in their fruit growing and marketing problems by d. h. williams you've got to look into the family closet of a county and study its skeletons before you can decide whether that county's farming business is mostly on paper or on concrete. you've got to know whether it standardizes production and marketing, or just markets by as many methods as there are producers. as a living example of the possibility of tightening up and retiming the gears of a county's economic machinery to the end of cutting out power losses, niagara county, new york, stands in a distinct class by itself. here is an area of square miles, with lake ontario spraying its northern line. a network of electric and steam railways and hundreds of miles of splendid state highways make up a system of economic arteries through which the industrial life-blood of the county circulates. forty-eight hours to chicago's markets, the same distance to new york's; three wealthy industrial and agricultural cities within the county itself--lockport, niagara falls and north tonawanda--operating with a wealth of cheap electric power generated at niagara falls--these are some of the advantages within and without the county, the value of which is self-evident. beginning with the southern plain section, niagara's agriculture changes in type from general hay and grain farming to a more intense fruit-growing industry as the northern plain section is approached, until within the zone of lake ontario's tempering influence the fruit industry almost excludes all other types of farming. there is hardly a more favored fruit section in the country than the northern half of niagara county. apples, pears, peaches, plums, grapes, cherries, quinces make up the county's horticultural catalogue. the latest available figures rank niagara county first among the counties of new york in the number of fruit trees; second in the total number of bushels of fruit produced; first in the quantity of peaches, pears, plums and prunes, quinces and cherries; third in the number of bushels of apples. yet there are things about the county which no statistics will ever show, such things, for instance, as the condition of the orchards, the market value of the fruit, the earning capacity of the land as a whole--in other words, the bedrock rating of the county. you have to get at these things by a different avenue of approach. a rather close auditing during of the accounts of some eighty-seven typical good farms in perhaps the best section of niagara county brought out the fact that labor incomes from these farms, on the whole, could not be classed as strictly giltedge. one diagnosis made by a niagara county investigator is recorded in these words: "though niagara county has many of the best fruit farms in new york state, there are numbers of orchards that have been abandoned to the ravages of insects and disease. there is also a tendency toward extensive rather than intensive fruit growing, which has resulted in many large plantings being made. "niagara county does not need more orchards, but rather cultivation and spraying of the present orchards; it does not need to produce more fruit, but rather to insure better grading and marketing of the present production." this observation is dated , one year after leading farmers and business men of the county, convinced that all was not so well with them as the lifeless census figures would have one believe, made the move to set up and operate for the county a farm bureau. new york is the national hotbed of farm-bureau enthusiasm and propaganda. almost six years to the day after the inauguration of this bureau, i went into niagara county. and before i left i was able to sketch a rather vivid mental picture of what a farm bureau really can do for a county, be the raw material with which it must work good, bad or indifferent. up in the office of the niagara county farm bureau at lockport i waited some two hours for an interview with its manager, nelson r. peet. that wait was an eye-opener. three women clerks and stenographers and the assistant manager occupied this room. the clerks were trying to typewrite, answer the continuous ringing of the phone, respond to buzzer summons from manager peet's private office and talk with a stream of visitors, all at the same time. i spent two whole days and half a night in these offices and not once save at night was there a let-up in this sort of thing. it was business all the time; the business of service! niagara county farmers are using the bureau. nelson peet, manager, is a spectacled human magneto. his speech and his movements fairly crackle with energy; his enthusiasm is as communicable as a jump spark. a young man in years, yet mature in the knowledge of men and the psychology of service, he never wastes a minute dilating upon the philosophy of farm management; but he has worked twenty hours a day to see that niagara county farmers got all the labor they needed during rush seasons. this man has been with the bureau three years. when he came to it the bureau had a paid-up membership of . in march this year, when i was in niagara county, the membership stood at , and was increasing daily. it led by a good margin, i was told, the fifty-five new york county farm bureaus. these, in , had a total membership of , . more than half the farmers in niagara county are members of the niagara bureau. when peet first took charge there were two broad courses open to him. he might have planned a program of paternalistic propaganda in behalf of the farmers of the county. such a program calls for a tremendous amount of talking and writing about coöperation and community interests, better economics and better social conditions, but too often results in the propagandist doing the "coing," while the "operating" is left to somebody else. the other course was to find out what the farms and farmers in the county needed most and then set to work with little ado to get those things. peet chose the latter course. and in so doing he has staged one of the best demonstrations in rural america. he has shown that a farm bureau can be made into a county service station and actually become the hub of the county's agricultural activities. with the aid of state-college men, one of peet's foremost lines of bureau work has been that of taking inventories of the farming business of niagara county. for four years these records have been taken on some typical farms. group meetings are regularly held at the homes of the bureau's community committeemen. here, with the records they have been keeping, the farmers assemble. here they work out their own labor incomes and compare notes with their neighbors. the farm bureau helps the men make these business analyses--it does not do the work for them. now the farmers ask for the blank forms and are themselves as enthusiastic over farm-management records as the men who specialize in such. these figures serve the bureau as an index to the county's progress. more than once peet has referred to them and discovered where leaks could be plugged. for example, these records showed an average labor income of $ a farm for the four years ending . "this fact," mr. peet explained, "we put to work as the reason for doing something to benefit the fruit industry. what could be done? the answer in other highly specialized fruit sections seems to have been central packing houses. we held a meeting, inviting one very influential fruit grower from each loading station in the county. we showed charts of the farm-management records. it didn't take long for the meeting to go on record as favoring the central-packing-house plan. "later meetings were held in each community, the farm-management charts were again shown, and at every loading station the meetings went on record as favoring central packing houses. to make a long story short, sites and methods of financing these houses were worked out. there were already two old central packing houses in operation. they took on new life. five new ones have been formed. all were incorporated and federated into a central parent association, which owns the brand adopted and makes the rules and regulations under which the fruit is packed. "from the very beginning the proposition has been pushed not as a means of beating the selling game by selling coöperatively, but as a means of securing the confidence of the consuming public, which must ultimately result in a wider distribution and better prices. in fact, the matter of selling has not been fostered from the farm-bureau office. we have concerned ourselves solely with uniform grading and central packing. we believed from the start that the selling of properly graded and packed fruit will take care of itself, and this stand has been justified. "each association makes its own arrangements for selling, and in every case has secured better prices than the growers who sold under the old system. the most satisfactory feature of this work centers round the fact that the best and most influential growers are heart and soul behind the proposition. the personnel of coöperative movements, i believe, is the main feature." when i visited niagara county the seven central packing associations were doing a splendid business, handling about $ , , worth of apples between them. only two of the associations were more than one year old. many of the associations were dickering for additional space for packing and for extensions for their refrigerator service. other communities in niagara and in other counties were writing in for details of the plan, to the end of getting the same thing started in their sections. and inquiries were coming in from states outside of new york. even with the best of selling methods, no commodity will bring a profit to the producer unless the greater portion of it is eligible to the a- class. too many seconds or culls will throw any orchard venture on the rocks of bankruptcy. it came to manager peet's attention early in that the farm bureau had a golden opportunity to put on another service, which alone, if it worked out in practice as well as it did on paper, would justify the existence of the bureau. he noticed that though orchardists were following spraying schedules--the best they could find--some had splendid results in controlling apple scab and other pests, but others got results ranging between indifferent and poor. this seemed paradoxical, in view of the fact that one man who followed the same spraying schedule as his neighbor would have more scabby apples than the other. at that time l.f. strickland, orchard inspector for the state department of agriculture, had paid particular attention to a limited number of apple orchards in niagara county with a view to controlling scab by spraying. he discovered that, though the average spraying calendar is all right, climatic conditions in different parts of the same county often upset these standard calculations, so that a difference of one day or even a few hours in time of spraying often meant the difference between success and failure. in other words, it was necessary to study all contributing factors, watch the orchards unremittingly and then decide on the exact day or even hour when conditions were right for a successful spray treatment. he found that one must strike the _times between times_ to get the optimum of results. so mr. strickland, in conjunction with his regular work, kept an eagle eye on a few orchards and would notify the owners when it seemed the moment for spraying had come. it worked out that those favored orchardists had magnificent yields of a- fruit; others in the same sections, following the rather flexible spraying calendars, didn't do nearly so well. all this set manager peet to thinking. "strickland hasn't got an automobile and has lots of other work to do," he reasoned; "but why, if he had a car and could give all the time necessary to such work, couldn't the same results be had in orchards all over the county? why can't this farm bureau put on a spraying service?" he put the idea up to the executive committee of the bureau. the idea was good, they agreed, but it would cost at least $ to try it out the first year. the bureau didn't have the available funds. "tell you what," they finally said: "if you want to get out and rustle up new members at one dollar each to pay for this thing, we'll authorize it." peet was telling me about it. "here the bureau had been working for four years with a paid-up membership of about ," he said, "and if i believed in my idea i had to get more by spring. it was february eighth when the committee gave me this decision. well, i did it in time to start the ball that spring!" he got the new members because he had a service to sell them. arrangements were made whereby the county was divided into six zones, varying in soil and topographic conditions. criterion orchards were selected in each zone. the inspector, with the aid of daily telegraphic weather reports and through constant inspection of the criterion orchards, decided when the hour struck for the most effective spraying of these orchards. in the meantime manager peet and the inspector had worked out a code system for spraying instructions and put this into the hands of the growers in the six zones. when it came time to spray, the telephones from headquarters in lockport were put to work and the code message sent to certain orchardists; these in turn repeated the instructions to a number of other orchardists agreed upon, until every member had received the message. the scheme has worked. the first year there were members who took this service; the second year-- --there were ; this year there are . it is paying for itself many times over. one central packing house with nine grower members reports that eight of the members used the spraying service and that none of these had more than five per cent of their fruit to cull out. the ninth member sprayed, but not through the service. he culled forty-five per cent of his crop. there are scores of similar instances. seeing how quickly he could get the support of the niagara farmers for any move which had practice and not theory to recommend it, manager peet next began to agitate for an improvement in city-marketing conditions in lockport. up to august, , the system--if system it might be called--of distributing farm produce for lockport's consumption consisted of sporadic visits by producers to the city with produce to be sold at prices largely controlled by the local grocerymen. likewise retail prices to consumers were chiefly regulated by the same standard. a grower might drive into lockport with quarts of strawberries. he would stop at a grocery and offer them. "no," the grocer would say, "i don't want any. say, how much do you want for them anyhow?" "ten cents a quart." "too high; i'll give you six." whereupon the man would drive on to see the next grocer. but the man who offered six cents might go straight to his phone, call up the rest of the trade and inform it that there were quarts of strawberries on the streets for which he had offered six cents against ten asked. the result would be that the farmer would get no better offer than six cents. so manager peet joined hands with the lockport board of commerce and went at the job of righting this condition. he proposed a city market for farmers. the nearest approach to a market was a shelter for teams which the local food dealers had rented. to farmers in the vicinity of lockport manager peet wrote letters, calling their attention to these conditions and offering the city-market idea as a remedy. and he used publicity among lockport's population of consumers, showing them the economy of such a move. the farmers held a get-together meeting, decided on a location for a market in lockport, decided on market days and market hours. after this the farm bureau got the city's common council to pass an ordinance prohibiting the huckstering of farm produce on the streets during market hours; also an ordinance setting the market hours, marking off a street section which should be used as a market stand, and putting the superintendent of streets in charge. that was all. not a cent of appropriation asked for. the market opened august , , with fifty farm wagons in place. before the summer was over it was common to find more than at their stands. the local war-garden supervisor acted as inspector. he looked over the produce, advised the farmers how to pack and display it, and used every energy in the direction of popularizing the market among producers and consumers alike. between manager peet and the inspector a scheme was worked out whereby every thursday was bargain day in market. they would get a certain number of farmers to agree to pack and offer for sale on those days a limited number of baskets of their finest tomatoes, say. or it might be corn. in the case of tomatoes the bargain price would be ten cents for baskets which that day were selling regularly for eighteen to twenty-five cents. to each of these baskets--no farmer was asked to sacrifice more than ten--was attached a green tag noting that it was a bargain. each bargain day was advertised in advance among lockport consumers. thursday mornings would see an early rush to the market. the bargains would be cleaned out and then business at normal prices would continue at a brisker rate than usual. the first year of its operation this market was held on fifty-one days. during this period rigs sold out their produce for a total of $ , . this simple move has resulted in stabilizing prices in lockport and has encouraged the bringing in of farm produce. prices automatically regulate themselves. if they begin to get too low in lockport, the supply in sight is immediately reduced through action by the producers in shipping the stuff to niagara falls or buffalo by motor trucks. the distribution of lockport's milk supply, as happens in hundreds of cities, has been attended by considerable waste and expense as a result of duplication of delivery routes, breakage of bottles and uneconomic schedules. the first night i was in lockport, manager peet was holding a meeting of the milk producers supplying the city for the purpose of settling this inequity once and for all. a little agitation had been carried on ahead of this meeting, but only a little. peet had a plan. "it's all wrong to plan for a municipally owned central distributing system," he was explaining to me the next morning; "these are too likely to get mixed up in politics. so last night we just about clinched our arrangement for having our city distributing system owned by the producers themselves. in the past we have had eight distributors with fifteen wagons handling the milk supplied from fifty dairy farms. there has been a big loss in time and money as a result of this competition. "the farm bureau got the producers together on the plan of securing options on these distributors' interests, and last night we just about wound up all the preliminaries. we already have our limited liability corporation papers. we're incorporating under the membership corporation law. our organization comes under the amendment to the sherman antitrust law, you know, following closely the california law under which the california fruit growers' associations operate. "we figure that we will need between $ , and $ , for the purchase of buildings, wagons, equipment and good-will now in the hands of the distributors. at first we thought it would be a good plan to have every member of the association subscribe to the amount proportioned by the number of cows he keeps or the amount of milk he has for sale. but for several reasons this wouldn't work. so we hit on the scheme of having each man subscribe to the amount he personally is able to finance. "we already have $ , subscribed in sums between set limits of $ and $ . we're issuing five-year certificates of indebtedness bearing six per cent interest. our producers will have about $ worth of milk a month to distribute. we plan to deduct five per cent every month from these milk checks to pay off the certificates. then later we'll create a new set of certificates and redistribute these in proportion to the amounts of milk produced on the members' farms." manager peet and the producers are making it perfectly plain to lockport consumers that this is no move contemplating price control. in fact, they expect to sell milk for a cent a quart under the old price. the farm-labor shortage which antedated our entrance into the war became a national menace about the time our selective draft began to operate. new york farmers were as hard hit as any other farmers, particularly in the fruit sections, where a tremendous labor supply falls suddenly due at harvest time. niagara county came in for its full share of this trouble and the niagara county farm bureau went its length to meet the emergency. in western new york produced the biggest crop of peaches in its history, and in the face of the greatest labor famine. there were nearly cars of the fruit in danger of spoiling on the trees and on the ground. peet anticipated the crisis by converting the farm bureau into a veritable county labor department. he was promised a good number of high-school boys who were to help in the peach harvest and who were to be cleared through a central office in buffalo. manager peet worked out arrangements for the care of these boys in forty-two camps strategically located. the camps were to accommodate thirty boys each. the farmers had asked peet for hands. he applied for boys and had every reason to expect these. but at the critical moment something went wrong in buffalo headquarters and of the asked for he got only ! "i was in buffalo at the time the news was broken," manager peet was saying to me, "and my first impulse was to jump off one of the docks!" here was a nice kettle of fish! the fruit was ripening on the trees, and the phones in the bureau offices were ringing their plating off with calls from frantic farmers. peet didn't jump off a buffalo dock; he jumped out of his coat and into the fray. he got a federal department of labor man to help him. they plastered appeals for help all over western new york--on the walls of post offices, railroad stations, on boarding houses. they worked on long-distance phones, the telegraph, the mails. they hired trucks and brought city men and boys and women and girls from cities to work in the orchards over week-ends. labor, attracted by the flaring posters, drifted into the bureau's offices in lockport and immediately was assigned to farms; and hundreds of laborers whom peet never saw also came. by working seven days a week and often without meals and with cat naps for sleep the bureau cleared laborers through its office, to say nothing of the loads brought overland by motor truck and which never came near the office. business houses in the towns closed down and sent their help to the orchards. lockport's organization of "live wires"--lawyers, doctors, bankers--went out and worked in the orchards. "well," was peet's comment, "we saved the crop, that's all!" last year the bureau placed men and four women on farms in niagara county. in addition, soldiers were secured on two-day furloughs from fort niagara to help harvest the fruit crops. "we did this," said manager peet, "mainly by starting early and keeping persistently at it with the war department, in order to cut the red tape." this fall there will go into effect in new york state an amendment to its drainage law which is going to do more properly to drain the state than all the steam diggers that could have been crowded on its acres under former conditions. this action came out of niagara county, through the farm bureau. to realize the importance of drainage in this county one must remember that it lies in two levels broken by the ridge which forms the locks at lockport, the falls at niagara falls, and which extends across the county from east to west. in each plateau the land is very level, there being but few places in the county having a difference in elevation of twenty feet within a radius of a mile. good drainage is very necessary and in the past has been very hard to secure. "practically no man can secure adequate drainage without being concerned in the drainage of his neighbor's land," said mr. peet. "if the neighbor objects the situation is complicated. and our drainage laws have been woefully inadequate to handle these problems." but recently the farm bureau put it up to a conference of county agents of new york to get the "state leader" to appoint a state committee to work this thing out and persuade the state legislature to make the necessary amendments to the drainage law. the plan went through, and one of the laws passed compels an objecting property owner to open drains which are necessary for the relief of his neighbors. this law goes into effect next fall. farmers are looking to the farm bureau for help in the cleaning and repairing of some sixty drainage ditches constructed in the past under the county-commissioner plan. but the records on file in the county clerk's office are in bad shape. the farm bureau has taken it upon itself to arrange all this material so that it is available on a minute's notice, and as a result has drawn up petitions to the supervisors for the cleaning out of three of these ditches. cooperating with the new york state food commission, the farm bureau had a power-tractor ditcher placed in the county last summer. peet placed his assistant in full charge, and the machine never lost a single day as a result of lack of supervision. it has dug over rods of ditch for tile on twenty-eight farms. for four years niagara county farmers had not made expenses in growing tomatoes for the canneries. the farm bureau called a meeting of some fourteen growers and together they figured the cost of production. the average cost for was found to be $ an acre; the estimated cost for was $ an acre. the average crop was set at six tons to the acre. a joint committee went out of the conference and laid these facts before the canners. the result was that the growers got $ a ton for their crops in . these are some outstanding features of the service rendered its farmers by the niagara bureau. here are some of its "lesser" activities: taking an agricultural census by school districts of each farm in the county and completing the job in one week. effecting an interchange of livestock and seed. distributing bushels of seed corn among farmers, twenty-two tons of nitrate of soda at cost among sixty-two farmers, and securing and distributing six tons of sugar to fifty beekeepers for wintering bees. indorsing applications for military furloughs. assisting in organizing liberty loan campaigns, especially the third. assisting in the delivery of twenty carloads of feed, fertilizer, farm machinery and barrels, which had been delayed. holding twelve demonstration meetings, attended by farmers. conducting two tractor schools, attended by farmers. arranging eight farmers' institutes, attended by farmers. organizing a federal farm loan association which has loaned $ , to nineteen farmers. the bureau keeps its members posted on what is going on in the county and what the bureau is doing through the medium of a well-edited monthly "news" of eight pages. the best feature of the handling of this publication is that it costs neither bureau nor members a cent. the advertisements from local supply dealers pay for it, and two pages of ads in each issue settles the bill. the bureau's books show that last year it spent five dollars in serving each member. the membership fee is only one dollar. the difference comes from federal, state and county appropriations. the success of this bureau comes from having at the head of it the right man with the right view of what a farm bureau should do. manager peet sees to it that the organization works with the local chamber of commerce--the one in lockport has members--which antedates the farm bureau and which always has supported the bureau. peet's policy has been to keep the bureau not only before the farmers but before the city people as well. the "live-wire" committee of the lockport chamber, composed of lawyers, doctors, bankers, merchants, and the like, has made manager peet an _ex-officio_ member. the niagara falls and tonawanda chambers of commerce get together with the lockport chamber and the farm bureau and talk over problems of inter-county importance. these conferences have worked out a unified plan for road development, for instance. the niagara farm bureau helped the niagara falls city administration to secure the services of a federal market inspector. in this way all rivalry between different sections and towns in niagara county is freed of friction. about the only criticism i heard against the farm bureau of niagara county was that peet was the wrong man. the farmers want a man who will _stay_ manager. but some of the best members hinted that peet will not stay because he's just a bit too efficient. they seem to fear that some business corporation is going to get him away. and when you look over the record of his work as organizer and executive, you must admit there's something in this. * * * * * _(detroit news)_ four half-tone illustrations: . the settling basin at the water works. . interior of the tunnel through which the water is pumped. . where detroit's water comes from. . water rushing into the settling basin. guarding a city's water supply how the city chemist watches for the appearance of deadly bacilli; water made pure by chemicals by henry j. richmond "colon." the city chemist spoke the one significant word as he set down the test tube into which he had been gazing intently. the next morning the front page of all the city papers displayed the warning, "citizens should boil the drinking water." every morning, as the first task of the day, the city chemist uncorks a curious little crooked tube containing a few spoonsful of very ordinary bouillon, akin to that which you might grab at the quick lunch, but which has been treated by the admixture of a chemical. this tube begins in a bulb which holds the fluid and terminates in an upturned crook sealed at the end. into this interesting little piece of apparatus, the chemist pours a small quantity of the city drinking water, and he then puts the whole into an incubator where it is kept at a temperature favorable to the reactions which are expected if the water is contaminated. after a sufficient time the tube is inspected. to the untrained eye nothing appears. the bouillon still remains in the little bulb apparently unchanged. its color and clearness have not been affected. but the chemist notices that it does not stand so high in the closed end of the tube as it did when placed in the incubator. the observation seems trivial, but to the man of science it is significant. what has happened? the water contained some minute organisms which when acted upon by the chemical in the tube have set up a fermentation. gradually, one by one in the little bulb, bubbles of gas have formed and risen to the surface of the liquid in the closed upper end of the tube. as this gas was liberated, it took the place of the liquid in the tube, and the liquid was forced downward until there was quite a large space, apparently vacant but really filled with gas. it was this phenomenon that had attracted the attention of the chemist. what did it mean? it was the evidence that the water which was being furnished to the city for half a million people to drink contained some living organism. now that, in itself, was enough to make an official of the health department begin to take an interest. it was not, however, in itself a danger signal. not all bacterial life is a menace to health, the chemist will tell you. indeed, humanity has come to live on very peaceable terms with several thousand varieties of bacteria and to be really at enmity with but a score or more. without the beneficent work of a certain class of bacteria the world would not be habitable. this comes about through a very interesting, though rather repulsive condition--the necessity of getting rid of the dead to make room for the living. what would be the result if no provision had been made for the disintegration of the bodies of all the men and animals that have inhabited the earth since the beginning? such a situation is inconceivable. but very wisely providence has provided that myriads and myriads of tiny creatures are ever at work breaking up worn-out and dead animal matter and reducing it to its original elements. these elements are taken up by plant life, elaborated into living vegetable growth and made fit again for the nourishment of animal life, thus completing the marvelous cycle. and so we must not get the notion that all bacteria are our mortal foes. we could not live without them, and our earth, without their humble services, would no longer be habitable. neither need we fear the presence of bacterial life in our drinking water. drinking water always contains bacteria. we, ourselves, even when in the best of health, are the hosts of millions upon millions of them, and it is fair to suppose that they serve some useful purpose. at any rate, it has never been demonstrated that they do us any harm under normal conditions. and so, the chemist was not alarmed when he discovered that the formation of gas in his crooked tube gave indication of bacteria in the drinking water. he must ascertain what type of bacteria he had entrapped. to this end, he analyzed the gas, and when he determined that the fermentation was due to the presence of colon bacilli in the water, he sent out his warning. not that the colon bacilli are a menace to health. the body of every human being in the world is infested with millions of them. but the presence of colon bacilli in drinking water is an indication of the presence of a really dangerous thing--sewage. thus, when the city chemist turned from his test tube with the exclamation, "colon!" he did not fear the thing that he saw, but the thing that he knew might accompany it. there has been much discussion of late of the possibility that the great lakes cities may suffer a water famine. the rapid increase of population along the borders of these great seas, it has been said, might render the water unfit for use. this fear is based upon the assumption that we shall always continue the present very foolish practice of dumping our sewage into the source of our water supply. the time may come when we shall know better how to protect the public health and at the same time husband the public resources. but even at that, the city chemist says that he hardly expects to see the time when the present intake for water near the head of belle isle will not be both safe and adequate. no doubt he makes this statement because he has confidence that the purification of water is both simple and safe. there are two principal methods. the first, and most expensive, is nature's own--the filter. the application of this method is comparatively simple though it involves considerable expense. the trick was learned from the hillside spring which, welling up through strata of sand and gravel, comes out pure and clear and sparkling. to make spring water out of lake water, therefore, it is merely necessary to excavate a considerable area to the desired depth and lead into it the pipes connected with the wells from which water is to be pumped. then the pit is filled with successive layers of crushed stone graduated in fineness to the size of gravel and then covered with a deep layer of fine sand. this area is then flooded with the water to be filtered, which slowly percolates and comes out clear and pure. the best results in purification of contaminated water supplies have probably been attained in this way; that is, as measured by the improvement of health and the general reduction of the death rate from those diseases caused by the use of contaminated water. but when the alarm was given this spring by the city chemist there was no time to excavate and build an extensive filtering plant. the dreaded typhoid was already making its appearance and babies were dying. something had to be done at once. if some afternoon you take a stroll through gladwin park your attention may be attracted to a little white building at the lower end of the settling basin. it is merely a temporary structure yet it is serving a very important purpose. approach the open door and your nostrils will be greeted by a pungent odor that may make you catch your breath. the workmen, too, you will notice, do not stay long within doors, but take refuge in a little shelter booth outside. strewn about here and there are traces of a white, powdery substance which seems to have been tracked down from a platform erected on the roof. this is hypochlorite of lime, the substance used for sterilizing the city drinking water. this is so powerful a disinfectant that it destroys all bacteria in water even in an extremely dilute solution. the method of applying it is interesting. the city water comes in from the river through a great tunnel about feet in diameter. the little chlorinating plant is situated on the line of this tunnel so that the solution is readily introduced into the water before it reaches the pool called a settling basin. the hypochlorite reaches the plant in iron cylinders containing pounds. these are carried up to the roof and poured into the first mixing tank through a hopper fixed for the purpose. there are within the building four of these mixing tanks. in the first, up near the roof, a very strong solution is first made. this is drawn off into a second tank with a greater admixture of water and thence passes into the third and fourth. from the last it is forced out into the main tunnel by a pipe and mingles with the great flood that is pouring constantly into the wells beneath pumping engines. and this is the strength of the chemical: five pounds of it mingled with one million gallons of water is sufficient to render the water fit for drinking purposes. nearly per cent of the bacteria in the water is destroyed by this weak solution. the water is tasteless and odorless. indeed, probably very few of the citizens of detroit who are using the city water all the time, know that the treatment is being applied. but the chemist continues his tests every morning. every morning the little crooked tubes are brought out and filled and carefully watched to ascertain if the telltale gas develops which is an index of "death in the cup." thus is the city's water supply guarded. no more important work can devolve on the board of health. before science had learned to recognize the tiny enemies which infest drinking water, typhoid and kindred diseases were regarded as a visitation of divine providence for the sins of a people. we now know that a rise in the death rate from these diseases is to be laid rather to the sins of omission on the part of the board of health and the public works department. * * * * * _(the outlook)_ the occupation and exercise cure by frank marshall white the nerve specialist leaned back in his chair behind the great mahogany desk in his consulting-room and studied the features of the capitalist as that important factor in commerce and industry explained the symptoms that had become alarming enough to drive him, against his will, to seek medical assistance. the patient was under fifty years of age, though the deep lines in his face, with his whitening hair--consequences of the assiduity with which he had devoted himself to the accumulation of his millions and his position in the directory of directors--made him appear ten years older. an examination had shown that he had no organic disease of any kind, but he told the physician that he was suffering from what he called "inward trembling," with palpitation of the heart, poor sleep, occasional dizziness, pain in the back of the neck, difficulty in concentrating his attention, and, most of all, from various apprehensions, such as that of being about to fall, of losing his mind, of sudden death--he was afraid to be alone, and was continually tired, worried, and harassed. "you present merely the ordinary signs of neurasthenia," said the specialist. "these symptoms are distressing, but not at all serious or dangerous. you have been thinking a great deal too much about yourself and your feelings. you watch with morbid interest the perverted sensations that arise in various parts of your body. you grow apprehensive about the palpitation of your heart, which is not at all diseased, but which flutters a little from time to time because the great nerve of the heart is tired, like the other great nerves and nerve-centers of your body. you grow apprehensive over the analogous tremor which you describe as 'inward trembling,' and which you often feel all through your trunk and sometimes in your knees, hands, and face, particularly about the eyes and mouth and in the fingers." the capitalist had started at the mention of the word neurasthenia, and had seemed much relieved when the physician had declared that the symptoms were not dangerous. "i had been under the impression that neurasthenia was practically an incurable disease," he said. "however, you have described my sensations exactly." "one hundred per centum of cases of neurasthenia are curable," responded the specialist. "neurasthenia is not, as is usually supposed, an equally diffused general exhaustion of the nervous system. in my opinion, it is rather an unequally distributed multiple fatigue. certain more vulnerable portions of the nervous system are affected, while the remainder is normal. in the brain we have an overworked area which, irritated, gives rise to an apprehension or imperative idea. by concentration of energy in some other region of the brain, by using the normal portions, we give this affected part an opportunity to rest and recuperate. new occupations are therefore substituted for the old habitual one. a change of interests gives the tired centers rest." "i have heard the 'rest cure' advocated in cases like mine," suggested the capitalist. "in the treatment of neurasthenia we must take the whole man into consideration," said the physician. "we must stimulate nutrition, feed well the tired and exhausted organism, and, above all, provide some sort of rest and distraction for the mind. the mind needs feeding as well as the body. the rest cure is a kind of passive, relaxing, sedative treatment. the field is allowed to lie fallow, and often to grow up with weeds, trusting to time to rest and enrich it. the 'exercise and occupation cure,' on the other hand, is an active, stimulating, and tonic prescription. you place yourself in the hands of a physician who must direct the treatment. he will lay out a scheme with a judicious admixture of exercise which will improve your general health, soothe your nervous system, induce good appetite and sleep, and of occupation which will keep your mind from morbid self-contemplation. one of the best means to this end is manual occupation--drawing, designing, carpentry, metal-work, leather-work, weaving, basket-making, bookbinding, clay-modeling, and the like--for in all these things the hands are kept busy, requiring concentration of attention, while new interests of an artistic and æsthetic nature are aroused. the outdoor exercise, taken for a part of each day, if of the right sort, also distracts by taking the attention and creating interest." the capitalist had called upon the specialist braced for a possible sentence of death, prepared at the least to be informed that he was suffering from a progressive mental malady. now, while a tremendous weight was lifted from his mind with the information that he might anticipate a complete return to health, the idea of devoting his trained intelligence, accustomed to cope with great problems of trade and finance, to such trivialities as basket-making or modeling in clay appeared preposterous. nevertheless, when the physician told him of a resort near at hand, established for the treatment of cases just such as his, where he might be under continuous medical supervision, without confinement indoors or being deprived of any of the comforts or luxuries of life, he decided to put himself in the other's hands unreservedly. the specialist informed him that the length of time required for his cure would depend largely upon himself. he might, for instance, even keep in touch with his office and have matters of import referred to him while he was recuperating his mental and physical strength, but such a course would inevitably retard his recovery, and possibly prevent it. to get the best results from the treatment he ought to leave every business interest behind him, he was told. the fee that the capitalist paid the specialist made his advice so valuable that the other followed it absolutely. the next evening saw the patient in the home of the "occupation and exercise cure." he arrived just in time to sit down to dinner with a score of other patients, not one of whom showed any outward sign of illness, though all were taking the cure for some form of nervous trouble. there were no cases of insanity among them, however, none being admitted to the institution under any circumstances. the dinner was simple and abundant, and the conversation at the tables of a lively and cheerful nature. as everybody went to bed by ten o'clock--almost every one considerably before that hour, in fact--the newcomer did likewise, he having secured a suite with a bath in the main building. somewhat to the surprise of the capitalist, who was accustomed to be made much of wherever he happened to be, no more attention was paid to him than to any other guest of the establishment, a condition of affairs that happened to please him. he was told on retiring that breakfast would be served in the dining-room from : to : in the morning, but that, if he preferred to remain in his room, it would be brought to him there at nine o'clock. the capitalist had a bad night, and was up to breakfast early. after he had concluded that repast the medical superintendent showed him about the place, but did not encourage him to talk about his symptoms. the grounds of the "occupation and exercise cure" comprised a farm of forty acres located among the hills of northern westchester county in the croton watershed, with large shade trees, lawns, flower gardens, and an inexhaustible supply of pure spring water from a well three hundred feet deep in solid rock. the main building, situated on a knoll adjacent to a grove of evergreen trees, contained a great solarium, which was the favorite sitting-room of the patients, and the dining-room was also finished with two sides of glass, both apartments capable of being thrown open in warm weather, and having the advantage of all the sun there was in winter. in this building were also the medical offices, with a clinical laboratory and hydro- and electro-therapeutic equipment, and accommodations for from twelve to fifteen guests. two bungalows under the trees of the apple orchard close at hand, one containing two separate suites with baths, and the other two living-rooms with hall and bath-room, were ideal places for quiet and repose. situated at the entrance to the grounds was a club-house, with a big sitting-room and an open fireplace; it also contained a solarium, billiard-room, bowling alleys, a squash court, a greenhouse for winter floriculture, and the arts and crafts shops, with seven living-rooms. every living-room in the main building, the club-house, and the bungalows was connected with the medical office by telephone, so that in case of need patients might immediately secure the services of a physician at any hour of the day or night. the arts and crafts shops being the basic principle of the "occupation and exercise cure," the capitalist was introduced to an efficient and businesslike young woman, the instructress, who explained to him the nature of the avocations in which he might choose to interest himself. here he found his fellow-patients busily and apparently congenially employed. in one of the shops a recent alumnus of one of the leading universities, who had undergone a nervous breakdown after graduation, was patiently hammering a sheet of brass with a view to converting it into a lampshade; a matron of nearly sixty, who had previously spent eight years in sanatoriums, practically bedridden, was setting type in the printing office with greater activity than she had known before for two decades; two girls, one sixteen and the other twelve, the latter inclined to hysteria and the former once subject to acute nervous attacks, taking the cure in charge of trained nurses, were chattering gayly over a loom in the construction of a silk rug; a prominent business man from a western city, like the new york capitalist broken down from overwork, was earnestly modeling in clay what he hoped might eventually become a jardiniere; one of last season's debutantes among the fashionables, who had been leading a life of too strenuous gayety that had told on her nerves, was constructing a stamped leather portfolio with entire absorption; and half a dozen others, mostly young women, were engaged at wood-carving, bookbinding, block-printing, tapestry weaving, or basket-making, each one of them under treatment for some nervous derangement. the new patient decided to try his hand at basket-making; and, although he figured out that it would take him about four days to turn out a product that might sell for ten cents, he was soon so much interested in mastering the manual details of the craft that he was disinclined to put the work aside when the medical superintendent suggested a horseback ride. when, at the advice of the specialist, the capitalist had decided to try the occupation and exercise cure, he did so with little faith that it would restore him to health, though he felt that there was perhaps a slight chance that it might help him. the remedy seemed to him too simple to overcome a disease that was paralyzing his energies. to his great surprise, he began to improve at once; and though for the first week he got little sleep, and his dizziness, with the pain in the back of his neck and his apprehensions, continued to recur for weeks, they did so at always increasing intervals. he learned bookbinding, and sent to his library for some favorite volumes, and put them into new dress; he made elaborate waste-paper baskets, and beat brass into ornamental desk-trays, which he proudly presented to his friends in the city as specimens of his skill. work with him, as with the others of the patients, was continually varied by recreation. in the summer months there were lawn-tennis, golf, croquet, canoeing, rowing, fishing, riding, and driving. in winter, such outdoor sports as skating, tobogganing, coasting, skeeing, snowshoeing, and lacrosse were varied by billiards, bowling, squash, the medicine ball, and basket and tether ball. the capitalist was astonished to discover that he could take an interest in games. the specialist, who called upon his patient at intervals, told him that a point of great importance in the cure was that exercise that is _enjoyed_ is almost twice as effective in the good accomplished as exercise which is a mere mechanical routine of movements made as a matter of duty. the net result was that, after four months of the "occupation and exercise cure," the capitalist returned to new york sound in mind and body, and feeling younger than he had before in years. complete cures were effected in the cases of the other patients also, which is the less remarkable when the circumstance is taken into consideration that only patients capable of entire recovery are recommended to take the treatment. of course the institution that has been described is only for the well-to-do, and physicians are endeavoring to bring the "occupation and exercise cure" within the reach of the poor, and to interest philanthropists in the establishment of "colony sanatoriums," such as already exist in different parts of europe, for those suffering from functional nervous disorders who are without means. contrary to the general opinion, neurasthenia, particularly among women, is not confined to the moneyed and leisure class; but, owing to the fact that women have taken up the work of men in offices and trades as well as in many of the professions, working-women are continually breaking down under nervous strain, and many, under present conditions, have little chance for recovery, because they cannot afford the proper treatment. as a speaker at the last annual meeting of the american medical association declared, "idiots and epileptics and lunatics are many; but all together they are less numerous than the victims of nervousness--the people afflicted with lesser grades of psychasthenic and neurasthenic inadequacy, who become devoted epicures of their own emotions, and who claim a large share of the attention of every general practitioner and of every specialist." scientists declare that this premature collapse of nerve force is increasing to such an extent as to become a positive menace to the general welfare. the struggle for existence among the conditions of modern life, especially among those found in the large centers of industrial and scientific activity, and the steady, persistent work, with its attendant sorrows, deprivations, and over-anxiety for success, are among the most prolific causes--causes which are the results of conditions from which, for the large mass of people, according to a leading new york alienist, there has been no possibility of escape. "especially here in america are people forced into surroundings for which they have never been fitted," the alienist asserts, "and especially here are premature demands made upon their nervous systems before they are mature and properly qualified. the lack of proper training deprives many of the workers, in all branches, of the best protection against functional nervous diseases which any person can have, namely, a well-trained nervous system. this struggle for existence by the congenital neuropath or the educationally unfit forces many to the use, and then to the abuse, of stimulants and excitants, and herein we have another important exciting cause. this early and excessive use of coffee, tea, alcohol, and tobacco is especially deleterious in its action upon the nervous system of those very ones who are most prone to go to excess in their use. "therefore, predisposition, aided by the storm and stress of active competition and abetted by the use of stimulants, must be looked upon as the main cause for the premature collapse of nerve force which we call neurasthenia; so it will be found that the majority of neurasthenics are between twenty-five and fifty years of age, and that their occupations are those which are attended by worry, undue excitement, uncertainty, excessive wear and tear, and thus we find mentally active persons more easily affected than those whose occupation is solely physical. authors, actors, school-teachers, governesses, telegraph and telephone operators, are among those most frequently affected, and the increase of neurasthenia among women dates from the modern era which has opened to them new channels of work and has admitted them more generally into the so-called learned professions. but whatever may be the occupation in which persons have broken down, it is never the occupation alone which has been the cause. "this cannot be too often repeated. the emotional fitness or unfitness of an individual for his occupation is of the utmost importance as a causative factor, and overwork alone, without any emotional cause and without any errors in mode of life, will never act to produce such a collapse. it is therefore not astonishing that this class of functional nervous diseases is not confined to the wealthy, and that the rich and the poor are indiscriminately affected. but certain causes are of greater influence in the one class, while different ones obtain in the other. poverty in itself, with its limitations of proper rest and recuperation, is a very positive cause. years of neurological dispensary work among the poor have convinced me that nervousness, neurasthenia, hysteria, etc., are quite as prevalent among the indigent as among the well-to-do." physicians agree that the prime requisite in the treatment of these disorders is the removal of the patient from his or her habitual surroundings, where recognition of the existence of actual disease is generally wanting, where the constant admonitions of well-meaning friends to "brace up" and to "exert your will power" force the sick man or woman to bodily and mental over-exertion, and where the worries about a livelihood are always dominant. such a change alone, however, the experts say, will help but few, for it is being recognized more and more that these functional diseases of the nervous system can receive satisfactory treatment only in institutions, where constant attention may be had, with expert supervision and trained attendants. the "occupation and exercise cure" is applicable also to epilepsy, and is the therapeutic principle of the craig colony for epileptics at sonyea, in livingston county, supported by the state, and that institution furnishes a general model for the "colony sanatoriums" suggested for indigent patients suffering from functional nervous disorders. the craig colony was the idea of dr. frederick peterson, professor of psychiatry at columbia university, and former president of the new york state commission of lunacy and of the new york neurological society, which he based upon the epileptic colony at beilefeld, germany, that was founded in . the craig colony was founded in , and there are now being cared for within its confines more than thirteen hundred patients, who have turned out this year agricultural products, with bricks, soap, and brooms, to the value of $ , . the colony is named after the late oscar craig, of rochester, who, with william p. letchworth, of buffalo, purchased the two-thousand-acre tract of land on which it is situated from the shaker colony at sonyea and presented it to the state, dr. peterson devoting several months of each year for nine years to getting the institution into working order. the first patients were housed in the old shaker buildings, which were well constructed and fairly well arranged for the purpose, but as additional applications for admission have been made new buildings have been erected. to-day there are eighty buildings in the colony, but a thousand patients are waiting for admission, eight hundred of whom are in new york city. epilepsy, the "falling sickness," is a most difficult malady to treat even in an institution for that purpose, and it is impossible to treat it anywhere else. an epileptic in a family is an almost intolerable burden to its other members, as well as to himself. the temperamental effect of the disease takes the form in the patient of making frequent and unjust complaints, and epileptics invariably charge some one with having injured them while they have been unconscious during an attack. then, too, living at home, they are often dangerous to younger members of a family, and they are fault-finding, exacting, and irritable generally. the seizures frequently come on without warning, and the patient drops where he stands, often injuring himself severely. the last annual report of the craig colony records more than four hundred injuries within the year to patients during seizures which required a surgeon's attention, the injuries varying from severe bruises to fractures of the skull. the object of the craig colony is to remove the burden of the epileptic in the family from the home without subjecting the patient to the hardship of confinement with the insane. "very few epileptics suffer permanent insanity in any form except dementia," says the medical superintendent of the colony. "acute mania and maniac depressive insanity not infrequently appear as a 'post-convulsive' condition, that generally subsides within a few hours, or at most a few days. rarely the state may persist a month. melancholia is extremely infrequent. delusions of persecution, hallucinations of sight or hearing, systematized in character, are almost never encountered in epilepsy." only from six to fifteen per cent of epileptics are curable, and hence the work of the craig colony is largely palliative of the sufferings of the patients. each individual case is studied with the utmost care, however, and patients are given their choice of available occupations. the colony is not a custodial institution. there are no bars on the windows, no walls or high fences about the farm. the patients are housed in cottages, men and women in separate buildings some distance apart, about thirty to each cottage. in charge of each of these families are a man and his wife, who utilize the services of some of the patients in the performance of household work, while the others have their duties outside. kindness to the unfortunates under their care is impressed upon every employee of the colony, and an iron-bound rule forbids them to strike a patient even in case of assault. besides the agricultural work in the craig colony, and that in the soap and broom factories and the brick-yard, the patients are taught blacksmithing, carpentry, dressmaking, tailoring, painting, plumbing, shoemaking, laundrying, and sloyd work. it is insisted on that all patients physically capable shall find employment as a therapeutic measure. the records show that on sundays and holidays and on rainy days, when there is a minimum of physical activity among the patients, their seizures double and sometimes treble in number. few of the patients know how to perform any kind of labor when they enter the colony, but many of them learn rapidly. it has been repeatedly demonstrated that boys from eighteen to twenty years of age can spend two years in the sloyd shop and leave it fully qualified as cabinet-makers, and capable of earning a journeyman's wages. there are about two hundred children in the colony of epileptics at sonyea, more than half of whom are girls. as children subject to epileptic seizures are not received in the public schools of the state, the only opportunity for any education among these afflicted little ones whose parents are unable to teach them themselves or provide private tutors for them is in the schools of the colony. some of the children are comparatively bright scholars, while the attempt to teach others seems a hopeless task. for instance, it took one girl ninety days to learn to lay three sticks in the form of a letter a. every effort is made to encourage recreation among the patients in the craig colony, both children and adults. the men have a club of members, with billiards, chess, checkers, cards, and magazines and newspapers. the boys have their baseball and football, and play match games among themselves or with visiting teams. the women and girls play croquet, tennis, and other outdoor games. there is a band composed of patients that gives a concert once a week, and there are theatricals and dancing, with occasional lectures by visiting celebrities. as the colony, with the medical staff, nurses, and other employees, has a population of , , there is always an audience for any visiting attraction. the maintenance of the colony is costing the state $ , the present year. since the founding of the craig colony similar institutions have been established in massachusetts, texas, michigan, ohio, new jersey, pennsylvania, illinois, and kansas, and other states are preparing to follow their example. there are other private sanatoriums throughout the country similar to the one in westchester county, where the nervous or neurasthenic patient who is well-to-do may obtain relaxation and supervision, but there is no place at all to-day where the man or woman suffering from curable nervous disorders who is without means can go for treatment. * * * * * _(mcclure's magazine)_ five illustrations: two wash drawings by andré castaigne showing mono-rail trains in the future, five half-tone reproductions of photographs of the car on its trial trip, and one pen-and-ink diagram of the gyroscopes. the brennan mono-rail car by perceval gibbon it was november , --a day that will surely have its place in history beside that other day, eighty-five years ago, when george stephenson drove the first railway locomotive between stockton and darlington. in the great square of the brennan torpedo factory at gillingham, where the fighting-tops of battleships in the adjacent dockyard poise above the stone coping of the wall, there was a track laid down in a circle of a quarter of a mile. switches linked it up with other lengths of track, a straight stretch down to a muddy cape of the medway estuary, and a string of curves and loops coiling among the stone and iron factory sheds. the strange thing about it was that it was single--just one line of rail on sleepers tamped into the unstable "made" ground of the place. and there was brennan, his face red with the chill wind sweeping in from the nore, his voice plaintive and irish, discoursing, at slow length, of revolutions per minute, of "precession," and the like. the journalists from london, who had come down at his invitation, fidgeted and shivered in the bitter morning air; the affair did not look in the least like an epoch in the history of transportation and civilization, till-- "now, gentlemen," said brennan, and led the way across the circle of track. and then, from its home behind the low, powder-magazine-like sheds, there rode forth a strange car, the like of which was never seen before. it was painted the businesslike slatyblue gray of the war department. it was merely a flat platform, ten feet wide by forty feet long, with a steel cab mounted on its forward end, through the windows of which one could see a young engineer in tweeds standing against a blur of moving machine-parts. it ran on the single rail; its four wheels revolved in a line, one behind another; and it traveled with the level, flexible equilibrium of a ship moving across a dock. it swung over the sharp curves without faltering, crossed the switch, and floated--floated is the only word for the serene and equable quality of its movement--round and round the quarter-mile circle. a workman boarded it as it passed him, and sat on the edge with his legs swinging, and its level was unaltered. it was wonderful beyond words to see. it seemed to abolish the very principle of gravitation; it contradicted calmly one's most familiar instincts. every one knows the sense one gains at times while watching an ingenious machine at its work--a sense of being in the presence of a living and conscious thing, with more than the industry, the pertinacity, the dexterity, of a man. there was a moment, while watching brennan's car, when one had to summon an effort of reason to do away with this sense of life; it answered each movement of the men on board and each inequality in the makeshift track with an adjustment of balance irresistibly suggestive of consciousness. it was an illustration of that troublous theorem which advances that consciousness is no more than the co-relation of the parts of the brain, and that a machine adapted to its work is as conscious in its own sphere as a mind is in its sphere. the car backed round the track, crossed to the straight line, and halted to take us aboard. there were about forty of us, yet it took up our unequally distributed weight without disturbance. the young engineer threw over his lever, and we ran down the line. the movement was as "sweet" and equable as the movement of a powerful automobile running slowly on a smooth road; there was an utter absence of those jars and small lateral shocks that are inseparable from a car running on a double track. we passed beyond the sheds and slid along a narrow spit of land thrusting out into the mud-flanked estuary. men on lighters and a working-party of bluejackets turned to stare at the incredible machine with its load. then back again, three times round the circle, and in and out among the curves, always with that unchanging stateliness of gait. as we spun round the circle, she leaned inward like a cyclist against the centrifugal pull. she needs no banking of the track to keep her on the rail. a line of rails to travel on, and ground that will carry her weight--she asks no more. with these and a clear road ahead, she is to abolish distance and revise the world's schedules of time. "a hundred and twenty miles an hour," i hear brennan saying, in that sad voice of his; "or maybe two hundred. that's a detail." in the back of the cab were broad unglazed windows, through which one could watch the tangle of machinery. dynamos are bolted to the floor, purring under their shields like comfortable cats; abaft of them a twenty-horse-power wolseley petrol-engine supplies motive power for everything. and above the dynamos, cased in studded leather, swinging a little in their ordered precession, are the two gyroscopes, the soul of the machine. to them she owes her equilibrium. of all machines in the world, the gyroscope is the simplest, for, in its essential form, it is no more than a wheel revolving. but a wheel revolving is the vehicle of many physical principles, and the sum of them is that which is known as gyroscopic action. it is seen in the ordinary spinning top, which stands erect in its capacity of a gyroscope revolving horizontally. the apparatus that holds brennan's car upright, and promises to revolutionize transportation, is a top adapted to a new purpose. it is a gyroscope revolving in a perpendicular plane, a steel wheel weighing three quarters of a ton and spinning at the rate of three thousand revolutions to the minute. now, the effect of gyroscopic action is to resist any impulse that tends to move the revolving wheel out of the plane in which it revolves. this resistance can be felt in a top; it can be felt much more strongly in the beautiful little gyroscopes of brass and steel that are sold for the scientific demonstration of the laws governing revolving bodies. such a one, only a few inches in size, will develop a surprising resistance. this resistance increases with the weight of the wheel and the speed at which it moves, till, with brennan's gyroscopes of three quarters of a ton each, whirling in a vacuum at three thousand revolutions per minute, it would need a weight that would crush the car into the ground to throw them from their upright plane. readers of mcclure's magazine were made familiar with the working of brennan's gyroscope by mr. cleveland moffett's article in the issue of december, . the occasion of that article was the exhibition of brennan's model mono-rail car before the royal society and in the grounds of his residence at gillingham. for a clear understanding of the first full-sized car, it may be well to recapitulate a few of the characteristics of the gyroscope. when brennan made his early models, he found that, while the little cars would remain upright and run along a straight rail, they left the track at the first curve. the gyroscope governed their direction as well as their equilibrium. it was the first check in the evolution of the perfect machine. it was over ten years before he found the answer to the problem--ten years of making experimental machines and scrapping them, of filing useless patents, of doubt and persistence. but the answer was found--in the spinning top. a spinning top set down so that it stands at an angle to the floor will right itself; it will rise till it stands upright on the point of equal friction. brennan's resource, therefore, was to treat his gyroscope as a top. he enclosed it in a case, through which its axles projected, and at each side of the car he built stout brackets reaching forth a few inches below each end of the axle. the result is not difficult to deduce. when the car came to a curve, the centrifugal action tended to throw it outward; the side of the car that was on the inside of the curve swung up and the bracket touched the axle of the gyroscope. forthwith, in the manner of its father, the top, the gyroscope tried to stand upright on the bracket; all the weight of it and all its wonderful force were pressed on that side of the car, holding it down against the tendency to rise and capsize. the thing was done; the spinning top had come to the rescue of its posterity. it only remained to fit a double gyroscope, with the wheels revolving in opposite directions, and, save for engineering details, the mono-rail car was evolved. through the window in the back of the cab i was able to watch them at then; work--not the actual gyroscopes, but their cases, quivering with the unimaginable velocity of the great wheels within, turning and tilting accurately to each shifting weight as the men on board moved here and there. above them were the glass oilcups, with the opal-green engine-oil flushing through them to feed the bearings. lubrication is a vital part of the machine. let that fail, and the axles, grinding and red-hot, would eat through the white metal of the bearings as a knife goes through butter. it is a thing that has been foreseen by the inventor: to the lubricating apparatus is affixed a danger signal that would instantly warn the engineer. "but," says brennan, "if one broke down, the other gyroscope would hold her up--till ye could run her to a siding, anyway." "but supposing the electric apparatus failed?" suggests a reporter--with visions of headlines, perhaps. "supposing the motor driving the gyroscopes broke down; what then?" "they'd run for a couple of days, with the momentum they've got," answers the inventor. "and for two or three hours, that 'ud keep her upright by itself." on the short track at gillingham there are no gradients to show what the car can do in the way of climbing, but here again the inventor is positive. she will run up a slope as steep as one in six, he says. there is no reason to doubt him; the five-foot model that he used to exhibit could climb much steeper inclines, run along a rope stretched six feet above the ground, or remain at rest upon it while the rope was swung to and fro. it would do all these things while carrying a man; and, for my part, i am willing to take brennan's word. louis brennan himself was by no means the least interesting feature of the demonstration. he has none of the look of the visionary, this man who has gone to war with time and space; neither had george stephenson. he is short and thick-set, with a full face, a heavy moustache hiding his mouth, and heavy eyebrows. he is troubled a little with asthma, which makes him somewhat staccato and breathless in speech, and perhaps also accentuates the peculiar plaintive quality of his irish voice. there is nothing in his appearance to indicate whether he is thirty-five or fifty-five. as a matter of fact, he is two years over the latter age, but a man ripe in life, with that persistence and belief in his work which is to engineers what passion is to a poet. the technicalities of steel and iron come easily off his tongue; they are his native speech, in which he expresses himself most intimately. all his life he has been concerned with machines. he is the inventor of the brennan steerable torpedo, whose adoption by the admiralty made him rich and rendered possible the long years of study and experiment that went to the making of the mono-rail car. he has a touch of the rich man's complacency; it does not go ill with his kindly good humor and his single-hearted pride in his life work. it is characteristic, i think, of his honesty of purpose and of the genius that is his driving force that hitherto he has concerned himself with scientific invention somewhat to the exclusion of the commercial aspects of his contrivance. he has had help in money and men from the british government, which likewise placed the torpedo factory at his disposal; and the governments of india and--of all places--kashmir have granted him subsidies. railroad men from all parts of the world have seen his model; but he has not been ardent in the hunt for customers. perhaps that will not be necessary; the mono-rail car should be its own salesman; but, in the meantime, it is not amiss that a great inventor should stand aloof from commerce. but, for all the cheerful matter-of-factness of the man, he, too, has seen visions. there are times when he talks of the future as he hopes it will be, as he means it to be, when "transportation is civilization." men are to travel then on a single rail, in great cars like halls, two hundred feet long, thirty to forty feet wide, whirling across continents at two hundred miles an hour--from new york to san francisco between dawn and dawn. travel will no longer be uncomfortable. these cars, equipped like a hotel, will sweep along with the motion of an ice-yacht. they will not jolt over uneven places, or strain to mount the track at curves; in each one, the weariless gyroscopes will govern an unchanging equilibrium. trustful kashmir will advance from its remoteness to a place accessible from anywhere. streetcar lines will no longer be a perplexity to paving authorities and anathema to other traffic; a single rail will be flush with the ground, out of the way of hoofs and tires. automobiles will run on two wheels like a bicycle. it is to be a mono-rail world, soothed and assured by the drone of gyroscopes. by that time the patient ingenuity of inventors and engineers will have found the means to run the gyroscopes at a greater speed than is now possible, thus rendering it feasible to use a smaller wheel. it is a dream based on good, solid reasoning, backed by a great inventor's careful calculations; h.g. wells has given a picture of it in the last of his stories of the future. practical railroad men have given to the mono-rail car a sufficiently warm welcome. they have been impressed chiefly by its suitability to the conditions of transportation in the great new countries, as, for instance, on that line of railway that is creeping north from the zambesi to open up the copper deposits of northwestern rhodesia, and on through central africa to its terminus at cairo. just such land as this helped to inspire brennan. he was a boy when he first saw the endless plains of australia, and out of that experience grew his first speculations about the future of railway travel. such lands make positive and clear demands, if ever they are to be exploited for their full value to humanity. they need railways quickly laid and cheaply constructed; lines not too exacting in point of curves and gradients; and, finally, fast travel. it is not difficult to see how valuable the mono-rail would have been in such an emergency as the last sudan war, when the army dragged a line of railway with it down toward omdurman. petrol-driven cars to replace the expensive steam locomotives, easy rapid transit instead of the laborious crawl through the stifling desert heat--a complete railway installation, swiftly and cheaply called into being, instead of a costly and cumbersome makeshift. the car went back to her garage, or engine-shed, or stable, or whatever the railway man of the future shall decide to call it. struts were pulled into position to hold her up, the motors were switched off, and the gyroscopes were left to run themselves down in forty-eight hours or so. when the mono-rail comes into general use, explained brennan, there will be docks for the cars, with low brick walls built to slide under the platforms and take their weight. while his guests assembled in a store-shed to drink champagne and eat sandwiches, he produced a big flat book, sumptuously bound, and told us how his patents were being infringed on in germany. on that same day there was an exhibition of a mono-rail car on the brennan principle taking place at the zoölogical gardens in berlin; the book was its catalogue. it was full of imaginative pictures of trains fifty years hence, and thereto was appended sanguine letter-press. while there sounded in our ears the hum of the gyroscopes from the car housed in the rear, i translated one paragraph for him. it was to the effect that one brennan, an englishman, had conducted experiments with gyroscopes ten years ago, but the matter had gone no further. "there, now," said brennan. * * * * * (_everybody's magazine_) a new political wedge the way st. louis women drove a nine-hour day into the law by inis h. weed it was the evening before the state primaries--a sweltering first of august night in the tenement district of st. louis, where the factory people eat their suppers and have their beds. men in shirt-sleeves and women with babies sat on the steps for a breath of air, and the streets were a noisy welter of children. two of the most enthusiastic girls in the women's trade union league stopped before the group silhouetted in the gaslight at no. and handed the men in the group this card: republican voters ----------------- it is the women and children that are the victims of manufacturers and manufacturers associations and it is the working woman and child that demands your protection at the primaries, tuesday, august nd scratch ------- e.j. troy secretary st. louis manufacturers association and run by them on the republican ticket for the legislature in the st district comprising wards , , , , and . precincts of the th ward. precincts , , of the rd ward. precincts , of the th ward. precincts , , , , , of the th ward. precincts , , of the th ward "so yez would be afther havin' me scratch misther troy?" mike ryan ran his fingers through his stubby crop with a puzzled air. "oi'm always fur plazin' the loidies, but misther troy, he's a frind o' mine. shure, he shmokes a grand cigar, an' he shakes yer hand that hearty." so mike belonged to the long, long glad-hand line. well, _personal_ arguments were necessary in his case then. that was the way the girls sized up mike ryan. "but this ticket has something to do with your oldest girl." "with briddie?" "it sure does, mr. ryan. didn't i hear your wife tellin' what with the hard times an' all, you'd be puttin' briddie in the mill this winter as soon as ever she's turned fourteen? wouldn't you rather they worked her nine hours a day instead o' ten--such a soft little kid with such a lot o' growin' to do? there's a lot of us goin' to fight for a nine-hour bill for the women and children this winter, an' do you think a manufacturers' representative, like troy, is goin' to help us? look at his record! see how he's fought the employees' interests in the legislature! that's a part of his job! _he_ won't vote for no nine-hour bill!" and the two girls went on to the next tenement. they were only two of the hundreds of trade union girls who were "doing" the first electoral district (about one-third of st. louis) on the eve of the primaries. they were thorough. they had the whole district organized on the block system, and they went over each block house by house. _a new move, is it not, this carefully organized effort of factory women to secure justice through the ballot-box?_ how have st. louis women attained this clear vision that their industrial future is bound up in politics? it is a three years' story. let us go back a little. st. louis is essentially a conservative city. first, it was an old french town; then a southern town; then a german tradesman's town. with such strata superimposed one above the other, it could hardly be other than conservative. in addition, st. louis was crippled in the war between the states. she lost her market. this made her slow. in the 'eighties, this old french-southern-german city began to recover from the ruin of her southern trade. little by little she took heart, for the great southwest was being settled. there was a new field in which to build up trade. to-day st. louis is _the_ great wholesale and jobbing depot, _the_ manufacturing city for that vast stretch of territory known as the southwest. since , great fortunes have been amassed--most of them, indeed, in the past ten years. there has been a rapid growth of industry. the old southern city has become a soft-coal factory center. a pall of smoke hangs over the center of the city where the factories roar and pound. in the midst of this gloom the workfolk are creating rivers of beer, carloads of shoes and woodenware, millions of garments and bags, and the thousand and one things necessary to fill the orders of hundreds of traveling salesmen in the southwest territory--and in the south, too, for st. louis is winning back some of her old-time trade. and the toil of their lifting hands and flying fingers has wrought a golden age for the men who control the capital and the tools. the men who manage have been shaking hands in their clubs for the past decade and congratulating themselves and each other over their drinks. "yes, st. louis is a grand old business town. solid! no mushroom real-estate booms, you know, but a big, steady growth. new plants starting every month and the old ones growing. then, when we get our deep waterway, that's going to be another big shove toward prosperity. "nice town to live in, too! look at our handsome houses and clubs and public buildings. never was anything like our world's fair in the history of men--never! look at our parks, too. when we get 'em linked together with speedways, where'll you find anything prettier?" thus the money-makers in this heavy german town. but what about the employees--the clerks and the factory workers? have they been "in" on this "big shove toward prosperity?" have they found it a "nice" town to live in? no, to each count. for the people at the bottom of the ladder--for the people who tend machines, dig ditches, and stand behind the notion counter--st. louis is a smoky town, where people have gray lungs instead of pink; a town where franchise grabbing and an antiquated system of taxation have their consequence of more than new york city rents. a town whose slums, says lee frankel, are the worst in the country. a town where wages are low (in some occupations twenty-five per cent lower than in new york city); where employment is irregular, the speeding-up tremendous, the number of women entering industry steadily increasing, and where the influx of immigrant labor is pulling down the wage scale and the standard of living. the average wage of the shoe-workers in the east is $ per year. in st. louis it is $ if work is steady--and rents are higher than in new york city. it must be remembered that this sum is an average, and that thousands of shoe-workers earn, less than $ , for full-time work. the same is true of thousands engaged in other kinds of manufacture and in department stores. somehow the town looks different from the two ends of the ladder. the government of missouri and st. louis has been about as little adapted to the needs of the industrial worker as it well could be. men have been concerned not so much with social justice as with government protection for money-making schemes. business opportunity has depended much on _pliable state and municipal laws_. how the interests fought to keep them pliable; how st. louis and missouri became a world scandal in this steady growth to riches, we all know. we know, too, the period of political reform. people thought the killing trouble in missouri lay largely with the governmental machinery; and the optimists' faith in a state primary law, in the initiative and referendum as panacea, was white and shining. _they did not see that the underlying problem is industrial_. after the reform wave had spent itself, the crooked people who had kept out of jail crept from their holes and went back to their old job of beating the game. the only essential difference is that their methods to-day are less raw and crude. they play a more gentlemanly game; but the people are still robbed of their rights. thus it came to pass that when the cheerful optimist went to the cupboard to get his poor dog a bone, why, lo! the cupboard was bare. meantime the dog has taken up the struggle for social justice on his own account, not singly but in groups and packs. as yet, although a deal of snuffing, running to and fro, barking, yelping, and fighting has been done, little has been accomplished; for one reason, because labor has lacked great organizers in st. louis. it has remained for the working women of st. louis to make the industrial idea effective and to reach out with united single purpose to bend the political bow for their protection. the women's trade union league, whose real general is cynthelia isgrig knefler, the most dynamic woman in st. louis, received its first impetus only three years ago in the idealism of a brilliant young irish girl, hannah hennessy, who died at thanksgiving, , a victim of exhausting work in a garment shop and of her own tireless efforts to organize the working girls of her city. hannah hennessy was sent by the garment workers' union to the national labor convention of at norfolk, virginia. there she glimpsed for the first time the inevitable great world march of women following industry as machinery takes it out of the home and into the shop--saw these women, blind, unorganized, helpless to cope with the conditions offered by organized capital. the vision fired this irish girl to a pitch of enthusiasm peculiar to the celtic temperament. back she came to st. louis with the spirit of the crusaders, her vision "the eight-hour day, the living wage to guard the home." for the first time she saw the broken physical future of women who label three thousand five hundred bottles of beer an hour, and accept their cuts and gashes from the bursting bottles as inevitable; of women who put eyelets on a hundred cases of shoes a day, twenty-four pairs to the case; of women who must weave one thousand yards of hemp cloth a day to hold their job in a mill where the possible speed of woman and machine is so nicely calculated that the speediest person in the factory can weave only twelve hundred and sixty yards a day; where the lint from this hemp fills the air and is so injurious to eyes and throat that the company furnishes medical attendance free. to undertake the huge task of organizing these thousands of st. louis women would require not only vision but time and energy. hannah's return meant being engulfed in the vast roar made by rows of throbbing, whirring machines, into one of which she sewed her vitality at dizzy speed ten hours a day. vision she had, but training, time, energy--no! it was at this point that she met cynthelia isgrig knefler, a leisure-class young woman, who had been gripped by a sense of the unevenness of the human struggle. cynthelia knefler was groping her way through the maze of settlement activities to an appreciation of their relative futility in the face of long hours, low wages, and unsanitary shops. then the idealism of these two young women, born on the one hand of hard experience, on the other of a gentle existence, fused, and burned with a white light whose power is beginning to touch the lives of the women who toil and spin for the great southwest. both women possessed fire and eloquence. hannah's special contribution was first-hand experience; mrs. knefler's the knowledge of economic conditions necessary to an understanding of our complicated labor problems. wise, sane, conservative, mrs. knefler not only helped hannah to organize branch after branch of the women's trade union league in the different industries, but set out at once to train strong, intelligent leaders. she stimulated them to a critical study of labor laws with the evolution of industry for background. night after night for two years mrs. knefler and hannah were out organizing groups of girls. mrs. knefler's friends finally stopped remonstrating with her. hannah, utterly self-forgetful despite ten hours a day in the mills, hurled herself into the new work. evening after evening her mother protested anxiously, but hannah, heedless of her own interest, would eat her supper and hurry across the city to help groups of new girls--american, russian, roumanian--a confused mass, to find themselves and pull together. one june morning in the papers announced that the manufacturers' association and the business men's league had decided on e.j. troy as their candidate to the state legislature for the first district. his candidacy was also backed by the republican machine. the papers went on to say that e.j. troy was one of "our ablest and most popular fellow townsmen," that he had grown up in his district, had a host of friends, and might be expected to carry the primaries by a big majority. that evening at the weekly dinner of the officers of the women's trade union league at the settlement, mrs. knefler hurried in: "girls, have you seen the morning papers? do you know that we've got e.j. troy to contend with again?" at the same moment in dashed hannah hennessy by another door, calling out, "girls, they're goin' to put troy on the carpet again!" to both speeches came half a dozen excited replies that that's just what they were talking about! over the potatoes and meat and bread-pudding the situation was discussed in detail. "yes, 'twas him, all right, that thought up most of those tricky moves when we was tryin' to get our nine-hour bill before," reflected a wiry, quick-motioned girl during a second's pause. "don't it just make you boil," began another, "when you think how he riled 'em up at every four corners in missouri! he had every old country storekeeper standin' on end about that nine-hour bill. he had 'em puttin' on their specs and callin' to mother to come and listen to this information the manufacturers had sent him:--how the labor unions was tryin' to get a nine-hour bill for women passed; how it would keep their youngest girl, bessie, from helping in the store when the farmers drove in of a saturday night; and how it was a blow at american freedom." "e.j. troy's got to be squenched at the primaries," said a third, quietly and decisively. "but how?" asked a more timid officer. bing! mrs. knefler got into action. there never was a woman for whom a difficult situation offered a more bracing tonic quality. the business meeting that followed fairly bristled with plans. the girls' first move was to go before the central labor body and ask them to indorse their objections to e.j. troy. definite action beyond indorsement the girls did not ask or expect. this much they got. one day a little later, when mrs. knefler's campaign was beginning to take form, a representative of e.j. troy called mrs. knefler on the telephone. the voice was bland, smooth, and very friendly. wouldn't she--that is--ah--er--wouldn't her organization confer with mr. e.j. troy? he felt sure they would come to a pleasant and mutually helpful understanding. mrs. knefler explained to the mouthpiece (take it either way) that it would be quite useless; that the stand of the league was taken on mr. troy's previous record and on the "interests" he represented; that while they had nothing against him in his private capacity, as a public servant they must oppose him. all this in mrs. knefler's suavest fashion. she feels intensely, but she never loses her self-possession. that's why she is such a formidable antagonist. it was the last week in june--they had just a month before the primaries in which to rouse public opinion. the newspapers must help, of course. mrs. knefler went to the editors. they were polite, they admitted the justice of her stand, but they were evasive. mrs. knefler opened her paper the next morning after she had made the rounds, to find not a single word about the danger to the working woman's interests. what could the papers do? weren't they in the hands of the "big cinch," as a certain combination of business men in st. louis is known? naturally they refused to print a line. you never step on your own toe, do you, or hit yourself in the face--if you can help it? one must admit that things looked bad for the league. how were girls who raced at machines all day, who had neither money nor the voice of the press, to rouse this sluggish, corrupt city to the menace of sending to the legislature men like e.j. troy, pledged body and soul to the manufacturers? how could they waken the public to woman's bitter necessity for shorter hours? the case looked hopeless, but mrs. knefler merely set her teeth, and got busy--decidedly busy. she planned a campaign that no other st. louis woman in her class would have had the courage to tackle. mrs. knefler is a member of the club that is the st. louis clubwomen's "holy of holies." they have a club-house that just drips art, and they steep themselves in self-culture. as a group their consciousness of the city's industrial problems is still nebulous. the high light in which mrs. knefler's work must inevitably stand out is intensified by this background of self-culture women, with a few--only a few--rash daughters shivering around preparatory to taking their first cold plunge in the suffrage pool. in such an atmosphere cynthelia knefler planned and carried out the biggest, the most modern and strategic campaign for the working woman ever waged outside a suffrage state. it was done simply because her heart was filled with the need of the thousands of helpless, unorganized girls for protection from the greed of organized capital. there are moments when love gives vision and raises us head and shoulders above our group. so it was with cynthelia knefler, brought up in this conservative city, educated in a prunes-and-prisms girls' school, steeped in the southern idea that no "lady" would ever let her picture or her opinions get into the newspapers, and that making public speeches was quite unthinkable! the press was silent, but at least mrs. knefler could speak to the labor unions. she and two other women appealed to every labor union in st. louis with a speech against e.j. troy. they fought him--not as a man, but as a representative of the "big interests." mrs. knefler made seventy-six speeches in that one month before the primaries. that meant hurrying from hall to hall on hot summer nights and making two speeches, and sometimes three and four, while her friends were wearing white muslin and sitting on the gallery, to get the cool of the evening. mrs. knefler's mind was working like a trip-hammer that month; seeking ways and means for rousing the busy, unthinking, conglomerate mass of people to the real issue. money in the league was scarce. there are no rich members. but out of their wages and out of raffles and entertainments the league had a small reserve. part of this they used to print sixty thousand cards. so that when you went in to get a shave your glance was caught, as the barber turned your head, by this red ticket "scratch e.j. troy." when you stopped in for a loaf of bread, a red ticket behind the glass of the case advised you to "scratch e.j. troy." when you went in for a drink, there leaped into sight dozens of little red tickets: "scratch e.j. troy." there are always some men, though, who are moved only by the big, noisy things of life. only schneider's band sounds like music to them; only "twenty buckets of blood, or dead man's gulch" appeals to them as literature; and the only speaker is the man who rips out old glory and defies forked lightning. in a political campaign the little red ticket is lost on that kind of man. mrs. knefler understood this. so one hot july day huge posters in high, wood-block letters screamed from billboards and the walls of saloons and barber shops and labor halls: "union men and friends, scratch e.j. troy." all this printing and bill-posting was expensive for working girls. they came back at the central labor body again. "your sympathy is great, but your funds are better," they said. "you've tackled too big a job," the labor leaders told the girls, with a benevolent air. "he's the candy around this town--e.j. troy is. it would take a mint of money to beat e.j. troy." however, the central body instructed the legislative committee of five to give the girls every help, and they did good service. but the central body didn't instruct the committee to go down very far into the treasury. july was wearing on. the league hurled itself upon the press once more. surely after so much speech-making and bill-posting the editors would accord them some recognition merely as news. silence--absolute silence in the next day's papers, and the next. how did they accomplish the next move? that is one of the secrets. their money was gone, the silence of the press had crushed them with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, but nevertheless they turned the trick. they reached the upper and middle class readers of the south side district, troy's district, which the papers were determined to keep as much in ignorance as possible. all one night, silent, swift-moving men whipped the paste across the billboards of that section and slapped on huge posters, so that when papa smith and young mr. jones and banker green came out of their comfortable houses next morning on their way to business, they neglected their papers to find out why they should "scratch e.j. troy." the day of the primaries was almost come. now to reach the dull fellows who hadn't seen the cards and the huge posters, who use their eyes only to avoid obstacles. one night, as the factory whistles blew the signal of dismissal, the men in the lines of operators who filed out of shop and mills found themselves mechanically taking and examining this ticket handed them by league girls, who had gone off their job a bit early and had their wages docked in order to work for the larger good. the committee of the central body was now openly active in their behalf. men as well as women were passing out the tickets. then came the eve of the election. busy pairs of girls who had already done ten hours' work were going over e.j. troy's district, with its sections of rich and poor and well-to-do. throbbing feet that had carried the body's weight ten hot, fatiguing hours hurried up and down the blocks, climbed flight after flight of stairs, and stood at door after door. "say, kid, ain't it the limit that a woman can't vote on her own business?" said one girl too another after they had finished the one hundred and forty-fifth family and tried to explain their stake in the election to a bigoted "head of the house." on the morning of the primaries mrs. schurz, as she took the coffee off the stove, remonstrated with her oldest daughter, minna. "vat, minna, you ain't goin' to stay out of de mill today and lose your pay? "yes, i be, _mutter_," retorted minna, with a tightening of the lips and a light in her eyre. "i'm goin' to the polls to hand out cards to the voters. i'm goin'. i don't care if i lose my job even." "oh, minna, dat is bad, and me wid four _kinder_ to eat de food. where is de _fleisch_ and de _brot_ widout your wages?" mrs. schurz's heavy face wore the anxious despondence so common to the mothers of the poor. the girl hesitated, then tightened her lips once more. "i've got to take the risk, _mutter_. it'll come out right--it's got to. do you want the rest of the children workin' ten hours a day too? look at me! i ain't got no looks any more. i'm too dead tired to go out of a saturday night. i can't give nobody a good time any more. i guess there won't be no weddin' bells for mine--ever. but the kids"--pointing to the inside bedroom, where the younger girls were still asleep--"the kids is a-goin' to keep their looks." so at six o'clock minna joined the relays of working girls who--many of them, like minna, at personal risk and sacrifice--handed out cards all day to each man who entered. thus the men were reminded at the last moment of the working woman's stake in the election. "scratch e.j. troy" was before their eyes as they crossed their tickets. every moment of the day there were alert girls to make this final quiet appeal for justice. they were serious, dignified. there was no jeering, no mirth on the part of the men at the novelty of this campaign--nothing to make any woman self-conscious. the girls were quiet enough outwardly, but the inner drama was keyed high. had all their speech-making, placarding, bill-posting and the canvassing of factories, blocks, and primaries--had all their little savings, their risk and personal sacrifice accomplished anything? that was what the girls asked themselves. the thermometer of their hope rose and fell with the rumors of the day. the fathers of the central labor body patted them on the head benevolently and tried to ease their fall, if they were to fall, by saying that anyway it would be something to make troy run third on his ticket. seven o'clock, and the girls were leaving the primaries in twos and threes, tired but excitedly discussing the situation. between hope and despondency the comment varied on the streets, at the supper-tables, and in the eager, waiting groups of girls on tenement steps and stairs. at last came the authentic returns. e.j. troy ran _ , votes behind his ticket. with a silent press and practically no money, the working women had defeated one of the most popular men in st. louis._ a man pledged to the interests of labor legislation won his place. that made the outlook better for the women's nine-hour bill, and thousands of working girls tumbled into bed, tired, but with new hope. every newspaper in st. louis failed to comment on the victory. the slaves who sit at the editorial desk said they couldn't--they weren't "let." _so the most hopeful feature in st. louis politics has never been commented on by the american press._ as for hannah hennessy--she had been too ill to share in the active work of the campaign, but her influence was everywhere--a vital force, a continual inspiration. week by week her cheeks grew thinner, her cough more rasping. but after the campaign against troy was over, she turned with the same intensity of interest to the national convention of the american federation of labor which was to meet there in november. for a year she had been making plans, eager to make this convention a landmark in the history of women's labor. but in november she was in bed by the little grate fire in the family sitting-room. and when convention week came with its meetings a scant three blocks from her home, she could be there in spirit only; she waited restlessly for the girls to slip in after the daily sessions and live them over again for her. on thanksgiving day, between the exhausting strain of high-tension work and the zeal of the young reformer, her beautiful life and brilliant fire were burned out. the committee for the prevention of tuberculosis added her case to their statistics, and the league girls bore her into the lighted church. in the winter of - the leaders of all the labor and social forces of st. louis, all the organizations for various forms of uplift, united under an able secretary and began their custom of lunching together once a week to discuss the pending social legislation. they played a good game. first, there was the educational effect of their previous legislative campaign to build on. then there was all the economy and impetus gained from consolidation. they knew the rules of the game better, too. their plans were more carefully laid and executed. with a more wary and sophisticated eye on the manufacturers' association and a finger in the buttonhole of every legislator, the socially awake of st. louis have secured _more humane child labor legislation, and the nine-hour day for women and children with no exception in favor of shop-keepers_. knowing the sickening fate of industrial legislation in certain other states when tried before judges whose social vision is fifty years behind the times, the winners of this new bill began to wait tensely enough for its testing. so far, however, the women's nine-hour law has not been contested. it has also been exceptionally well enforced, considering that there are only four factory inspectors for all the myriad shops and mills of this manufacturing city of the southwest, and only seven factory inspectors for the whole state of missouri. meanwhile st. louis's new political wedge, the women's trade union league, continues to be a perfectly good political wedge. when there is legislation wanted, all kinds of organizations invariably call upon this league of the working women, whose purpose is a wider social justice. st. louis is another american city where the working women are discovering that they can do things if they only think so. * * * * * (_the delineator_) illustrated by two pen-and-ink sketches made by a staff artist. the job lady gives the young wage-earner a fair working chance by mary e. titzel the jones school, the oldest public school building in chicago, is at harrison street and plymouth court. when it was new, it was surrounded by "brown-stone fronts," and boys and girls who to-day are among the city's most influential citizens learned their a-b-c's within its walls. now, the office-buildings and printing-houses and cheap hotels and burlesque shows that mark the noisy, grimy district south of the "loop" crowd in upon it; and only an occasional shabby brown-stone front survives in the neighborhood as a tenement house. but in the jones school, the process of making influential citizens is still going on. for there the "job lady" has her office, her sanctum. job lady is a generic term that includes miss anne davis, director of the bureau of vocational supervision, and her four assistants. the bureau--which is the newest department of chicago's school system--is really an employment agency, but one that is different from any other employment agency in the united states. it is concerned solely with a much-neglected class of wage-earners--children from fourteen to sixteen years of age; and its chief purpose is, not to find positions for its "patrons," but to keep them in school. it was founded as a result of the discovery that there were not nearly enough jobs in chicago to go around among the twelve or fifteen thousand children under sixteen years of age who left school each year to go to work; also that, though a statute of the state required a child either to work or to go to school, there were about twenty-three thousand youngsters in the city who were doing neither. the law had made no provision for keeping track of the children once they had left school. no one knew what had become of them. so miss davis, acting as special investigator for the school of civics and philanthropy and the chicago women's club, set to work to find out. she discovered--and she can show you statistics to prove it--that "bummin'" around, looking aimlessly for work, brought many a boy and girl, unable to withstand the temptations of the street, into the juvenile court. and she found, as other statistics bear witness, that the fate of the children who found jobs was scarcely better than that of their idle brothers and sisters. undirected, they took the first positions that offered, with the result that most of them were engaged in "blind-alley" occupations, unskilled industries that offered little, if any, chance for advancement and that gave no training for the future. the pay was poor; it averaged two dollars a week. working conditions were frequently unhealthful. moral influences of shop and factory and office were often bad. for the most part, the industries that employed children were seasonal; and many boys and girls were forced into long periods of inactivity between positions. this state of affairs, combined with a natural tendency to vary the monotony of life by shifting, on the slightest pretext, from one job to another, was making of many children that bane of modern industry, the "casual" laborer. the bureau--started informally in the course of initial investigations and kept alive through the grace of the women's club, until the board of education was ready to adopt it--has been able to do much in amelioration of the lot of the fourteen-to-sixteen-year-old worker. but no statistics it can produce are as telling as the sight of the bureau in operation. sit with your eyes and ears open, in a corner of the office in the jones school and you will make the acquaintance of one of the humanest employment agencies in the world; also you will learn more about such grave subjects as the needs of our educational system and the underlying causes of poverty than you can learn out of fat treatises in a year. "why do you want to leave school?" that is the first question the job lady asks of each new applicant who comes to the bureau for work. perhaps the child has heard that question before; for in those schools from which the greatest numbers of children go out at the age of fourteen, miss davis and her assistants hold office hours and interview each boy or girl who shows signs of restlessness. they give informal talks to the pupils of the sixth and seventh grades about the opportunities open to boys and girls under sixteen; they discuss the special training offered by the schools and show the advisability of remaining in school as long as possible; they try to find an opportunity of talking over the future with each member of the graduating class. but even when the way has been paved for it, the question, "why do you want to leave school?" brings to light the most trivial of reasons. in very few cases is it economic necessity that drives a child to work. "i ain't int'rusted," explained one boy to miss davis. "i jest sits." the job lady is often able to convince even the sitters that school is, after all, the best place for boys and girls under sixteen. she persuaded between twenty-five and thirty per cent. of the children that applied at the bureau last year to return to school. sometimes all she had to do was to give the child a plain statement of the facts in the case--of the poor work and poor pay and lack of opportunity in the industries open to the fourteen-year-old worker. often she found it necessary only to explain what the school had to offer. one boy was sent to miss davis by a teacher who had advised him to go to work, although he had just completed the seventh grade, because he had "too much energy" for school! he was a bright boy--one capable of making something of himself, if the two important, formative years that must pass before he was sixteen were not wasted; so he was transferred from his school to one where vocational work was part of the curriculum--where he could find an outlet for his superfluous energy in working with his hands. now he is doing high-school work creditably; and he has stopped talking about leaving school. but it isn't always the whim of the child that prompts him to cut short his education. sometimes he is driven into the industrial world by the ignorance or greed of his parents. miss davis tells of one little girl who was sacrificed to the great god labor because the four dollars she brought home weekly helped to pay the instalments on a piano, and of a boy who was taken from eighth grade just before graduation because his father had bought some property and needed a little extra money. frequently boys and girls are put to work because of the impression that schools have nothing of practical value to offer. still, even the most miserly and most stubborn and most ignorant of parents can sometimes be made to see the wisdom of keeping a child in school until he is sixteen. they are won to the job lady's point of view by a statement of the increased opportunity open to the child who is sixteen. or they are brought to see that the schools are for _all_ children, and that work, on the contrary, is very bad for some children. but often all the job lady's efforts fail. the child is incurably sick of school, the parent remains obdurate. or, perhaps, there is a very real need of what little the son or daughter can earn. often some one can be found who will donate books, or a scholarship ranging from car-fare to a few dollars a week. over four hundred dollars is being given out in scholarships each month, and every scholarship shows good returns. but often no scholarship is forthcoming; and there is nothing for the job lady to do but find a position for the small applicant. then begins the often difficult process of fitting the child to some available job. the process starts, really, with fitting the job to the child, and that is as it should be. the job lady always tries to place the boys and girls that come to her office where there will be some chance for them to learn something. but jobs with a "future" are few for the fourteen-year-old worker. the trades will not receive apprentices under the age of sixteen; business houses and the higher-grade factories won't bother with youngsters, because they are too unreliable; as one man put it, with unconscious irony, too "childish." so the job lady must be content to send the boys out as office and errand boys or to find employment for the girls in binderies and novelty shops. but she investigates every position before a child is sent to fill it; and if it is found to be not up to standard in wages or working conditions, it is crossed off the bureau's list. the job lady has established a minimum wage of four dollars a week. no children go out from the bureau to work for less than that sum, excepting those who are placed in the part-time schools of some printing establishments, or in dressmaking shops, where they will be learning a useful trade. this informal minimum-wage law results in a raising of the standard of payment in a shop. in such manner, the bureau makes over many a job to fit the worker. but the fitting process works both ways. the job lady knows that it is discouraging, often demoralizing, for a child to be turned away, just because he is not the "right person" for a place. so she tries to make sure that he _is_ the right person. that she succeeds very often, the employers who have learned to rely on the bureau will testify. "if you haven't a boy for me now," one man said to miss davis, "i'll wait until you get one. it will save time in the end, for you always send just the boy i want." the secret of finding the right boy lies, first of all, in discovering what he wants to do; and, next, in judging whether or not he can do it. very often, he has not the least idea of what he wants to do. he has learned many things in school, but little or nothing of the industrial world in which he must live. to many boys and girls, especially to those from the poorest families, an "office job" is the acme of desire. it means to them, pitifully enough, a respectability they have never been quite able to encompass. as a result, perhaps, of our slow-changing educational ideals, they scorn the trades. into the trades, however, miss davis finds it possible to steer many a boy who is obviously unfitted for the career of lawyer, bank clerk, or, vaguely, "business man." and she is able to place others in the coveted office jobs, with their time-honored requirement: "only the neat, honest, intelligent boy need apply." often, given the honesty and intelligence, she must manufacture a child to fit the description. sometimes all that is necessary is a hint about soap and water and a clean collar. sometimes the big cupboard in her office must yield up a half-worn suit or a pair of shoes that some luckier boy has outgrown. occasionally, hers is the delicate task of suggesting to a prematurely sophisticated little girl that some employers have an unreasonable prejudice against rouge and earrings; or that even the poorest people can wash their underwear. manners frequently come in for attention. when the boys or girls are placed, the bureau, unlike most employment agencies, does not wash its hands of them. its work has only begun. each child is asked to report concerning his progress from time to time; and if he does not show up, a vocational supervisor keeps track of him by visits to home or office, or by letters, written quarterly. the job lady is able to observe by this method, whether or not the work is suitable for the child, or whether it offers him the best available chance; and she is often able to check the habit of "shifting" in its incipient stages. she is continually arbitrating and making adjustments, always ready to listen to childish woes and to allay them when she can. not long ago, i went to a conference on vocational guidance. there i heard, from the mouths of various men, what hope the work being done by the bureau held for the future. one showed how it had infused new blood into the veins of an anemic educational system, how it was making the schools a more efficient preparation for life--the life of factory and shop and office--than they ever had been before. another man pointed out that the bureau, through the schools, would strike at one of the deep roots of poverty--incompetency. more people are poor for lack of proper equipment to earn a living and proper direction in choosing a vocation, he said, than for any other one reason. a third man saw in the vocational bureau a means of keeping a control over employing interests. "you treat our children well, and you pay them well," the schools of the future, he declared, would be able to say to the employer, as the bureau was already saying, "or we won't permit our children to work for you." a fourth had a vision of what the bureau and the new education it heralded could do toward educating the men and women of the future to a knowledge of their rights as workers. and then there came a man with a plea. "all of these things," he said, "the bureau can accomplish--must accomplish. but let us not forget, in our pursuance of great ends, that it is the essential _humanness_ of the bureau that has made it what it is." here was the final, immeasurable measure of its success. it counts, of course, that the job lady helps along big causes, drives at the roots of big ills; but, somehow it counts more that an anxious-faced youngster i saw at the bureau should have brought his woes to her. his employer had given him a problem to solve--and he couldn't do it. he was afraid he'd lose his job. he had never been to the bureau before, but "a boy you got a job for said you'd help me out," he explained--and he was sent off happy, the problem solved. it counts too, that tillie, who had once found work through the bureau, but was now keeping house for her father, should turn to the bureau for aid. her father had been sick and couldn't afford to buy her anything new to wear. "my dress is so clumsy," she wrote, "that the boys laugh at me when i go out in the street." she was confident that the job lady would help her--and her confidence was not misplaced. it counts that the jameses and henrys and johns and marys and sadies come, brimming over with joy, to tell the job lady of a "raise" or of a bit of approbation from an employer. all the funny, grateful, pathetic letters that pour in count unspeakably! to hundreds of boys and girls and parents the job lady has proved a friend. there has been no nonsense about the matter. she has not sentimentalized over her work; she has not made it smack of charity. indeed, there is no charity about it. the boys and girls and parents who come to the job lady are, for the most part, just average boys and girls and parents, as little paupers as millionaires. they are the people who are generally lost sight of in a democracy, where one must usually be well-to-do enough to, buy assistance, or poor enough to accept it as alms, if he is to have any aid at all in solving the problems of life. it is a great thing for the schools, through the bureau, to give to these average men and women and children practical aid in adjusting their lives to the conditions under which they live and work, and to do it with a sympathy and an understanding--a humanness that warms the soul. * * * * * _(kansas city star)_ two illustrations with the captions: . "tom sawyer and becky thatcher," an illustration in the "adventures of tom sawyer" (harpers), which met the author's approval. . mrs. laura frazer, the original "becky thatcher," pouring tea at mark twain's boyhood home in hannibal, mo., on the anniversary of the author's birth. mark twain's first sweetheart, becky thatcher, tells of their childhood courtship to mrs. laura frazer of hannibal, mo., mark twain's immortal "adventures of tom sawyer" is a rosary, and the book's plot is the cord of fiction on which beads of truth are strung. in the sunset of her life she tells them over, and if here and there among the roseate chaplet is a bead gray in coloring, time has softened the hues of all so they blend exquisitely. this bead recalls a happy afternoon on the broad mississippi with the boys and girls of seventy years ago; the next brings up a picture of a schoolroom where a score of little heads bob over their books and slates, and a third visualizes a wonderful picnic excursion to the woods with a feast of fried chicken and pie and cake. for mrs. frazer is the original of becky thatcher, the childhood sweetheart of tom sawyer, and the original of tom sawyer, of course, was mark twain himself. "yes, i was the becky thatcher of mr. clemens's book," mrs. frazer said the other day, as she sat in the big second floor front parlor of the old time mansion in hannibal, which is now the home for the friendless. mrs. frazer is the matron of the home. "of course i suspected it when i first read the 'adventures of tom sawyer,'" she went on. "there were so many incidents which i recalled as happening to sam clemens and myself that i felt he had drawn a picture of his memory of me in the character of judge thatcher's little daughter. but i never confided my belief to anyone. i felt that it would be a presumption to take the honor to myself. "there were other women who had no such scruples--some of them right here in hannibal--and they attempted to gain a little reflected notoriety by asserting that they were the prototypes of the character. when albert bigelow paine, mr. clemens's biographer, gathered the material for his life of the author, he found no fewer than twenty-five women, in missouri and elsewhere, each of whom declared she was becky thatcher, but he settled the controversy for all time on mr. clemens's authority when the biography was published. in it you will find that becky thatcher was laura hawkins, which was my maiden name. "we were boy and girl sweethearts, sam clemens and i," mrs. frazer said with a gentle little laugh. she is elderly, of course, since it was seventy years ago that her friendship with mark twain began, and her hair is gray. but her heart is young, and she finds in her work of mothering the twenty-five boys and girls in her charge the secret of defying age. on this particular afternoon she wore black and white striped silk, the effect of which was a soft gray to match her hair, and her placid face was lighted with smiles of reminiscence. "children are wholly unartificial, you know," she explained. "they do not learn to conceal their feelings until they begin to grow up. the courtship of childhood, therefore, is a matter of preference and of comradeship. i liked sam better than the other boys, and he liked me better than the other girls, and that was all there was to it." if you had seen this lady of old missouri as she told of her childhood romance you would have recalled instinctively mark twain's description: a lovely little blue eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long tails, white summer frock and embroidered pantalettes. * * * he worshipped this new angel with furtive eye until he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration. and you would have found it easy to conceive that this refined, gentle countenance once was apple cheeked and rosy, that the serene gray eyes once sparkled as blue as the father of waters on a sunny day and that the frosted hair was as golden as the sunshine. "i must have been or years old when we moved to hannibal," mrs. frazer said. "my father had owned a big mill and a store and a plantation worked by many negro slaves further inland, but he found the task of managing all too heavy for him, and so he bought a home in hannibal and was preparing to move to it when he died. my mother left the mill and the plantation in the hands of my grown brothers--i was one of ten children, by the way--and came to hannibal. our house stood at the corner of hill and main streets, and just a few doors west, on hill street, lived the clemens family. "i think i must have liked sam clemens the very first time i saw him. he was different from the other boys. i didn't know then, of course, what it was that made him different, but afterward, when my knowledge of the world and its people grew, i realized that it was his natural refinement. he played hookey from school, he cared nothing at all for his books and he was guilty of all sorts of mischievous pranks, just as tom sawyer is in the book, but i never heard a coarse word from him in all our childhood acquaintance. "hannibal was a little town which hugged the steamboat landing in those days. if you will go down through the old part of the city now you will find it much as it was when i was a child, for the quaint old weatherbeaten buildings still stand, proving how thoroughly the pioneers did their work. we went to school, we had picnics, we explored the big cave--they call it the mark twain cave now, you know." "were you lost in the cave, as tom sawyer and becky thatcher were?" mrs. frazer was asked. "no; that is a part of the fiction of the book," she answered. "as a matter of fact, some older persons always went with us. usually my older sister and sam clemens's older sister, who were great friends, were along to see that we didn't get lost among the winding passages where our candles lighted up the great stalagmites and stalactites, and where water was dripping from the stone roof overhead, just as mr. clemens has described it." and then she proceeded to divorce the memory of mark twain from "the little red schoolhouse" forever. "in those days we had only private schools," mrs. frazer said. "if there were public schools i never heard of them. the first school i went to was taught by mr. cross, who had canvassed the town and obtained perhaps twenty-five private pupils at a stated price for the tuition of each. i do not know how much mr. cross charged, but when i was older i remember that a young woman teacher opened a school after getting twenty-five pupils at $ each for the year's tuition. i shall never forget that mr. cross did not belie his name, however, or that sam clemens wrote a bit of doggerel about him." she quoted it this way: cross by name and cross by nature, cross hopped out of an irish potato. "the schoolhouse was a -story frame building with a gallery across the entire front," she resumed. "after a year together in that school sam and i went to the school taught by mrs. horr. it was then he used to write notes to me and bring apples to school and put them on my desk. and once, as a punishment for some prank, he had to sit with the girls and occupied a vacant seat by me. he didn't seem to mind the penalty at all," mrs. frazer added with another laugh, "so i don't know whether it was effective as a punishment or not. "we hadn't reached the dancing age then, but we went to many 'play parties' together and romped through 'going to jerusalem,' 'king william was king george's son' and 'green grow the rushes--o.' "judge clemens, sam's father, died and left the family in straitened circumstances, and sam's schooling ended there. he began work in the printing office to help out, and when he was or he left hannibal to go to work in st. louis. he never returned to live, but he visited here often in the years that followed." mrs. frazer's own story formed the next chapter of her narrative. a young physician, doctor frazer of madisonville, which was a little inland village in ralls county, adjoining, came often to hannibal and courted pretty laura hawkins. when she was they were married and went to live in the new house doctor frazer had built for his bride at madisonville. there they reared two sons until they required better school facilities, when they went to rensselaer, also in ralls county, but nearer hannibal. they lived in rensselaer until doctor frazer's death, when the mother and younger son moved to the general canby farm. this son's marriage led to mrs. frazer's return to hannibal twenty-two years ago. she was offered the position of matron at the home for the friendless, and for twenty-two years she has managed it. the boys and girls who have gone out from it in nearly every case have become useful men and women as a result of her guidance at the critical period of their life, for the girls remain in the home until they are and the boys until they are . the old mansion which houses the score or more of children always there is to be abandoned in the spring for a new and modern building, a gift from a wealthy citizen to the private charity which has conducted the institution so long without aid from city, county or state. it was given to mrs. frazer and mark twain to renew their youthful friendship after a lapse of half a century. in mrs. frazer made a trip east, accepting an invitation to visit albert bigelow paine at redding, conn. mr. paine had visited hannibal two years before in a search for material for his biography of mark twain and had made mrs. frazer's acquaintance then. he mentioned the approaching visit to the great humorist and mark twain promptly sat down and wrote mrs. frazer that she must be a guest also at stormfield, his redding estate. so it came about that the one-time little laura hawkins found herself lifting the knocker at the beautiful country home of mark twain in the connecticut hills. "the door was opened by clara clemens, mr. clemens's daughter," mrs. frazer said, "and she threw her arms about me and cried: 'i know you, for i've seen your picture, and father has told me about you. you are becky thatcher, and i'm happy to see you.' "and that," mrs. frazer said, "was the first time i really knew i was the original of the character, although i had suspected it for thirty years. clara clemens, you know, even then was a famous contralto, and ossip gabrilowitsch, whose wife she is now, was 'waiting' on her at the time. "it was a wonderful visit," she went on. "mr. clemens took me over stormfield. it must have been a tract of three hundred acres. we went through the fields, which were not fields at all, since they were not cultivated, and across a rustic bridge over a little rushing brook which boiled and bubbled among the rocks in the bed of a great ravine, and we sat down under a rustic arbor and talked of the old days in hannibal when he was a little boy and i a little girl, before he went out into the world to win fame and before i lived my own happy married life. mr. clemens had that rare faculty of loyalty to his friends which made the lapse of fifty years merely an interim. it was as if the half century had rolled away and we were there looking on the boy and girl we had been. "mr. clemens had won worldwide fame; he had been a welcome guest in the palaces of old world rulers and lionized in the great cities of his own country. he had been made a doctor of literature by the university of oxford, the highest honor of the greatest university in the world, and yet there at stormfield to me he seemed to be sam clemens of old hannibal, rather than the foremost man in the american world of letters. "that, i believe, is my most treasured memory of sam clemens," mrs. frazer ended. "i love to think of him as the curly-headed, rollicking, clean minded little boy i played with as a child, but i like better still to think of him as he was in his last days, when all that fame and fortune had showered on him did not, even momentarily, make him waver in his loyalty to the friends of his youth." in hannibal stands the quaint little -story house flush with the sidewalk which samuel langhorne clemens's father built in , after he had moved to the old river town from florida, mo., where the great story teller was born. restored, it houses many reminders of the author and is maintained as a memorial to mark twain. there, november , the eighty-second anniversary of the birth of clemens, the people of hannibal and persons from many cities widely scattered over america will go to pay tribute to his memory. and there they will see becky thatcher in the flesh, silkengowned, gray-haired and grown old, but becky thatcher just the same, seated in a chair which once was mark twain's and pouring tea at a table on which the author once wrote. and if the aroma of the cup she hands out to each visitor doesn't waft before his mind a vision of a curly-headed boy and a little girl with golden long-tails at play on the wharf of old hannibal while the ancient packets ply up and down the rolling blue mississippi, there is nothing whatever in the white magic of association. * * * * * (_milwaukee journal_) four men of humble birth hold world destiny in their hands by william g. shepherd washington--out of a dingy law office in virginia, out of a cobbler's shop in wales, out of a village doctor's office in france and from a farm on the island of sicily came the four men who, in the grand old palace at versailles, will soon put the quietus on the divine right of kings. in , three days after christmas, a boy named thomas was born in the plain home of a presbyterian parson in staunton, va. when this boy was years old, there was born in palermo, on the island of sicily, , miles away, a black-eyed sicilian boy. into the town of palermo, on that july day, came garibaldi, in triumph, and the farmer-folk parents of the boy, in honor of the occasion, named their son victor, after the new italian king, whom garibaldi had helped to seat. three years later still, when thomas was playing the games of -year-old boys down in virginia, and when victor, at , spent most of his time romping on the little farm in sicily, there was born in the heart of the foggy, grimy town of manchester, in england, a boy named david. his home was the ugliest of the homes of all the three. it was of red brick, two stories high, with small windows, facing a busy stone sidewalk. its rooms were small and little adorned, and not much hope of greatness could ever have sprung from that dingy place. there was one other boy to make up the quartet. his name was george. he was a young medical student in paris twenty-two years old when david was born in england. he thought all governments ought to be republics, and, by the time he was , he came over to the united states to study the american republic, and, if possible, to make a living over here as a doctor. he had been born in a little village in france, in a doctor's household. while george was in new york, almost starving for lack of patients, and later, while he taught french in a girls' school in stamford, conn., little thomas, down in virginia, at the age of years, had buckled down to his studies, with the hope of being a lawyer; victor, at , was studying in a school in far-away palermo, and david, at , fatherless by this time, was getting ready for life in the home of his uncle, a village shoemaker, in a little town of wales. the only city-born boy of the four, he was taken by fate, when his father died, to the simplicity of village life and saved, perhaps, from the sidewalks. the years whirled on. george married an american girl and went back to france, to write and teach and doctor. thomas went to a university to study law. david, seven years younger, spent his evenings and spare time in his uncle's shoe shop or in the village blacksmith shop, listening to his elders talk over the affairs of the world. victor, with law as his vision, crossed the famous old straits of messina from his island home and went to naples to study in the law school there. in the ' s things began to happen. down in virginia, thomas was admitted to the bar. in old wales, david, who, by this time, had learned to speak english, was admitted to practice law in , and, in , the black-eyed, hot-blooded sicilian victor received the documents that entitled him to practice at the italian bar. george, in france, by this time had dropped medicine. bolshevism had arisen there in the form of the commune, and he had fought it so desperately that he had been sentenced to death. he hated kings, and he also hated the autocracy of the mob. he fled from paris. soon they will sit at a peace table together, the first peace table in all human history from which divine-right kings are barred. the future and the welfare of the world lie in their four pairs of hands. their full names are: georges clemenceau, premier of france; david lloyd george, prime minister of england; victor emanuel orlando, premier of italy, and thomas woodrow wilson, president of the united states. * * * * * _(saturday evening post)_ three half-tone reproductions of wash-drawings by a staff artist. the confessions of a college professor's wife a college professor--as may be proved by any number of novels and plays--is a quaint, pedantic person, with spectacles and a beard, but without any passions--except for books. he takes delight in large fat words, but is utterly indifferent to such things as clothes and women--except the dowdy one he married when too young to know better.... it is always so interesting to see ourselves as authors see us. even more entertaining to us, however, is the shockingly inconsistent attitude toward academic life maintained by practical people who know all about real life--meaning the making and spending of money. one evening soon after i became a college professor's wife i enjoyed the inestimable privilege of sitting next to one of america's safest and sanest business men at a dinner party given in his honor by one of the trustees of the university. when he began to inform me, with that interesting air of originality which often accompanies the platitudes of our best citizens, that college professors were "mere visionary idealists--all academic theories; no practical knowledge of the world"--and so on, as usual--i made bold to interrupt: "why, in the name of common sense, then, do you send your own sons to them to be prepared for it! is such a policy safe? is it sane? is it practical?" and i am afraid i laughed in the great man's face. he only blinked and said "humph!" in a thoroughly businesslike manner; but throughout the rest of the evening he viewed me askance, as though i had become a dangerous theorist too--by marriage. so i turned my back on him and wondered why such a large and brilliant dinner was given for such a dull and uninteresting philistine! this shows, by the way, how young and ignorant i was. the mystery was explained next day, when it was intimated to me that i had made what is sometimes called, even in refined college circles, a break. young professors' wives were not expected to trifle with visitors of such eminent solvency; but i had frequently heard the materialistic tendencies of the age condemned in public, and had not been warned in private that we were all supposed to do our best to work this materialist for a million, with which to keep up the fight against materialism. in the cloistered seclusion of our universities, dedicated to high ideals, more deference is shown to the masters of high finance than to the masters of other arts--let me add not because mammon is worshiped, but because he is needed for building cloisters. the search for truth would be far more congenial than the search for wealth; but, so long as our old-fashioned institutions remain, like old-fashioned females, dependent for their very existence on the bounty of personal favor, devious methods must be employed for coaxing and wheedling money out of those who control it--and therefore the truth. i was a slender bride and had a fresh, becoming trousseau. he was a heavy-jowled banker and had many millions. i was supposed to ply what feminine arts i could command for the highly moral purpose of obtaining his dollars, to be used in destroying his ideals. well, that was the first and last time i was ever so employed. despite the conscientious flattery of the others he gruntingly refused to give a penny. and--who knows--perhaps i was in part responsible for the loss of a million! a dreadful preface to my career as a college professor's wife. however, before pursuing my personal confessions, i must not overlook the most common and comic characteristic of the college professor we all know and love in fiction. i refer to his picturesque absent-mindedness. i had almost forgotten that; possibly i have become absent-minded by marriage too! is not the dear old fellow always absent-minded on the stage? invariably and most deliriously! just how he manages to remain on the faculty when absent-minded is never explained on the program; and it often perplexes us who are behind the scenes. i tell my husband that, in our case, i, as the dowdy and devoted wife, am supposed to interrupt his dreams--they always have dreams--remove his untidy dressing gown--they always wear dressing gowns--and dispatch him to the classroom with a kiss and a coat; but how about that great and growing proportion of his colleagues who, for reasons to be stated, are wifeless and presumably helpless? being only a woman, i cannot explain how bachelors retain their positions; but i shall venture to assert that no business in the world--not even the army and navy--is conducted on a more ruthless and inexorable schedule than the business of teaching. my two brothers drift into their office at any time between nine and ten in the morning and yet control a fairly successful commercial enterprise; whereas, if my husband arrived at his eight-o'clock classroom only one minute late there would be no class there to teach. for it is an unwritten law among our engaging young friends the undergraduates that when the "prof" is not on hand before the bell stops ringing they can "cut"--thus avoiding what they were sent to college for and achieving one of the pleasantest triumphs of a university course. my confessions! dear me! what have i, a college professor's wife, to confess? at least three things: --that i love my husband so well that i wish i had never married him. --that i have been such a good wife that he does not know he ought never to have had one. --that if i had to do it all over again i would do the same thing all over again! this is indeed a confession, though whether it be of weakness of will or strength of faith you may decide if you read the rest. the first time i saw the man who became my husband was at the casino in newport. and what was a poor professor doing at newport? he was not a professor--he was a prince; a proud prince of the most royal realm of sport. carl, as some of you might recall if that were his real name, had been the intercollegiate tennis champion a few years before, and now, with the kings of the court, had come to try his luck in the annual national tournament. he lasted until the finals this time and then was put out. that was as high as he ever got in the game. alas for the romance of love at first sight! he paid not the slightest attention to me, though he sat beside me for ten minutes; for, despite his defeat, he was as enthusiastically absorbed in the runner-up and the dashing defender of the title as--well, as the splendid sportsman i have since found him to be in disappointments far more grim. as for me, i fear i hardly noticed him either, except to remark that he was very good-looking; for this was my first visit to newport--the last too--and the pageantry of wealth and fashion was bewilderingly interesting to me. i was quite young then. i am older now. but such unintellectual exhibitions might, i fancy, still interest me--a shocking confession for a college professor's wife! i did not see carl again for two years, and then it was in another kind of pageant, amid pomp and circumstance of such a different sort; and, instead of white flannel trousers, he now wore a black silk gown. it had large flowing sleeves and a hood of loud colors hanging down behind; and he was blandly marching along in the academic procession at the inaugural ceremonies of the new president of the university. i wonder why it is that when the stronger sex wishes to appear particularly dignified and impressive, as on the bench or in the pulpit, it likes to don female attire! no matter whether suffragists or antis--they all do it. now some of these paraders seemed as embarrassed by their skirts as the weaker sex would be without them; but the way carl wore his new honors and his new doctor's hood attracted my attention and held it. he seemed quite aware of the ridiculous aspect of an awkward squad of pedagogues paraded like chorus girls before an audience invited to watch the display; but, also, he actually enjoyed the comedy of it--and that is a distinction when you are an actor in the comedy! his quietly derisive strut altogether fascinated me. "hurrah! aren't we fine!" he seemed to say. as the long, self-conscious procession passed where i sat, smiling and unnoticed, he suddenly looked up. his veiled twinkle happened to meet my gaze. it passed over me, instantly returned and rested on ray eyes for almost a second. such a wonderful second for little me!... not a gleam of recollection. he had quite forgotten that our names had once been pronounced to each other; but in that flashing instant he recognized, as i did, that we two knew each other better than anyone else in the whole assemblage. the nicest smile in the world said as plainly as words, and all for me alone: "hurrah! you see it too!" then, with that deliciously derisive strut, he passed on, while something within me said: "there he is!--at last! he is the one for you!" and i glowed and was glad. carl informed me afterward that he had a similar sensation, and that all through the long platitudinous exercises my face was a great solace to him. "whenever they became particularly tiresome," he said, "i looked at you--and bore up." i was not unaware that he was observing me; nor was i surprised when, at the end of the exhausting ordeal, he broke through the crowd--with oh, such dear impetuosity!--and asked my uncle to present him, while i, trembling at his approach, looked in the other direction, for i felt the crimson in my cheeks--i who had been out three seasons! then i turned and raised my eyes to his, and he, too, colored deeply as he took my hand. we saw no comedy in what followed. there was plenty of comedy, only we were too romantic to see it. at the time it seemed entirely tragic to me that my people, though of the sort classified as cultured and refined, deploring the materialistic tendency of the age, violently objected to my caring for this wonderful being, who brilliantly embodied all they admired in baccalaureate sermons and extolled in sunday-school. it was not despite but because of that very thing that they opposed the match! if only he had not so ably curbed his materialistic tendencies they would have been delighted with this well-bred young man, for his was an even older family than ours, meaning one having money long enough to breed contempt for making it. instead of a fortune, however, merely a tradition of _noblesse oblige_ had come down to him, like an unwieldy heirloom. he had waved aside a promising opening in his cousin's bond-house on leaving college and invested five important years, as well as his small patrimony, in hard work at the leading universities abroad in order to secure a thorough working capital for the worst-paid profession in the world. "if there were only some future in the teaching business!" as one of my elder brothers said; "but i've looked into the proposition. why, even a full professor seldom gets more than four thousand--in most cases less. and it will be years before your young man is a full professor." "i can wait," i said. "but a girl like you could never stand that kind of life. you aren't fitted for it. you weren't brought up to be a poor man's wife." "plenty of tune to learn while waiting," i returned gayly enough, but heartsick at the thought of the long wait. carl, however, quite agreed with my brothers and wanted impetuously to start afresh in pursuit of the career in wall street he had forsworn, willing and eager--the darling!--to throw away ambition, change his inherited tastes, abandon his cultivated talents, and forget the five years he had "squandered in riotous learning," as he put it! however, i was not willing--for his sake. he would regret it later. they always do. besides, like carl, i had certain unuttered ideals about serving the world in those days. we still have. only now we better understand the world. make no mistake about this. men are just as noble as they used to be. plenty of them are willing to sacrifice themselves--but not us. that is why so few of the sort most needed go in for teaching and preaching in these so-called materialistic days. what was the actual, material result of my lover's having taken seriously the advice ladled out to him by college presidents and other evil companions of his innocent youth, who had besought him not to seek material gain? at the time we found each other he was twenty-seven years of age and had just begun his career--an instructor in the economics department, with a thousand-dollar salary. that is not why he was called an economist; but can you blame my brothers for doing their best to break the engagement?... i do not--now. it was not their fault if carl actually practiced what they merely preached. should carl be blamed? no; for he seriously intended never to marry at all--until he met me. should i be blamed? possibly; but i did my best to break the engagement too--and incidentally both our hearts--by going abroad and staying abroad until carl--bless him!--came over after me. i am not blaming anybody. i am merely telling why so few men in university work, or, for that matter, in most of the professions nowadays, can support wives until after the natural mating time is past. by that time their true mates have usually wed other men--men who can support them--not the men they really love, but the men they tell themselves they love! for, if marriage is woman's only true career, it is hardly true to one's family or oneself not to follow it before it is too late--especially when denied training for any other--even though she may be equally lacking in practical training for the only career open to her. this sounds like a confession of personal failure due to the typical unpreparedness for marriage of the modern american girl. i do not think anyone could call our marriage a personal failure, though socially it may be. during the long period of our engagement i became almost as well prepared for my lifework as carl was for his. instead of just waiting in sweet, sighing idleness i took courses in domestic science, studied dietetics, mastered double-entry and learned to sew. i also began reading up on economics. the latter amused the family, for they thought the higher education of women quite unwomanly and had refused to let me go to college. it amused carl too, until i convinced him that i was really interested in the subject, not just in him; then he began sending me boxes of books instead of boxes of candy, which made the family laugh and call me strong-minded. i did not care what they called me. i was too busy making up for the time and money wasted on my disadvantageous advantages, which may have made me more attractive to men, but had not fitted me to be the wife of any man, rich or poor. all that my accomplishments and those of my sisters actually accomplished, as i see it now, was to kill my dear father; for, though he made a large income as a lawyer, he had an even larger family and died a poor man, like so many prominent members of the bar. i shall not dwell on the ordeal of a long engagement. it is often made to sound romantic in fiction, but in realistic life such an unnatural relationship is a refined atrocity--often an injurious one--except to pseudo-human beings so unreal and unromantic that they should never be married or engaged at all. i nearly died; and as for carl--well, unrequited affection may be good for some men, but requited affection in such circumstances cannot be good for any man--if you grant that marriage is! a high-strung, ambitious fellow like carl needed no incentive to make him work hard or to keep him out of mischief, any more than he needed a prize to make him do his best at tennis or keep him from cheating in the score. what an ignoble view of these matters most good people accept! in point of fact he had been able to do more work and to play better tennis before receiving this long handicap--in short, would have been in a position to marry sooner if he had not been engaged to marry! this may sound strange, but that is merely because the truth is so seldom told about anything that concerns the most important relationship in life. nevertheless, despite what he was pleased to call his inspiration, he won his assistant professorship at an earlier age than the average, and we were married on fifteen hundred a year. oh, what a happy year! i am bound to say the family were very nice about it. everyone was nice about it. and when we came back from our wedding journey the other professors' wives overwhelmed me with kindness and with calls--and with teas and dinners and receptions in our honor. carl had been a very popular bachelor and his friends were pleased to treat me quite as if i were worthy of him. this was generous, but disquieting. i was afraid they would soon see through me and pity poor carl. i had supposed, like most outsiders, that the women of a university town would be dreadfully intellectual and modern--and i was rather in awe of them at first, being aware of my own magnificent limitations; but, for the most part, these charming new friends of mine, especially the wealthier members of the set i was thrown with, seemed guilelessly ignorant in respect of the interesting period of civilization in which they happened to live--almost as ignorant as i was and as most "nice people" are everywhere. books sufficiently old, art sufficiently classic, views sufficiently venerable to be respectable--these interested them, as did foreign travel and modern languages; but ideas that were modern could not be nice because they were new, though they might be nice in time--after they became stale. college culture, i soon discovered, does not care about what is happening to the world, but what used to happen to it. "you see, my dear," carl explained, with that quiet, casual manner so puzzling to pious devotees of "cultureine"--and even to me at first, though i adored and soon adopted it! "--universities don't lead thought--they follow it. in europe institutions of learning may be--indeed, they frequently are--hotbeds of radicalism; in america our colleges are merely featherbeds for conservatism to die in respectably." then he added: "but what could you expect? you see, we are still intellectually _nouveaux_ over here, and therefore self-consciously correct and imitative, like the _nouveaux riches_. so long as you have a broad _a_ you need never worry about a narrow mind." as for the men, i had pictured the privilege of sitting at their feet and learning many interesting things about the universe. perhaps they were too tired to have their feet encumbered by ignorant young women; for when i ventured to ask questions about their subject their answer was--not always--but in so many cases a solemn owllike "yes-and-no" that i soon learned my place. they did not expect or want a woman to know anything and preferred light banter and persiflage. i like that, too, when it is well done; but i was accustomed to men who did it better. i preferred the society of their wives. i do not expect any member of the complacent sex to believe this statement--unless i add that the men did not fancy my society, which would not be strictly true; but, even if not so intellectual as i had feared, the women of our town were far more charming than i had hoped, and when you cannot have both cleverness and kindness the latter makes a more agreeable atmosphere for a permanent home. i still consider them the loveliest women in the world. in short my only regret about being married was that we had wasted so much of the glory of youth apart. youth is the time for love, but not for marriage! some of our friends among the instructors marry on a thousand a year, even in these days of the high cost of living; and i should have been so willing to live as certain of them do--renting lodgings from a respectable artisan's wife and doing my own cooking on her stove after she had done hers. carl gave me no encouragement, however! perhaps it was just as well; for when first engaged i did not know how to cook, though i was a good dancer and could play liszt's polonaise in e flat with but few mistakes. as it turned out we began our wedded life quite luxuriously. we had a whole house to ourselves--and sometimes even a maid! in those days there were no flats in our town and certain small but shrewd local capitalists had built rows of tiny frame dwellings which they leased to assistant professors, assistant plumbers, and other respectable people of the same financial status, at rates which enabled them--the owners, not the tenants--to support charity and religion. they were all alike--i refer to the houses now, not to all landlords necessarily--with a steep stoop in front and a drying yard for monday mornings in the rear, the kind you see on the factory edges of great cities--except that ours were cleaner and were occupied by nicer people. one of our next-door neighbors was a rising young butcher with his bride and the house on the other side of us was occupied by a postman, his progeny, and the piercing notes of his whistle--presumably a cast-off one--on which all of his numerous children, irrespective of sex or age, were ambitiously learning their father's calling, as was made clear through the thin dividing wall, which supplied visual privacy but did not prevent our knowing when they took their baths or in what terms they objected to doing so. it became a matter of interesting speculation to us what willie would say the next saturday night; and if we had quarreled they, in turn, could have--and would have--told what it was all about. "not every economist," carl remarked whimsically, "can learn at first hand how the proletariat lives." i, too, was learning at first hand much about my own profession. my original research in domestic science was sound in theory, but i soon discovered that my dietetic program was too expensive in practice. instead of good cuts of beef i had to select second or third quality from the rising young butcher, who, by the way, has since risen to the dignity of a touring car. instead of poultry we had pork, for this was before pork also rose. my courses in bookkeeping, however, proved quite practical; and i may say that i was a good purchasing agent and general manager from the beginning of our partnership, instead of becoming one later through bitter experience, like so many young wives brought up to be ladies, not general houseworkers. frequently i had a maid, commonly called along our row the "gurrul"--and quite frequently i had none; for we could afford only young beginners, who, as soon as i had trained them well, left me for other mistresses who could afford to pay them well. "oh, we should not accuse the poor creatures of ingratitude," i told carl one day. "not every economist can learn at first hand the law of supply and demand." if, however, as my fashionable aunt in town remarked, we were picturesquely impecunious--which, to that soft lady, probably meant that, we had to worry along without motor cars--we were just as desperately happy as we were poor; for we had each other at least. every other deprivation seemed comparatively easy or amusing. nor were we the only ones who had each other--and therefore poverty. scholarship meant sacrifice, but all agreed that it was the ideal life. to be sure, some members of the faculty--or their wives--had independent means and could better afford the ideal life. they were considered noble for choosing it. some of the alumni who attended the great games and the graduating exercises were enormously wealthy, and gave the interest of their incomes--sometimes a whole handful of bonds at a time--to the support of the ideal life. was there any law compelling them to give their money to their alma mater? no--just as there was none compelling men like carl to give their lives and sacrifice their wives. these men of wealth made even greater sacrifices. they could have kept in comfort a dozen wives apiece--modest ones--on what they voluntarily preferred to turn over to the dear old college. professors, being impractical and visionary, cannot always see these things in their true proportions. we, moreover, in return for our interest in education, did we not shamelessly accept monthly checks from the university treasurer's office? it was quite materialistic in us. whereas these disinterested donors, instead of receiving checks, gave them, which is more blessed. and were they not checks of a denomination far larger than those we selfishly cashed for ourselves? invariably. therefore our princely benefactors were regarded not only as nobler but as the nobility. indeed, the social stratification of my new home, where the excellent principles of high thinking and plain living were highly recommended for all who could not reverse the precept, struck me, a neophyte, as for all the world like that of a cathedral town in england, except that these visiting patrons of religion and learning were treated with a reverence and respect found only in america. surely it must have amused them, had they not been so used to it; for they were quite the simplest, kindest, sweetest overrich people i had ever met in my own country--and they often took pains to tell us broad-mindedly that there were better things than money. their tactful attempts to hide their awful affluence were quite appealing--occasionally rather comic. like similarly conscious efforts to cover evident indigence, it was so palpable and so unnecessary. "there, there!" i always wanted to say--until i, too, became accustomed to it. "it's all right. you can't help it." it was dear of them all the same, however, and i would not seem ungrateful for their kind consideration. after all, how different from the purse-proud arrogance of wealth seen in our best--selling--fiction, though seldom elsewhere. for the most part they were true gentlefolk, with the low voices and simple manners of several generations of breeding; and i liked them, for the most part, very much--especially certain old friends of our parents, who, i learned later, were willing to show their true friendship in more ways than carl and i could permit. one is frequently informed that the great compensation for underpaying the college professor is in the leisure to live--_otium cum dignitate_ as returning old grads call it when they can remember their latin, though as most of them cannot they call it a snap. carl, by the way, happened to be the secretary of his class, and his popularity with dear old classmates became a nuisance in our tiny home. i remember one well-known bachelor of arts who answered to the name of spud, a rather vulgar little man. comfortably seated in carl's study one morning, with a cigar in his mouth, spud began: "my, what a snap! a couple of hours' work a day and three solid months' vacation! why, just see, here you are loafing early in the morning! you ought to come up to the city! humph! i'd show you what real work means." now my husband had been writing until two o'clock the night before, so that he had not yet made preparation for his next hour. it was so early indeed that i had not yet made the beds. besides, i had heard all about our snap before and it was getting on my nerves. "carl would enjoy nothing better than seeing you work," i put in when the dear classmate finished; "but unfortunately he cannot spare the time." spud saw the point and left; but carl, instead of giving me the thanks i deserved, gave me the first scolding of our married life! now isn't that just like a husband? of course it can be proved by the annual catalogue that the average member of the faculty has only about twelve or fourteen hours of classroom work a week--the worst-paid instructor more; the highest-paid professor less. what a university teacher gives to his students in the classroom, however, is or ought to be but a rendering of what he acquires outside, as when my distinguished father tried one of his well-prepared cases in court. every new class, moreover, is a different proposition, as i once heard my brother say of his customers. that is where the art of teaching comes in and where carl excelled. he could make even the "dismal science," as carlyle called economics, interesting, as was proved by the large numbers of men who elected his courses, despite the fact that he made them work hard to pass. nor does this take into account original research and the writing of books like carl's scholarly work on the history of property, on which he had been slaving for three solid summers and hundreds of nights during termtime; not to speak of attending committee meetings constantly, and the furnace even more constantly. the latter, like making beds, is not mentioned in the official catalogue. i suppose such details would not become one's dignity. as in every other occupation, some members of the faculty do as little work as the law requires; but most of them are an extremely busy lot, even though they may, when it suits their schedule better, take exercise in the morning instead of the afternoon--an astonishing state of affairs that always scandalizes the so-called tired business man. as for carl, i was seeing so little of him except at mealtimes that i became rather piqued at first, being a bride. i felt sure he did not love me any more! "do you really think you have a right to devote so much time to outside work?" i asked one evening when i was washing the dishes and he was starting off for the university library to write on his great book.--it was the indirect womanly method of saying: "oh, please devote just a little more time to me!"--"you ought to rest and be fresh for your classroom work," i added. being a man he did not see it. "the way to advance in the teaching profession," he answered, with his veiled twinkle, "is to neglect it. it doesn't matter how poorly you teach, so long as you write dull books for other professors to read. that's why it is called scholarship--because you slight your scholars." "oh, i'm sick of all this talk about scholarship!" i cried. "what does it mean anyway?" "scholarship, my dear," said carl, "means finding out all there is to know about something nobody else cares about, and then telling it in such a way that nobody else can find out. if you are understood you are popular; if you are popular you are no scholar. and if you're no scholar, how can you become a full professor? now, my child, it is all clear to you." and, dismissing me and the subject with a good-night kiss, he brushed his last year's hat and hurried off, taking the latchkey. so much for _otium_. "but where does the dignity come in?" i asked carl one day when he was sharpening his lawnmower and thus neglecting his lawn tennis; for, like a freshman, i still had much to learn about quaint old college customs. "why, in being called p'fessor by the tradesmen," said carl. "also in renting a doctor's hood for academic pee-rades at three dollars a pee-rade, instead of buying a new hat for the rest of the year. great thing--dignity!" he chuckled and began to cut the grass furiously, reminding me of a thoroughbred hunter i once saw harnessed to a plow. "p'fessors of pugilism and dancing," he went on gravely, "haven't a bit more dignity than we have. they merely have more money. just think! there isn't a butcher or grocer in this town who doesn't doff his hat to me when he whizzes by in his motor--even those whose bills i haven't paid. it's great to have dignity. i don't believe there's another place in the world where he who rides makes obeisance to him who walks. much better than getting as high wages as a trustee's chauffeur! a salary is so much more dignified than wages." he stopped to mop his brow, looking perfectly dignified. "and yet," he added, egged on by my laughter, for i always loved his quiet irony--it was never directed at individuals, but at the ideas and traditions they blandly and blindly followed-- "and yet carping critics of the greatest nation on earth try to make out that art and intellectuality are not properly recognized in the states. pessimists! look at our picture galleries, filled with old masters from abroad! think how that helps american artists! look at our colleges, crowded with buildings more costly than oxford's! think how that encourages american teachers! simply because an occasional foreign professor gets higher pay--bah! there are better things than money. for example, this!" and he bent to his mower again, with much the same derisively dignified strut as on that memorable day long ago when i came and saw and was conquered by it--only then he wore black silk sleeves and now white shirtsleeves. and so much for dignity. i soon saw that if i were to be a help and not a hindrance to the man i loved i should have to depart from what i had been carefully trained to regard as woman's only true sphere. do not be alarmed! i had no thought of leaving home or husband. it is simply that the home, in the industrial sense, is leaving the house--seventy-five per cent of it social scientists say, has gone already--so that nowadays a wife must go out after it or else find some new-fashioned productive substitute if she really intends to be an old-fashioned helpmate to her husband. it was not a feminist theory but a financial condition that confronted us. my done-over trousseau would not last forever, nor would carl's present intellectual wardrobe, which was becoming threadbare. travel abroad and foreign study are just as necessary for an american scholar as foreign buying is for an american dealer in trousseaus. i thought of many plans; but in a college town a woman's opportunities are so limited. we are not paid enough to be ladies, though we are required to dress and act like them--do not forget that point. and yet, when willing to stop being a lady, what could one do? finally i thought of dropping entirely out of the social, religious and charitable activities of the town, investing in a typewriter and subscribing to a correspondence-school course in stenography. i could at least help carl prepare his lectures and relieve him of the burden of letter writing, thus giving him more time for book reviewing and other potboiling jobs, which were not only delaying his own book but making him burn the candle at both ends in the strenuous effort to make both ends meet. i knew carl would object, but i had not expected such an outburst of profane rage as followed my announcement. the poor boy was dreadfully tired, and for months, like the thoroughbred he was, he had repressed his true feelings under a quiet, quizzical smile. "my heavens! what next?" he cried, jumping up and pacing the floor. "haven't you already given up everything you were accustomed to--every innocent pleasure you deserve--every wholesome diversion you actually need in this god-forsaken, monotonous hole? haven't i already dragged you down--you, a lovely, fine-grained, highly evolved woman--down to the position of a servant in my house? and now, on top of all this--no, by god! i won't have it! i tell you i won't have it!" it may be a shocking confession, but i loved him for that wicked oath. he looked so splendid--all fire and furious determination, as when he used to rush up to the net in the deciding game of a tennis match, cool and quick as lightning. "you are right, carl dear," i said, kissing his profane lips; for i had learned long since never to argue with him. "i am too good to be a mere household drudge. it's an economic waste of superior ability. that's why i am going to be your secretary and save you time and money enough to get and keep a competent maid." "but i tell you--" "i know, dear; but what are we going to do about it? we can't go on this way. they've got us down--are we going to let them keep us down? look into the future! look at poor old professor culberson. look at half of the older members of the faculty! they have ceased to grow; their usefulness is over; they are all gone to seed--because they hadn't the courage or the cash to develop anything but their characters!" carl looked thoughtful. he had gained an idea for his book and, like a true scholar, forgot for the moment our personal situation. "really, you know," he mused, "does it pay society to reward its individuals in inverse ratio to their usefulness?" he took out his pocket notebook and wrote: "society itself suffers for rewarding that low order of cunning called business sense with the ultimate control of all other useful talents." he closed his notebook and smiled. "and yet they call the present economic order safe and sane! and all of us who throw the searchlight of truth on it--dangerous theorists! can you beat it?" "well," i rejoined, not being a scholar, "there's nothing dangerous about my theory. instead of your stenographer becoming your wife, your wife becomes your stenographer--far safer and saner than the usual order. men are much more apt to fall in love with lively little typewriters than with fat, flabby wives." though it was merely to make a poor joke out of a not objectionable necessity, my plan, as it turned out, was far wiser than i realized. first, i surreptitiously card-catalogued the notes and references for carl's "epoch-making book," as one of the sweet, vague wives of the faculty always called her husband's volumes, which she never read. then i learned to take down his lectures, to look up data in the library, to verify quotations, and even lent a hand in the book reviewing. soon i began to feel more than a mere consumer's interest--a producer's interest--in carl's work. and then a wonderful thing happened: my husband began to see--just in time, i believe--that a wife could be more than a passive and more or less desirable appendage to a man's life--an active and intelligent partner in it. and he looked at me with a new and wondering respect, which was rather amusing, but very dear. he had made the astonishing discovery that his wife had a mind! years of piano practice had helped to make my fingers nimble for the typewriter, and for this advantage i was duly grateful to the family's old-fashioned ideals, though i fear they did not appreciate my gratitude. once, when visiting them during the holidays, i was laughingly boasting, before some guests invited to meet me at luncheon, about my part in the writing of carl's history of property, which had been dedicated to me and was now making a sensation in the economic world, though our guests in the social world had never heard of it. suddenly i saw a curious, uncomfortable look come over the faces of the family. then i stopped and remembered that nowadays wives--nice wives, that is--are not supposed to be helpmates to their husbands except in name; quite as spinsters no longer spin. they can help him spend. at that they are truly better halves, but to help him earn is not nice. to our guests it could mean only one thing--namely, that my husband could not afford a secretary. well, he could not. what of it? for a moment i had the disquieting sensation of having paraded my poverty--a form of vulgarity that carl and i detest as heartily as a display of wealth. the family considerately informed me afterward, however, that they thought me brave to sacrifice myself so cheerfully. dear me! i was not being brave. i was not being cheerful. i was being happy. there is no sacrifice in working for the man you love. and if you can do it with him--why, i conceitedly thought it quite a distinction. few women have the ability or enterprise to attain it! one of my sisters who, like me, had failed to "marry well" valeted for her husband; but somehow that seemed to be all right. for my part i never could see why it is more womanly to do menial work for a man than intellectual work with him. i have done both and ought to know.... can it be merely because the one is done strictly in the home or because no one can see you do it? or is it merely because it is unskilled labor? it is all right for the superior sex to do skilled labor, but a true womanly woman must do only unskilled labor, and a fine lady none at all--so clothed as to prevent it and so displayed as to prove it, thus advertising to the world that the man who pays for her can also pay for secretaries and all sorts of expensive things. is that the old idea? if so i am afraid most college professors' wives should give up the old-fashioned expensive pose of ladyhood and join the new womanhood! well, as it turned out, we were enabled to spend our sabbatical year abroad--just in time to give carl a new lease of life mentally and me physically; for both of us were on the verge of breaking down before we left. such a wonderful year! revisiting his old haunts; attending lectures together in the german and french universities; working side by side in the great libraries; and meeting the great men of his profession at dinner! then, between whiles, we had the best art and music thrown in! ah, those are the only real luxuries we miss and long for! indeed, to us, they are not really luxuries. beauty is a necessity to some persons, like exercise; though others can get along perfectly well without it and, therefore, wonder why we cannot too. carl's book had already been discovered over there--that is perhaps the only reason it was discovered later over here--and every one was so kind about it. we felt quite important and used to wink at each other across the table. "our" book, carl always called it, like a dear. his work was my work now--his ambitions, my ambitions; not just emotionally or inspirationally, but intellectually, collaboratively. and that made our emotional interest in each other the keener and more satisfying. we had fallen completely in love with each other. for the first time we two were really one. previously we had been merely pronounced so by a clergyman who read it out of a book. oh, the glory of loving some one more than oneself! and oh, the blessedness of toiling together for something greater and more important than either! that is what makes it possible for the other thing to endure--not merely for a few mad, glad years, followed by drab duty and dull regret, but for a happy lifetime of useful vigor. that, and not leisure or dignity, is the great compensation for the professorial life. what a joy it was to me during that rosy-sweet early period of our union to watch carl, like a proud mother, as he grew and exfoliated--like a plant that has been kept in a cellar and now in congenial soil and sunshine is showing at last its full potentialities. through me my boy was attaining the full stature of a man; and i, his proud mate, was jealously glad that even his dear dead mother could not have brought that to pass. his wit became less caustic; his manner more genial. people who once irritated now interested him. some who used to fear him now liked him. and as for the undergraduates who had hero-worshiped this former tennis champion, they now shyly turned to him for counsel and advice. he was more of a man of the world than most of his colleagues and treated the boys as though they were men of the world too--for instance, he never referred to them as boys. "i wouldn't be a damned fool if i were you," i once overheard him say to a certain young man who was suffering from an attack of what carl called misdirected energy. more than one he took in hand this way; and, though i used to call it--to tease him--his man-to-man manner, i saw that it was effective. i, too, grew fond of these frank, ingenuous youths. we used to have them at our house when we could spare an evening--often when we could not. none of this work, it may be mentioned, is referred to in the annual catalogue or provided for in the annual budget; and yet it is often the most vital and lasting service a teacher renders his students--especially when their silly parents provide them with more pocket money than the professor's entire income for the support of himself, his family, his scholarship and his dignity. "your husband is not a professor," one of them confided shyly to me--"he's a human being!" after the success of our book we were called to another college--a full professorship at three thousand a year! carl loved his alma mater with a passion i sometimes failed to understand; but he could not afford to remain faithful to her forever on vague promises of future favor. he went to the president and said so plainly, hating the indignity of it and loathing the whole system that made such methods necessary. the president would gladly have raised all the salaries if he had had the means. he could not meet the competitor's price, but he begged carl to stay, offering the full title--meaning empty--of professor and a minimum wage of twenty-five hundred dollars, with the promise of full pay when the funds could be raised. now we had demonstrated that, even on the faculty of an eastern college, two persons could live on fifteen hundred. therefore, with twenty-five hundred, we could not only exist but work efficiently. so we did not have to go. * * * * * i look back on those days as the happiest period of our life together. that is why i have lingered over them. congenial work, bright prospects, perfect health, the affection of friends, the respect of rivals--what more could any woman want for her husband or herself? only one thing. and now that, too, was to be ours! however, with children came trouble, for which--bless their little hearts!--they are not responsible. were we? i wonder! had we a right to have children? had we a right not to have children? it has been estimated by a member of the mathematical department that, at the present salary rate, each of the college professors of america is entitled to just two-fifths of a child. does this pay? should only the financially fit be allowed to survive--to reproduce their species? should or should not those who may be fittest physically, intellectually and morally also be entitled to the privilege and responsibility of taking their natural part in determining the character of america's future generations, for the evolution of the race and the glory of god? i wonder! * * * * * (_boston transcript_) a paradise for a penny maddened by the catalogues of peace-time, one lover of gardens yet managed to build a little eden, and tells how he did it for a song by walter prichard eaton war-time economy (which is a much pleasanter and doubtless a more patriotically approved phrase than war-time poverty) is not without its compensations, even to the gardener. at first i did not think so. confronted by a vast array of new and empty borders and rock steps and natural-laid stone, flanking a wall fountain, and other features of a new garden ambitiously planned before the president was so inconsiderate as to declare war without consulting me, and confronted, too, by an empty purse--pardon me, i mean by the voluntarily imposed necessity for economy--i sat me down amid my catalogues, like niobe amid her children, and wept. (maybe it wasn't amid her children niobe wept, but for them; anyhow i remember her as a symbol of lachrymosity.) dear, alluring, immoral catalogues, sweet sirens for a man's undoing! how you sang to me of sedums, and whispered of peonies and irises--yea, even of german irises! how you spoke in soft, seductive accents of wonderful lilacs, and exquisite spireas, and sweet syringas, murmurous with bees! how you told of tulips and narcissuses, and a thousand lovely things for beds and borders and rock work--at so much a dozen, so very much a dozen, and a dozen so very few! i did not resort to cotton in my ears, but to tears and profanity. then two things happened. i got a letter from a boston architect who had passed by and seen my unfinished place; and i took a walk up a back road where the massachusetts highway commissioners hadn't sent a gang of workmen through to "improve" it. the architect said, "keep your place simple. it cries for it. that's always the hardest thing to do--but the best." and the back-country roadside said, "look at me; i didn't come from any catalogue; no nursery grew me; i'm really and truly 'perfectly hardy'; i didn't cost a cent--and can you beat me at any price? i'm a hundred per cent american, too." i looked, and i admitted, with a blush of shame for ever doubting, that i certainly could not beat it. but, i suddenly realized, i could steal it! i have been stealing it ever since, and having an enormously enjoyable time in the bargain. of course, stealing is a relative term, like anything else connected with morality. what would be stealing in the immediate neighborhood of a city is not even what the old south county oyster fisherman once described as "jest pilferin' 'round," out here on the edges of the wilderness. i go out with the trailer hitched to the back of my ford, half a mile in any direction, and i pass roadsides where, if there are any farmer owners of the fields on the other side of the fence, these owners are only too glad to have a few of the massed, invading plants or bushes thinned out. but far more often there is not even a fence, or if there is, it has heavy woods or a swamp or a wild pasture beyond it. i could go after plants every day for six months and nobody would ever detect where i took them. my only rule--self-imposed--is never to take a single specimen, or even one of a small group, and always to take where thinning is useful, and where the land or the roadside is wild and neglected, and no human being can possibly be injured. most often, indeed, i simply go up the mountain along, or into, my own woods. i am not going to attempt any botanical or cultural description of what i am now attempting. that will have to wait, anyhow, till i know a little more about it myself! but i want to indicate, in a general way, some of the effects which are perfectly possible, i believe, here in a massachusetts garden, without importing a single plant, or even sowing a seed or purchasing any stock from a nursery. take the matter of asters, for instance. hitherto my garden, up here in the mountains where the frosts come early and we cannot have anemone, japonica, or chrysanthemums, has generally been a melancholy spectacle after the middle of september. yet it is just at this time that our roadsides and woodland borders are the most beautiful. the answer isn't alone asters, but very largely. and nothing, i have discovered, is much easier to transplant than a new england aster, the showiest of the family. within the confines of my own farm or its bordering woods are at least seven varieties of asters, and there are more within half a mile. they range in color from the deepest purple and lilac, through shades of blue, to white, and vary in height from the six feet my new englands have attained in rich garden soil, to one foot. moreover, by a little care, they can be so massed and alternated in a long border (such a border i have), as to pass in under heavy shade and out again into full sun, from a damp place to a dry place, and yet all be blooming at their best. with what other flower can you do that? and what other flower, at whatever price per dozen, will give you such abundance of beauty without a fear of frosts? i recently dug up a load of asters in bud, on a rainy day, and already they are in full bloom in their new garden places, without so much as a wilted leaf. adjoining my farm is an abandoned marble quarry. in that quarry, or, rather, in the rank grass bordering it, grow thousands of solidago rigida, the big, flat-topped goldenrod. this is the only station for it in berkshire county. as the ledges from this quarry come over into my pastures, and doubtless the goldenrod would have come too, had it not been for the sheep, what could be more fitting than for me to make this glorious yellow flower a part of my garden scheme? surely if anything belongs in my peculiar soil and landscape it does. it transplants easily, and under cultivation reaches a large size and holds its bloom a long time. massed with the asters it is superb, and i get it by going through the bars with a shovel and a wheelbarrow. but a garden of goldenrod and asters would be somewhat dull from may to mid-august, and somewhat monotonous thereafter. i have no intention, of course, of barring out from my garden the stock perennials, and, indeed, i have already salvaged from my old place or grown from seed the indispensable phloxes, foxgloves, larkspur, hollyhocks, sweet william, climbing roses, platycodons and the like. but let me merely mention a few of the wild things i have brought in from the immediate neighborhood, and see if they do not promise, when naturally planted where the borders wind under trees, or grouped to the grass in front of asters, ferns, goldenrod and the shrubs i shall mention later, a kind of beauty and interest not to be secured by the usual garden methods. there are painted trilliums, yellow and pink lady's slippers, orchis spectabilis, hepaticas, bloodroot, violets, jack-in-the-pulpit, masses of baneberries, solomon's seal, true and false; smooth false foxglove, five-flowered and closed gentians, meadow lilies (canadensis) and wood lilies (philadelphicum), the former especially being here so common that i can go out and dig up the bulbs by the score, taking only one or two from any one spot. these are but a few of the flowers, blooming from early spring to late fall, in the borders, and i have forgotten to mention the little bunch berries from my own woods as an edging plant. let me turn now for a moment to the hedge and shrubbery screen which must intervene between my west border and the highway, and which is the crux of the garden. the hedge is already started with hemlocks from the mountain side, put in last spring. i must admit nursery in-grown evergreens are easier to handle, and make a better and quicker growth. but i am out now to see how far i can get with absolutely native material. between the hedge and the border, where at first i dreamed of lilacs and the like, i now visualize as filling up with the kind of growth which lines our roads, and which is no less beautiful and much more fitting. from my own woods will come in spring (the only safe time to move them) masses of mountain laurel and azalea. from my own pasture fence-line will come red osier, dogwood, with its white blooms, its blue berries, its winter stem-coloring, and elderberry. from my own woods have already come several four-foot maple-leaved vibernums, which, though moved in june, throve and have made a fine new growth. there will be, also, a shadbush or two and certainly some hobble bushes, with here and there a young pine and small, slender canoe birch. here and there will be a clump of flowering raspberry. i shall not scorn spireas, and i must have at least one big white syringa to scent the twilight; but the great mass of my screen will be exactly what nature would plant there if she were left alone--minus the choke cherries. you always have to exercise a little supervision over nature! a feature of my garden is to be rock work and a little, thin stream of a brooklet flowing away from a wall fountain. i read in my catalogues of marvellous alpine plants, and i dreamed of irises by my brook. i shall have some of both too. why not? the war has got to end one of these days. but meanwhile, why be too down-hearted? on the cliffs above my pasture are masses of moss, holding, as a pincushion holds a breastpin, little early saxifrage plants. from the crannies frail hair bells dangle forth. there are clumps of purple cliffbrase and other tiny, exquisite ferns. on a gravel bank beside the state road are thousands of viper's bugloss plants; on a ledge nearby is an entire nursery of sedum acre (the small yellow stone crop). columbines grow like a weed in my mowing, and so do quaker ladies, which, in england, are highly esteemed in the rock garden. the greens committee at the nearby golf club will certainly let me dig up some of the gay pinks which are a pest in one of the high, gravelly bunkers. and these are only a fraction of the native material available for my rock work and bank. many of them are already in and thriving. as for the little brook, any pond edge or brookside nearby has arrowheads, forget-me-nots, cardinal flowers, blue flag, clumps of beautiful grasses, monkey flowers, jewel-weed and the like. there are cowslips, too, and blue vervain, and white violets. if i want a clump of something tall, joe-pye-weed is not to be disdained. no, i do not anticipate any trouble about my brookside. it will not look at all as i thought a year ago it was going to look. it will not look like an illustration in some "garden beautiful" magazine. it will look like--like a brook! i am tremendously excited now at the prospect of seeing it look like a brook, a little, lazy, trickling yankee brook. if i ever let it look like anything else, i believe i shall deserve to have my spring dry up. probably i shall have moments of, for me, comparative affluence in the years to come, when i shall once more listen to the siren song of catalogues, and order japanese irises, darwin tulips, hybrid lilacs, and so on. but by that time, i feel sure, my native plants and shrubs will have got such a start, and made such a luxuriant, natural tangle, that they will assimilate the aliens and teach them their proper place in a new england garden. at any rate, till the war is over, i am per cent berkshire county! * * * * * wanted: a home assistant (_pictorial review_) one illustration made by a staff artist, with the caption, "the new home assistant is trained for her work." wanted: a home assistant business hours and wages are helping women to solve the servant problem by louise f. nellis wanted: a home assistant--eight hours a day; six days a week. sleep and eat at home. pay, twelve dollars a week. whenever this notice appears in the help wanted column of a city newspaper, fifty to one hundred answers are received in the first twenty-four hours! "why," we hear some one say, "that seems impossible! when i advertised for a maid at forty dollars a month with board and lodging provided, not a soul answered. why are so many responses received to the other advertisement?" let us look more closely at the first notice. wanted: a home assistant! how pleasant and dignified it sounds; nothing about a general houseworker or maid or servant, just home assistant! we can almost draw a picture of the kind of young woman who might be called by such a title. she comes, quiet, dignified, and interested in our home and its problems. she may have been in an office but has never really liked office work and has always longed for home surroundings and home duties. i remember one case i was told of--a little stenographer. she had gladly assumed her new duties as home assistant, and had wept on the first christmas day with the family because it was the only christmas she had spent in years in a home atmosphere. or perhaps the applicant for the new kind of work in the home may have been employed in a department store and found the continuous standing on her feet too wearing. she welcomes the frequent change of occupation in her new position. or she may be married with a little home of her own, but with the desire to add to the family income. we call these home assistants, miss smith or mrs. jones, and they preserve their own individuality and self-respect. "well, i would call my housemaid anything if i could only get one," says one young married woman. "there must be more to this new plan than calling them home assistants and addressing them as miss." let us read further in the advertisement: "eight hours a day; six days a week." one full day and one half day off each week, making a total of forty-four hours weekly which is the standard working week in most industrial occupations. at least two free sundays a month should be given and a convenient week-day substituted for the other two sundays. if saturday is not the best half day to give, another afternoon may be arranged with the home assistant. "impossible," i can hear mrs. reader say, "i couldn't get along with eight hours' work a day, forty-four hours a week." no! well, possibly you have had to get along without any maid at all, or you may have had some one in your kitchen who is incompetent and slovenly, whom you dare not discharge for fear you can not replace her. would you rather not have a good interested worker for eight hours a day than none at all? during that time the home assistant works steadily and specialization is done away with. she is there to do your work and she does whatever may be called for. if she is asked to take care of the baby for a few hours, she does it willingly, as part of her duties; or if she is called upon to do some ironing left in the basket, she assumes that it is part of her work, and doesn't say, "no, madam, i wasn't hired to do that," at the same time putting on her hat and leaving as under the old system. the new plan seems expensive? "twelve dollars a week is more than i have paid my domestic helper," mrs. reader says. but consider this more carefully. you pay from thirty-five to fifty dollars a month with all the worker's food and lodging provided. this is at the rate of eight to eleven dollars a week for wages. food and room cost at least five dollars a week, and most estimates are higher. the old type of houseworker has cost us more than we have realized. the new system compares favorably in expense with the old. "i am perfectly certain it wouldn't be practical not to feed my helper," mrs. reader says. under the old system of a twelve to fourteen-hour working day, it would not be feasible, but if she is on the eight-hour basis, the worker can bring a box-luncheon with her, or she can go outside to a restaurant just as she would if she were in an office or factory. the time spent in eating is not included in her day's work. think of the relief to the house-keeper who can order what her family likes to eat without having to say, "oh, i can't have that; mary wouldn't eat it you know." "i can't afford a home assistant or a maid at the present wages," some one says. "but i do wish i had some one who could get and serve dinner every night. i am so tired by evening that cooking is the last straw." try looking for a home assistant for four hours a day to relieve you of just this work. you would have to pay about a dollar a day or six dollars a week for such service and it would be worth it. how does the home assistant plan work in households where two or more helpers are kept? the more complicated homes run several shifts of workers, coming in at different hours and covering every need of the day. one woman i talked to told me that she studied out her problem in this way! she did every bit of the work in her house for a while in order to find out how long each job took. she found, for instance, that it took twenty-five minutes to clean one bathroom, ten minutes to brush down and dust a flight of stairs, thirty minutes to do the dinner dishes, and so on through all the work. she made out a time-card which showed that twenty-two hours of work a day was needed for her home. she knew how much money she could spend and she proceeded to divide the work and money among several assistants coming in on different shifts. her household now runs like clockwork. one of the splendid things about this new system is its great flexibility and the fact that it can be adapted to any household. thoughtful and intelligent planning such as this woman gave to her problems is necessary for the greatest success of the plan. the old haphazard methods must go. the housekeeper who has been in the habit of coming into her kitchen about half past five and saying, "oh, mary, what can we have for dinner? i have just come back from down-town; i did expect to be home sooner," will not get the most out of her home assistant. work must be scheduled and planned ahead, the home must be run on business methods if the system is to succeed. i heard this explained to a group of women not long ago. after the talk, one of them said, "well, in business houses and factories there is a foreman who runs the shop and oversees the workers. it wouldn't work in homes because we haven't any foreman." she had entirely overlooked her job as forewoman of her own establishment! "suppose i have company for dinner and the home assistant isn't through her work when her eight hours are up, what happens?" some one asks. all overtime work is paid for at the rate of one and one-half times the hourly rate. if you are paying your assistant twelve dollars for a forty-four-hour week, you are giving her twenty-eight cents an hour. one and one half times this amounts to forty-two cents an hour, which she receives for extra work just as she would in the business world. "will these girls from offices and stores do their work well? they have had no training for housework unless they have happened to do some in their own homes," some one wisely remarks. the lack of systematic preparation has always been one of the troubles with our domestic helpers. it is true that the new type of girl trained in business to be punctual and alert, and to use her mind, adapts herself very quickly to her work, but the trained worker in any field has an advantage. with this in mind the central branch of the young women's christian association in new york city has started a training-school for home assistants. the course provides demonstrations on the preparation of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, and talks on the following: house-cleaning, laundry, care of children, shopping, planning work, deportment, efficiency, and duty to employer. this course gives a girl a general knowledge of her duties and what is even more important she acquires the right mental attitude toward her work. the girls are given an examination and those who successfully pass it are given a certificate and placed as trained home assistants at fifteen dollars a week. the national association would like to see these training-schools turning out this type of worker for the homes all over the country. this is a constructive piece of work for women to undertake. housewives' leagues have interested themselves in this in various centers, and the y.w.c.a. will help wherever it can. there are always home economics graduates in every town who could help give the course, and there are excellent housekeepers who excel in some branch who could give a talk or two. the course would be worth a great deal in results to any community. the united states employment bureaus are also taking a hand in this, and, with the coöperation of the high schools, are placing girls as trained assistants on the new basis. i have talked with many women who are not only using this plan to-day but have been for several years. it has been more than six years ago since mrs. helene barker's book "wanted a young woman to do housework" was published. this gave the working plan to the idea. women in boston, providence, new york, cleveland, and in many other cities have become so enthusiastic over their success in running their homes with the home assistants that a number are giving their time to lecturing and talking to groups of women about it. let me give two concrete illustrations of the practical application of housework on a business basis. mrs. a. lives in a small city in the middle west. her household consists of herself, her husband, and her twelve year old son. she had had the usual string of impossible maids or none at all until she tried the new system. through a girls' club in a factory in the city, she secured a young woman to work for her at factory hours and wages. her assistant came at seven-thirty in the morning. by having the breakfast cereal prepared the night before, breakfast could be served promptly at eight, a plan which was necessary in order that the boy get to school on time. each morning's work was written out and hung up in the kitchen so that the assistant wasted no time in waiting to know what she had to do. lunch was at twelve-fifteen, and at one o'clock the home assistant went home. she came back on regular duty at five-thirty to prepare and serve the dinner. except for times when there were guests for dinner she was through her work by eight. when she worked overtime, there was the extra pay to compensate. mrs. a. paid her thirteen dollars a week and felt that she saved money by the new plan. the assistant was off duty every other sunday, and on alternate weeks was given all day tuesday off instead of sunday. tuesday was the day the heavy washing was done and the laundress was there to help with any work which mrs. a. did not feel equal to doing. even though there are times in the day when she is alone, mrs. a. says she would not go back to the old system for anything. mrs. b. lives in a city apartment. there are four grown people in the family. she formerly kept two maids, a cook-laundress, and a waitress-chambermaid. she often had a great deal of trouble finding a cook who would do the washing. as her apartment had only one maid's room, she had to give one of the guestrooms to the second maid. she paid these girls forty dollars apiece and provided them with room and board. her apartment cost her one hundred and fifteen dollars a month for seven rooms, two of which were occupied by maids. mrs. b. decided to put her household on the new business basis last fall. she moved into a five-room apartment which cost her ninety dollars, but she had larger rooms and a newer building with more up-to-date improvements than she had had before. she saved twenty-five dollars a month on rent plus eighty dollars wages and about thirty dollars on her former maids' food. all together she had one hundred and thirty-five dollars which could be used for home assistants. this is the way the money was spent: a laundress once a week................................ $ . home assistant, on duty from . a.m. to p.m........ . home assistant, on duty from m. to p.m............ . _____ week...............................................$ . on this schedule the work was done better than ever before. there was no longer any grievance about the washing. mrs. b. had some one continuously on duty. the morning assistant was allowed a half hour at noon to eat her luncheon which she brought with her. as mrs. b. entertained a great deal, especially at luncheon, she arranged to have the schedule of the two assistants overlap at this time of day. the morning worker, it will be noted, was employed for only six hours. the afternoon worker was a trained assistant and, therefore, received fifteen dollars a week. she had an hour off, between three-thirty and four-thirty and was on duty again in time to serve tea or afternoon refreshments. if there were a number of extra people for dinner, the assistant was expected to stay until nine and there was never any complaining about too much company. mrs. b. has a better apartment and saves money every month besides! * * * * * (_new york sun_) six years of tea rooms business career of a woman college graduate "for the last three years i have cleared $ , a year on my tea rooms," declared a young woman who six years ago was graduated with distinction at one of the leading colleges of the country. "i attained my twenty-third birthday a month after i received my diploma. on that day i took stock of the capital with which i was to step into the world and earn my own living. my stock taking showed perfect health, my college education and $ , my share of my father's estate after the expenses of my college course had been paid. "in spite of the protests of many of my friends i decided to become a business woman instead of entering one of the professions. i believed that a well conducted tea room in a college town where there was nothing of the kind would pay well, and i proceeded to open a place. "after renting a suitable room i invested $ in furnishings. besides having a paid announcement in the college and town papers i had a thousand leaflets printed and distributed. "though i couldn't afford music i did have my rooms decorated profusely with flowers on the afternoon of my opening. as it was early in the autumn the flowers were inexpensive and made a brave show. my only assistant was a young irish woman whom i had engaged for one month as waitress, with the understanding that if my venture succeeded i would engage her permanently. "we paid expenses that first afternoon, and by the end of the week the business had increased to such an extent that i might have engaged a second waitress had not so many of my friends persisted in shaking their heads and saying the novelty would soon wear off. during the second week my little irish girl and i had so much to do that on several occasions our college boy patrons felt themselves constrained to offer their services as waiters, while more than one of the young professors after a long wait left the room with the remark that they would go elsewhere. "of course it was well enough to laugh as we all knew there was no 'elsewhere,' but when i recalled how ready people are to crowd into a field that has proved successful, i determined no longer to heed the shaking heads of my friends. the third week found me not only with a second assistant but with a card posted in a conspicuous place announcing that at the beginning of the next week i would enlarge my quarters in such a way as to accommodate more than twice as many guests. "having proved to my own satisfaction that my venture was and would be successful, i didn't hesitate to go into debt to the extent of $ . this was not only to repair and freshen up the new room but also to equip it with more expensive furnishing than i had felt myself justified in buying for the first. "knowing how every little thing that happens is talked about in a college town, i was sure the difference in the furnishings of the rooms would prove a good advertisement. i counted on it to draw custom, but not just in the way it did. "before i realized just what was happening i was receiving letters from college boys who, after proclaiming themselves among my very first customers, demanded to know why they were discriminated against. i had noticed that everybody appeared to prefer the new room and that on several occasions when persons telephoning for reservations had been unable to get the promise of a table in there, they had said they would wait and come at another time. what i had not noticed was that only men coming alone or with other men, and girls coming with other girls, would accept seats in the first room. "i learned from the letters of 'my very first patrons' that no gentleman would take a girl to have tea in a second class tea room. they were not only hitting at the cheaper furnishings of my first room but also at the waiter whom i had employed, because i felt the need of a man's help in doing heavy work. the girl in her fresh apron and cap was more attractive than the man, and because he happened to serve in the first room he also was second class. "no, i couldn't afford to buy new furniture for that room, so i did the only thing i could think of. i mixed the furniture in such a way as to make the two rooms look practically alike. i hired another girl and relegated the man to the kitchen except in case of emergency. "although my custom fell off in summer to a bare sprinkling of guests afternoons and evenings and to almost no one at lunch, i kept the same number of employees and had them put up preserves, jams, syrups, and pickles for use the coming season. i knew it would not only be an economical plan but also a great drawing card, especially with certain of the professors, to be able to say that everything served was made on the place and under my own supervision. "my second winter proved so successful that i determined to buy a home for my business so that i might have things exactly as i wished. i was able to pay the first instalment, $ , , on the purchase price and still have enough in bank to make alterations and buy the necessary furnishings. "the move was made during the summer, and when i opened up in the autumn i had such crowds afternoons and evenings that i had to put extra tables in the halls until i could get a room on the second floor ready. at present i have two entire floors and often have so many waiting that it is next to impossible to pass through the entrance hall. "three summers ago i opened a second tea room at a seashore resort on the new england coast. i heard of the place through a classmate whose family owned a cottage down there. she described it as deadly dull, because there was nothing to do but bathe and boat unless you were the happy possessor of an automobile or a horse. "i was so much interested in her description of the place that i went down one warm day in april and looked things over. i found a stretch of about three miles of beach lined with well appearing and handsome cottages and not a single place of amusement. the village behind the beach is a lovely old place, with twenty or more handsome old homes surrounded by grand trees. there are two or three small stores, a post office, two liveries and the railroad station half a mile away. "before i left that afternoon i had paid the first month's rent on the best of the only two cottages to be rented on the beach. of course it needed considerable fixing up and that had to be done at my own expense, but as i was getting it at a rental of $ for the season i was not worried at the outlay. the cottages told me enough of the character of the people who summered on that beach to make me sure that i would get good interest on all the money spent. "immediately after commencement i shut up my college tea rooms, leaving only the kitchen and storeroom open and in charge of an experienced woman with instructions to get more help when putting up preserves and pickles made it necessary. then i moved. "the two first days on the beach my tea room didn't have a visitor. people strolled by and stared at the sign, but nobody came in to try my tea. the third day i had a call from my landlord, who informed me that he had been misled into letting me have his cottage, and offering to return the amount paid for the first month's rent, he very politely requested me to move out. "after considerable talking i discovered that the cottagers didn't like the way my waitresses dressed. they were too stylish and my rooms appeared from the outside to be so brilliantly lighted that they thought i intended to sell liquor. "i didn't accept the offered rent, neither did i agree to move out, but i did assure my landlord that i would go the very day anything really objectionable happened on my premises. i told him of my success in the college town and then invited him to bring his family the following afternoon to try my tea. "well, they came, they saw, and i conquered. that evening all the tables on my piazza were filled and there was a slight sprinkling indoors. a few days later the classmate who had told me of the place came down for the summer and my troubles were at an end. "the secret of my success is hard work and catering to the taste of my patrons. had i opened either a cheap or a showy place in the college town, i would not have gained the good will of the faculty or the patronage of the best class of students. if my prices had been too high or the refreshments served not up to the notch, the result would not have been so satisfactory. "knowing one college town pretty well, i knew just about what was needed in the student's life; that is, an attractive looking place, eminently respectable, where you can take your best girl and get good things to eat well served at a reasonable cost. "the needs of the beach were pretty much the same. people can't stay in the water all the time, neither can they spin around the country or go to an unlighted village at night in their carriages and automobiles. my tea room offers a recreation, without being a dissipation. "another point about which many people question me is the effect of my being a business woman on my social standing. i haven't noticed any slights. i receive many more invitations than it is possible for me to accept. i go with the same set of girls that i did while i was in college. "two of my classmates are lawyers, more than one is a doctor, and three have gone on the stage. i know that my earnings are far more than any of theirs, and i am sure they do not enjoy their business any more than i do. if i had to begin again i would do exactly as i have done, with one exception--i would lay out the whole of my $ in furnishing that first tea room instead of keeping $ as a nest egg in bank." * * * * * (_country gentleman_) two illustrations: . half-tone reproducing photograph of dressed chickens with the caption, "there is this rule you must observe: pick your chickens clean." . reproduction in type of shipping label. by parcel post one man's way of serving the direct-to-consumer market by a. l. sarran if you live within a hundred and fifty miles of a city, if you possess ordinary common sense and have the ability to write a readable and understandable letter, you may, from september to april of each year, when other farmers and their wives are consuming instead of producing, earn from fifty to a hundred and fifty dollars net profit each month. you may do this by fattening and dressing chickens for city folks, and by supplying regularly fresh country sausage, hams, lard and eggs. this is not an idle theory. last september i began with one customer; today--this was written the end of march--i have nearly customers to whom i am supplying farm products by parcel post. instead of selling my chickens to the huckster or to the local poultry house for twelve cents a pound, i am selling them to the consumer in the city for twenty cents a pound, live weight, plus the cost of boxing and postage. not only that, i am buying chickens from my neighbors at a premium of one to two cents over the huckster's prices, "milk feeding" them, and selling them to my city customers at a profit of six to seven cents a pound. i buy young hogs from my neighbors at market prices and make them into extra good country sausage that nets me twenty-five cents a pound in the city, and into hams for which i get twenty-five cents a pound, delivered. the only pork product on which i do not make an excellent profit is lard. i get fifteen cents a pound for it, delivered to the city customer, and it costs me almost that much to render and pack it. at this writing storekeepers and egg buyers in my county are paying the farmer seventeen cents for his eggs. i am getting twenty-five cents a dozen for eggs in thirty-dozen eases and twenty-nine cents a dozen in two-dozen boxes. my prices to the city man are based upon the water street, chicago, quotation for "firsts," which, at this writing, is nineteen cents. if this price goes up i go up; if it goes down i go down. i got my customers by newspaper advertising--almost exclusively. it is a comforting belief that one satisfied customer will get you another, and that that customer will get you another, and so on, but it has not so worked out in my experience. out of all my customers less than twelve have become customers through the influence of friends. my experience has taught me another thing: that direct advertising does not pay. by direct advertising i mean the mailing of letters and circulars to a list of names in the hope of selling something to persons whose names are on that list. i tried it three times--once to a list of names i bought from a dealer in such lists; once to a list that i myself compiled from the society columns of two chicago dailies; and once to a classified list that i secured from a directory. the results in these cases were about the same. the net cost of each new customer that i secured by circulars and letters was $ . . the net cost of each new customer that i secured by newspaper advertising was fifty-four cents. not every city newspaper will get such results. in my case i selected that paper in chicago which in my judgment went into the greatest number of prosperous homes, and whose pages were kept clean of quack and swindling advertisements. i used only the sunday issues, because i believe the sunday issues are most thoroughly read. the farmer will want to use, and properly so, the classified columns of the paper for his advertising. but he should patronize only that paper whose columns provide a classification especially for farm and food products. i spent twelve dollars for advertising in one clean chicago daily with a good circulation, and got three orders. the trouble was that my advertisement went into a column headed "business personals," along with a lot of manicure and massage advertising. he on the farm who proposes to compete with the shipper, commission man and retailer for the city man's trade should devote his efforts to producing food of a better quality than the city man is accustomed to get via the shipper-commission-man-retailer route. wherefore i proposed to give the city man the fattest, tenderest, juiciest, cleanest, freshest chicken he could get--and charge him a profitable price in so doing. when i wrote my advertisements i did not stint myself for space. an advertisement that tells no reason why the reader should buy from the advertiser is, in my opinion, a poor advertisement. therefore, i told my story in full to the readers of the sunday paper, although it cost me six cents a word to do it. here is a sample of my advertising: i send young, milk-fed chickens, ready for the cook, direct to you from the farm. these chickens are fattened in wire-bottomed, sanitary coops, thus insuring absolute cleanliness, on a ration of meal, middlings and milk. the chicken you get from me is fresh; it is killed after your order is received; is dressed, drawn, cooled out for hours in dry air, wrapped in waxed paper and delivered to you on the morning of the third day after your order is mailed; it is fat, tender and sweet. the ordinary chicken that is fattened on unspeakable filth in the farmer's barnyard, and finds its way to your table via the huckster-shipper-commission-man-retailer route cannot compare with one of mine. send me your check--no stamps--for $ . and i will send you a five-pound--live-weight--roasting chicken for a sample. if it does not please you i'll give your money back. add cents to that check and i'll mail you in a separate box a two-pound package of the most delicious fresh-ground sausage meat you ever ate. made from the selected meats of young hogs only; not highly seasoned. these sausage cakes make a breakfast fit for a president. money back if you don't like them. a. l. sarran. notice that i told why the reader should buy one of my chickens rather than a chicken of whose antecedents he knew nothing. that it paid to spend six cents a word to tell him so is proved by the fact that this particular advertisement brought me, in four days, twenty-three orders, each accompanied by a check. i repeated my advertisements in sunday issues, stopping only when i had as many customers as i could take care of. getting a customer and keeping him are two different propositions. a customer's first order is sent because of the representation made in the advertisement that he read. his second and his subsequent orders depend upon how you satisfy him and continue to satisfy him. my rule is to select, weigh, dress, draw, handle, wrap and box the chicken with the same scrupulous care that i would exercise if the customer were actually present and watching me. i have another rule: the customer is always right. if he complains i satisfy him, immediately and cheerfully. it is better to lose a chicken than to lose a customer. i am now about to make a statement with which many of my readers will not agree. it is more than true; it is so important that the success of a mail-order business in dressed chickens depends upon a realization of it. it is this: _a majority of farmers and their wives do not know what constitutes a fat chicken._ i make this statement because of the experience i have had with country folks in buying their chickens for my feeding coops. if they really consider to be fat the chickens which they have assured me were fat, then they do not know fat chickens. a chicken can be fat to a degree without being so fat as he can or should be made for the purpose of marketing. there is a flavor about a well-fattened, milk-fed chicken that no other chicken has. every interstice of his flesh is juicy and oily. no part of him is tough, stringy muscle, as is the case if he is "farm-fattened" while being allowed to range where he will. if you think your chicken is a fat one, pick it up and rub the ball of your thumb across its backbone about an inch behind the base of the wings. if the backbone is felt clearly and distinctly the chicken is not fat. i fatten my chickens in coops the floors of which are made of heavy wire having one-inch mesh; underneath the wire is a droppings pan, which is emptied every day. my coops are built in tiers and long sections. i have ninety of them, each one accommodating nine chickens. i have enough portable feeding coops with wire bottoms and droppings pans underneath to enable me to feed, in all, about one thousand chickens at one time. chickens should be fed from ten to fourteen days in the coops. i give no feed whatever to the chicken the first day he is in the coop, but i keep a supply of sour milk in the trough for him. i feed my chickens three times a day. at seven a.m. i give them a fairly thick batter of meal, middlings or oat flour, about half and half, and sour milk. i feed them only what they will clean up in the course of half an hour. at noon i feed them again only what they will clean up in half an hour. this feed is the same as the morning feed except that it is thinner. about four o'clock i give them a trough full of the same feed, but so thick it will barely pour out from the bucket into the trough. the next morning the troughs are emptied--if anything remains in them--into the big kettle where the feed is mixed for the morning feeding. the idea is this: more fat and flesh are made at night than in the daytime; therefore see that no chicken goes to bed with an empty crop. about the eighth to tenth day force the feeding--see to it that the chicken gets all it will eat three times a day. by keeping an accurate account of the costs of meal, milk, and so on, i find that i can put a pound of fat on a coop-fed chicken for seven cents. when one considers that this same pound brings twenty cents, and that milk feeding in coops raises the per pound value of the chicken from twelve to twenty cents, one must admit that feeding chickens is more profitable than feeding cattle. do not feed your chicken anything for twenty-four hours before killing it. do not worry about loss in weight. the only weight it will lose will be the weight of the feed in its crop and gizzard, and the offal in its intestines--and you are going to lose that anyway when you dress and draw it. if you will keep the bird off feed for twenty-four hours you will find that it will draw much more easily and cleanly. hang the chicken up by the feet and kill it by bleeding it away back in the mouth. let it bleed to death. grasp the chicken's head in your left hand, the back of its head against the palm of your hand. do not hold it by the neck, but grasp it by the bony part of its head and jaws. reach into the throat with a three-inch, narrow, sharp knife and cut toward the top and front of the head. you will sever the big cross vein that connects the two "jugular" veins in the neck, and the blood will pour out of the mouth. if you know how to dry-pick you will not need to be told anything by me; if you do not know it will do you no good to have me tell you, because i do not believe a person can learn to dry-pick chickens by following printed instructions. at any rate, i could not. i never learned until i hired a professional picker to come out from town to teach me. so far as i can judge, it makes no difference to the consumer in the city whether the chicken is scalded or dry-picked. there is this to be said for the scalded chicken--that it is a more cleanly picked chicken than the dry-picked one. the pin feathers are more easily removed when the chicken is scalded. on the other hand, there are those feed-specializing, accurate-to-the-ten-thousandth-part-of-an-inch experts, who say that the dry-picked chicken keeps better than the scalded one. if the weather is warmer than, say, seventy-five degrees, it might; under that, there is no difference. i do the most of my selling in chicago, and my place is a hundred and fifty miles south of that city; if a scalded chicken will keep when i am selling it that far away it will keep for almost anyone, because none of you is going to sell many chickens at any point more than a hundred and fifty miles from your place. there is this caution to be observed in scalding a chicken: do not have the water too hot. i had trouble on this score, and as a result my chickens were dark and did not present an appetizing appearance. finally i bought a candy thermometer--one that registered up to degrees. by experimenting i found that degrees was the point at which a chicken scalded to pick the easiest, but that a chicken scalded at degrees presented a better appearance after being picked and cooled. whichever method you use, observe this rule: pick your chicken clean. after my chicken has cooled out enough so the flesh will cut easily, i draw it. i chop off the head close up, draw back the skin of the neck a couple of inches, and then cut off the neck. the flap of skin thus left serves to cover the bloody and unsightly stub of the neck. next i open up the chicken from behind and below the vent and pull out the gizzard--if the chicken has been kept off feed for twenty-four hours the empty crop will come with it--intestines and liver. i remove the gall bladder from the liver, open and clean the gizzard, and replace it and the liver in the chicken. then i cut a slit across the chicken just back of the keel of the breast bone. i cut the feet off at the knee joint and slip the drumstick through this slit. then i lay the chicken up to cool out overnight. the next morning it may be wrapped and boxed, and is then ready for mailing. wrapping and boxing must not be slighted. the clean, sanitary appearance of the chicken when it is unpacked in the kitchen of your customer goes a long way toward prejudicing that customer in your favor. i buy thirty pounds of waxed paper, twenty-four by thirty-six inches, and have the paper house cut it in two. this gives me sheets, each eighteen by twenty-four inches, for the price of a ream of the full size--at this time about five dollars, or a half cent a sheet. each chicken is wrapped in one sheet of this waxed paper, and is then packed in a corrugated paper box made especially for sending chickens by parcel post. i buy three sizes of these boxes. one size, which costs me four cents each, will hold one four-pound chicken when dressed and drawn. the next size, costing five cents each, will hold two very small chickens, or one large chicken. the third size, costing six cents each, will hold two large chickens, three medium-sized ones, or four small ones. do not use makeshifts, such as old shoe boxes. in the first place, your shipment is not properly protected by such a box; in the second place, your postmaster is likely to refuse to accept it for mailing, as he would be justified in doing; and in the third place, your customer receives his chicken in a box that has been used for he wonders what, and has been in he wonders what places. it is for this reason that i never ask a customer to return a box to me. i do not want to use a box a second time. if i were a city man, getting my chickens by mail, i should want them sent to me in a brand-new box, made for the special purpose of sending chickens by mail--and i'd want them in no other box. then i'd feel sure of them. the cost of shipping by parcel post is low. i live ten miles from my county seat, and the postage required to send a five-pound, live-weight chicken, dressed and boxed, from my place to town is eight cents. the postage required to send that same five-pound chicken from here to chicago, one hundred and fifty miles, is eight cents. the express company charges twenty-six cents for the same service, and does not deliver so quickly. but parcel-post delivery was not always so admirably done in chicago. when i began shipping up there last september it was no uncommon thing for my packages to be so delayed that many chickens would spoil. i recall the "straw that broke the camel's back." i mailed twenty-six chickens one day--and in due course i received thirteen letters, each advising me of the same mournful event. the chicken had spoiled because of delay in delivery. my wife wanted to quit. i didn't. i made good the losses to the customers and prepared a label, a copy of which i forwarded to the third assistant postmaster general at washington, asking his permission to use it, and telling him of the vexatious and expensive delays in delivering my packages in chicago. in due time i received the desired permission, and ordered the labels printed. the scheme worked. every time a package was not delivered on schedule time the customer notified me, and i made complaint to the postmaster at chicago. gradually the service improved until now i have no trouble at all. if i were to ship two packages today to the same address in chicago, sending one by parcel post and the other by express, i believe the parcel-post package would be delivered first. at any rate, it has been done for me. the weakness in the parcel-post delivery lies in the fact that perishable products--such as dressed chickens--cannot be handled in warm weather. i think that if the post office department would cut some of its red tape and permit the shipment of air-tight packages in air-tight conveyors this particular problem could be solved. you will, of course, have more or less correspondence with your customers. by all means use your own letterheads, but do not let your printer embellish them with cuts of roosters, chickens, pigs, or the like. not that we are ashamed of them; far be it from such. you do not, however, need to have a sheet of paper littered up with pictures of imaginary animals in order to convince your customer that you are selling the meats of that animal. i like a plainly printed letterhead that carries my name, my address and my business. that's all. by all means keep books on your farm-to-table venture, if you undertake it. set down on one side of the page what you pay for boxes, labels, postage, and so on, including what you pay yourself for chickens at your huckster's prices. on the other side of the page set down what your city customer pays you. add up the pages, do a simple sum in subtraction, and you will know just how much you have made. if i kept only twenty-five hens i should sell my eggs and my chickens direct to the city consumer. when the farmer learns to sell direct instead of letting the huckster, the poultry house, the commission man, the dresser and the retailer stand between him and the consumer, then poultry raising will become really profitable. there are too many folks who sell their eggs and "take it out in trade." * * * * _(saturday evening post)_ one large illustration, a wash drawing, made by a staff artist. sales without salesmanship by james h. collins "say, you're a funny salesman!" exclaimed the business man. "here i make up my own mind that i need two motor trucks and decide to buy 'em from your company. then i send for a salesman. you come down and spend a week looking into my horse delivery, and now you tell me to keep my horses. what kind of a salesman do you call yourself anyway?" "what made you think you needed motor trucks?" was the counterquestion of the serious, thick-spectacled young chap. "everyone else seems to be turning to gasoline delivery. i want to be up to date." "your delivery problem lies outside the gasoline field," said the salesman. "your drivers make an average of ninety stops each trip. they climb stairs and wait for receipts. their rigs are standing at the curb more than half the time. nothing in gasoline equipment can compete with the horse and wagon under such conditions. if you had loads of several tons to be kept moving steadily i'd be glad to sell you two trucks." "suppose i wanted to buy them anyway?" "we could not accept your order." "but you'd make your commission and the company its profit." "yes; but you'd make a loss, and within a year your experience would react unfavorably upon us." so no sale was effected. facts learned during his investigation of this business man's delivery problem led the salesman to make suggestions that eliminated waste and increased the effectiveness of his horse rigs. about a year later, however, this business man sent for the salesman again. he contemplated motorized hauling for another company of which he was the president. after two days' study the salesman reported that motor trucks were practicable and that he needed about five of them. "all right--fill out the contract," directed the business man. "don't you want to know how these trucks are going to make you money?" asked the salesman. "no; if you say i need five trucks, then i know that's just what i need!" a new kind of salesmanship is being developed in many lines of business--and particularly in the rebuilding of sales organizations made necessary by the ending of the war and return to peace production. "study your goods," was the salesman's axiom yesterday. "study your customer's problem," is the viewpoint to-day; and it is transforming the salesman and sales methods. indeed, the word salesman tends to disappear under this new viewpoint, for the organization which was once charged largely with disposing of goods may now be so intimately involved in technical studies of the customers' problems that selling is a secondary part of its work. the sales department is being renamed, and known as the advisory department or the research staff; while the salesman himself becomes a technical counsel or engineering adviser. camouflage? no; simply better expression of broader functions. as a salesman, probably he gave much attention to the approach and argument with which he gained his customer's attention and confidence. but, with his new viewpoint and method of attack, perhaps the first step is asking permission to study the customer's transportation needs, or accounting routine, or power plant--or whatever section of the latter's business is involved. the experience of the thick-spectacled motor-truck salesman was typical. originally he sold passenger cars. then came the war, with factory facilities centered on munitions and motor trucks. there being no more passenger cars to sell, they switched him over into the motor-truck section. there he floundered for a while, trying to develop sales arguments along the old lines. but the old arguments did not seem to fit, somehow. it might have been possible to demonstrate the superior construction of his motor truck; but competitors would meet point with point, and customers were not interested in technicalities anyway. he tried service as an argument; but that was largely a promise of what motor trucks would do for people after they bought them, and competitors could always promise just as much, and a little more. company reputation? his company had a fine one--but motor-truck purchasers wanted to know the cost of moving freight. price? no argument at all, because only one other concern made motor trucks calling for so great an initial investment. so thick-specs, being naturally serious and solid, began to dig into motor trucks from the standpoint of the customer. he got permission to investigate delivery outfits in many lines. selling a five-ton motor truck to many a business man was often equivalent to letting johnny play with a loaded machine gun. such a vehicle combined the potentiality of moving from fifty to seventy-five tons of freight daily, according to routing and the number of hours employed; but it involved a daily expense of twenty-five dollars. the purchaser could lose money in two ways at swift ratios, and perhaps unsuspectingly: he might not use his full hauling capacity each day or would use it only half the year, during his busy season. or he might underestimate costs by overlooking such items as interest and depreciation. thick-specs' first actual sale was not a motor truck at all, but a motorcycle, made by another company. within three months, however, this motorcycle added two big trucks to a fleet of one dozen operated by a wholesale firm. that concern had good trucks, and kept them in a well-equipped garage, where maintenance was good. but at least once daily there would be a road breakdown. usually this is a minor matter, but it ties up the truck while its puzzled driver tries to locate the trouble. when a motorcycle was bought for the garage, drivers were forbidden to tamper with machinery on the road--they telephoned in to the superintendent. by answering each call on his own motorcycle--about an hour daily--the repairman kept equipment in such good shape that valuable extra service was secured from the fleet each day. the salesman-adviser did not originate this scheme himself, but discovered it in another concern's motor-truck organization; in fact, this is the advantage the salesman-adviser enjoys--acquaintance with a wide range of methods and the knack of carrying a good wrinkle from one business to another. he brings the outside point of view; and, because modern business runs toward narrow specialization, the outside point of view is pretty nearly always welcome, provided it is honest and sensible. in another case he had to dig and invent to meet a peculiar situation. there was a coal company working under a handicap in household deliveries. where a residence stood back from the sidewalk coal had often to be carried from the motor truck in baskets. this kept the truck waiting nearly an hour. a motor truck's time is worth several dollars hourly. if the coal could have been dumped on the sidewalk and carried in later, releasing the truck, that would have saved expense and made more deliveries possible. a city ordinance prohibited dumping coal on the sidewalk except by permit. coal men had never tried to have that ordinance changed. but the salesman-adviser went straight to the city authorities and, by figures showing the expense and waste involved, secured a modification, so that his customer, the coal company, got a blanket permit for dumping coal and gave bonds as an assurance against abuse of the privilege. then a little old last year's runabout was bought and followed the coal trucks with a crew to carry the coal indoors, clearing sidewalks quickly. this salesman-adviser's philosophy was as simple as it was sound. confidence is the big factor in selling, he reasoned. your customer will have confidence in you if he feels that you are square and also knows what you are talking about. by diligent study of gasoline hauling problems in various lines of business he gained practical knowledge and after that had only to apply his knowledge from the customer's side of the problem. "put it another way," he said: "suppose you had a factory and expected to run it only one year. there would not be time to get returns on a costly machine showing economies over a five-year period; but if you intended to run your factory on a five-year basis, then that machine might be highly profitable. "in sales work it was just the same; if you were selling for this year's profit alone, you'd close every sale regardless of your customer's welfare. let the purchaser beware! but if you meant to sell on the five-year basis, then confidence is the big investment, and the most profitable sale very often one you refuse to make for immediate results." he had a fine following when the draft reached him; and during the eight months he spent in an army uniform he utilized his knowledge of gasoline transportation as an expert in uncle sam's motor service. upon being discharged he returned to his job and his customers, and to-day the concern with which he is connected is taking steps to put all its motor-truck salesmen on this advisory basis. war shot its sales force to pieces--the army and the navy reached out for men and tied up production facilities; so there was nothing to sell. but war also gave a clean slate for planning a new sales force. as old salesmen return and new men are taken on for sales instruction, this concern trains them--not with the old sales manual, by standard approach and systematic sales argument, but by sending them out into the field to study gasoline hauling problems. they secure permission to investigate trucking methods of contractors, department stores, wholesale merchants, coal dealers, truck owners hauling interstate freight, mills, factories and other lines of business. they investigate the kinds and quantities of stuff to be moved, the territory and roads covered, the drivers, the garage facilities. they ride behind typical loads and check up running time, delays, breakdowns, gasoline and oil consumption. engineering teaches people to think in curves. this youngster had to make a curve of the grocer's trucking before he could visualize it himself. his curve included factors like increase in stuff that had been hauled during the past three years and additions to the motor equipment. when you have a healthy curve showing any business activity, the logical thing to do, after bringing it right down to date, is to let it run out into the future at its own angle. this was done with the grocery curve, and its future extension indicated that not more than three months later the grocery house would need about four more five-ton motor trucks. closer investigation of facts behind the curve revealed an unusual growth in sugar hauling, due to the increase in supply and removal of consumer war restrictions. and that grocery concern bought additional trucks for sugar within two months. with the insight made possible by such a curve a salesman might safely have ordered the trucks without his customer's knowledge and driven them up to his door the day the curve showed they were needed. "here are the trucks you wanted to haul that sugar." "good work! drive 'em in!" what has been found to be sound sales policy in the motor truck business applies to many other lines. yesterday the salesman of technical apparatus sought the customer with a catalogue and a smile--and a large ignorance of the technical problems. to-day that kind of selling is under suspicion, because purchasers of technical equipment have been led to buy on superficial selling points and left to work out for themselves complex technicalities that belong to the manufacturer of the equipment. in the west during recent years a large number of pumps of a certain type have been sold for irrigating purposes. purchasers bought from the catalogue-and-smile type of salesman, hooked their pumps up to a power plant--and found that they lifted only about half the number of gallons a minute promised in the catalogue. manufacturers honestly believed those pumps would do the work indicated in their ratings. they had not allowed for variations in capacity where pumps were installed under many different conditions and run by different men. the situation called for investigation at the customer's end; when it was discovered that these pumps ought to be rated with an allowance for loss of capacity a half to two-thirds of the power, due to friction and lost power. it might have been dangerous for the salesman to show up again in an irrigation district where a lot of his pumps were "acting up," armed only with his catalogue and smile. but when an engineer appeared from the pump company to help customers out of their difficulties, he won confidence immediately and made additional sales because people felt that he knew what he was talking about. the superintendent of a big machinery concern found that his expense for cutting oils was constantly rising. salesmen had followed salesmen, recommending magic brands of the stuff; yet each new barrel of oil seemed to do less work than the last--and cost more in dollars. one day a new kind of visitor showed up and sent in the card of a large oil company. he was not a salesman, but an investigator of oil problems. the superintendent took him through the plant. he studied the work being done by screw-cutting machines, lathes and other equipment operated with cutting oil. where salesmen had recommended brands without technical knowledge of either the work to be done or the composition of the oil, this stranger wrote specifications that cut down the percentage of costly lard oil used on some work; and he eliminated it altogether on others. moreover, he pointed out sheer losses of oil by picking up a handful of metal cuttings from a box, letting them drip, measuring the oil that accumulated and recommending a simple device for reclaiming that oil before the waste metal was sold. this new viewpoint in selling is developing in so many lines that to enumerate them would be to make a national directory of business concerns manufacturing milling machinery, office devices, manufacturing and structural materials, equipment for the farm and the mine. people who purchase such products have been accustomed to meeting two different representatives of manufacturers: first, the salesman skilled in selling, but deficient in technical knowledge. "this chap is here to see how much he can get out of me," said the prospective consumer to himself; and he was on his guard to see that the visitor got as little as possible, either in the way of orders or information. the other representative came from the mechanical department to see how present equipment was running, or perhaps to "shoot trouble." he was long on technical knowledge, but probably dumb when it came to salesmanship. "this fellow is here to help me out of my troubles," said the customer. "i'll see how much i can get out of him." presently manufacturers of equipment woke up to the fact that their mechanical men--inspectors and trouble shooters--had a basis of confidence which the salesman pure and simple was rapidly losing. moreover, the technical man gained a knowledge of the customer's requirements that furnished the best foundation for selling new equipment. the salesman discovered the technical man and went to him for tips on new equipment needed by customers whose plants he had visited. the technical man also discovered the salesman, for it was plain enough that equipment well sold--skillfully adjusted to the customer's needs--gave the least margin for trouble shooting. so there has been a meeting of minds; and to-day the salesman studies the technicalities, and the technical man is learning salesmanship, and their boss is standing behind them both with a new policy. this is the policy of performance, not promises--service before sales. under that policy the very terms salesmanship and sales department are beginning to disappear, to be replaced by new nomenclature, which more accurately indicates what a manufacturer's representative can do for the customer, and gives him access to the latter on the basis of confidence and good will. * * * * * _(munsey's magazine)_ the accident that gave us wood-pulp paper how a mighty modern industry owed its beginning to gottfried keller and a wasp by parke f. hanley on the day when president wilson was inaugurated to his second term, this country had its fiftieth anniversary of the introduction of wood-pulp. were it not for a series of lucky chances that developed into opportunity, this wood-pulp anniversary might have remained for our children's children. have you ever given thought to the accidentalism of many great discoveries? the element of haphazard is generally combined with a series of coincidences. looking back over the developments that led to gigantic contributions to our civilization, one cannot fail to be struck by the coordination of events. apparently there always has been a conspiracy of natural forces to compel men of thought and resourcefulness to add another asset to progress. your earliest school readers have been full of these--for instance, watt and his steam-kettle, franklin and his kite. now the youngsters are reading that the wrights derived a fundamental principle of aviation--the warping-tip--from the flight of crows. with the awe comes a disquieting thought. how far back should we be were it not for these fortuitous circumstances? among all the great things that have been given to the world in the last three-quarters of a century, few measure beside the wood-pulp industry. with its related trades and sciences, it is comprised within the ten great activities of mankind. in manufacture and distribution, it employs an army matching in size the russian battle hordes. its figures of investment and production are comparable to the debts of the great war. yet it remained for a wasp and gottfried keller to bring us out of the era of rag paper. together, they saved us from a retardation of universal thought. therefore, let us consider the agents. first, the wasp. she was one of a family of several hundreds, born in the hartz mountains in the year . when death claimed most of her relatives at the end of the season allotted as the life of a wasp, this survivor, a queen wasp, became the foundress of a family of her own. she built her nest of selected wood-fibers, softened them to a pulp with her saliva, and kneaded them into cells for her larvæ. her family came forth in due course, and their young wings bore them out into the world. the nest, having served its purpose, was abandoned to the sun and the rain. maeterlinck, who attributes emotions to plants and souls to bees, might wrap a drama of destiny about this insect. she would command a leading place in a cast which included the butterfly that gave silk to the world, the mosquito that helped to prove the germ theory of disease, and the caterpillar that loosed the apple which revealed the law of gravitation to sir isaac newton. as to keller, he was a simple german, by trade a paper-maker and by avocation a scientist of sorts. one day in --and this marks the beginning of the accidents--returning home from his mill, he trod upon the abandoned nest. had not the tiny dwelling been deserted, he probably would have cherished nothing but bitter reflections about the irascibility of wasps. as it was, he stooped to see the ruin he had wrought. the crushed nest lay soft in his hand, soft and pliable, and yet tough in texture. it was as soft as his own rag-made paper. it was not paper, and yet it was very much like paper. crumbling it in his fingers, he decided that its material was wood-pulp. keller was puzzled to know how so minute a creature had welded wood into a paperlike nest. his state of mind passed to interest, thence to speculation, and finally to investigation. he carried his problem and its possibilities to his friend, heinrich voelter, a master mechanic. together they began experiments. they decided to emulate the wasp. they would have to granulate the wood as she had done. the insect had apparently used spruce; they used spruce under an ordinary grindstone. hot water served as a substitute for the wasp's salivary juices. their first attempts gave them a pulp astonishingly similar to that resulting from the choicest rags. they carried the pulp through to manufacture, with a small proportion of rags added--and they had paper. it was good paper, paper that had strength. they found that it possessed an unlooked-for advantage in its quick absorption of printing-ink. have you followed the chain of accidents, coincidences, and fortunate circumstances? suppose the wasp had not left her nest in keller's path. what if he had been in haste, or had been driven off by the queen's yellow-jacketed soldiers? what if he had no curiosity, if he had not been a paper-maker, if he had not enjoyed acquaintance with voelter? wood-pulp might never have been found. leaving gottfried keller and voelter in their hour of success, we find, sixteen years afterward, two other germans, albrecht and rudolf pagenstecher, brothers, in the export trade in new york. they were pioneering in another field. they were shipping petroleum to europe for those rising young business men, john d. and william rockefeller. they were seeking commodities for import when their cousin, alberto pagenstecher, arrived from the fatherland with an interesting bit of news. "a few weeks ago, in a paper-mill in the hartz, i found them using a new process," he said. "they are making paper out of wood. it serves. germany is printing its newspapers on wood-pulp paper." to his cousins it seemed preposterous that wood could be so converted, but alberto was convincing. he showed them voelter's patent grants and pictures of the grinders. the pagenstechers went to germany, and when they returned they brought two of the grinders--crude affairs devised for the simple purpose of pressing wood upon a stone. they also brought with them several german mechanics. a printer in new york, named strang, had already secured the united states rights of the new process. he was engaged in the manufacture of calendered paper, and, therefore, had no occasion to use wood-pulp; so he was willing to surrender the patents in exchange for a small interest. the pagenstechers wanted water-power for their grinders, and they located their first mill beside stockbridge bowl, in curtisville, now interlaken, massachusetts. on an outlay of eleven thousand dollars their mill was built and their machinery installed. two or three trials, with cotton waste added to the ground wood, gave them their paper. their first product was completed on the th of march, . it was a matter of greater difficulty to dispose of the stock. the trade fought against the innovation. finally wellington smith, of the near-by town of lee, massachusetts, was persuaded to try it. rag-paper had been selling at twenty-four cents a pound. smith's mill still exhibits the first invoice with the pagenstechers, which shows the purchase of wood-paper at eleven cents. the paper was hauled to lee in the dead of night, for smith's subordinates wished to spare him from the laughter of his fellow millmen. it was sold, and proved successful, and the pagenstechers were rushed with orders. they built a second mill in luzeme, new york, but abandoned it soon afterward for the greater water-power to be obtained at palmer's falls, where now stands the second largest mill in the united states. manufacturers tumbled over themselves to get the benefit of the new process. the originators in this country held the patent rights until , letting them out on royalties until that time. with each new plant the price of paper fell, until at one period it sold at one and a half cents a pound. trial had proved that spruce was the only suitable wood for the pulp. until rags were combined in about one-quarter proportion. then it was found that other coniferous woods might be used to replace the rags, after being submitted to what is called the sulfite process. in this treatment small cubes of wood, placed in a vat, have their resinous properties extracted, and the wood is disintegrated. a combination of ground and sulfite wood makes the paper now used for news-print. as has been told, the primary advantage of the wood-pulp paper was its immediate absorption of ink. this made possible much greater speed in printing, and led in turn to the development of the great modern newspaper and magazine presses, fed by huge rolls of paper, which they print on both sides simultaneously. these wonderful machines have now reached the double-octuple stage--monsters capable of turning out no less than five thousand eight-page newspapers in a single minute, or three hundred thousand in an hour. with the evolution from the flat-bed to the web or rotary presses there came further development in typesetting-machines--the linotype, the monotype, and others. with paper and presses brought to such simplification, newspapers have sprouted in every town, almost every village, and the total number of american periodicals is counted by tens of thousands. there are magazines that have a circulation of more than a million copies weekly. the leading daily newspapers in new york print anywhere from one hundred thousand copies to four times as many, and they can put extra editions on the streets at fifteen-minute intervals. the aggregate circulation of daily newspapers in the united states is close to forty million copies. weekly newspapers and periodicals reach fifty millions, and monthly publications mount almost to one hundred millions; and all this would be impossible without wood-pulp paper. the annual production of wood-pulp in the united states and canada is estimated by albrecht pagenstecher, the survivor of the innovators, to be worth nearly five hundred millions of dollars. take into consideration the hundreds of thousands employed in the mills, the men who cut and bring in the raw product, the countless number in the printing, publishing, and distributing trades. then hark back to the accident that put the wasp's nest under the toe of gottfried keller! * * * * * (_providence journal_) one zinc-etching illustration reproducing an old wood-cut of the ship, with the caption, "the savannah, first steamship that crossed the ocean." centennial of the first steamship to cross the atlantic ( -column head) one hundred years ago this week there was launched at new york the ship savannah, which may be called the father of the scores of steamers that are now carrying our soldiers and supplies from the new world to the old world. the savannah was the first ship equipped with steam power to cross the atlantic ocean. it made the trip in days, using both sails and engine, and the arrival of the strange craft at liverpool was the cause of unusual stir among our english cousins. like every step from the beaten path the idea of steam travel between the new world and the old world was looked upon with much scepticism and it was not until about years later that regular, or nearly regular, steamer service was established. the launching of the savannah took place on aug. , . it was not accompanied by the ceremony that is accorded many of the boats upon similar occasions to-day. as a matter of fact, it is probable that only a few persons knew that the craft was intended for a transatlantic trip. the keel of the boat was laid with the idea of building a sailing ship, and the craft was practically completed before capt. moses rogers, the originator of the venture, induced scarborough & isaacs, ship merchants of savannah, to buy her and fit her with a steam engine for service between savannah and liverpool. the ship, which was built by francis fickett, was feet long, feet broad and feet deep. it had three masts which, of course, were of far greater importance in making progress toward its destination than was the steam engine. capt. rogers had gained a reputation for great courage and skill in sailing. he had already had the honor of navigating the sea with a steamer, taking the new jersey from new york to the chesapeake in , a voyage which was then thought to be one of great danger for such a vessel. it was natural, then, that he was especially ambitious to go down in history as the first master of a steam ship to cross the ocean. as soon as the vessel had been purchased by the savannah ship merchants, the work of installing the engine was begun. this was built by stephen vail of speedwell, n.j., and the boiler by david dod of elizabeth, n. j. the paddle-wheels were made of iron and were "detachable," so that the sections could be removed and laid on the deck. this was done when it was desired to proceed under canvas exclusively and was also a precaution in rough weather. in short, the savannah was an auxiliary steamer, a combination of steam and sail that later became well known in shipping. this is much like the early development of the gasoline marine engine, which was an auxiliary to the sail, a combination that is still used. capt. rogers took the boat from new york to savannah in eight days and hours, using steam on this trip for ½ hours. on may , , under capt. rogers, the savannah set sail from her home port for liverpool and made the trip in days. as long as the trip took, the voyage was considerably shorter than the average for the sailing ship in , and this reduction in time was accomplished in spite of the fact that the savannah ran into much unfavorable weather. capt. rogers used steam on of the days and doubtless would have resorted to engine power more of the time except for the fact that at one stage of the voyage the fuel was exhausted. it was natural that the arrival of the steamer in english waters should not have been looked upon with any great favor by the englishmen. in addition to the jeers of the sceptical, the presence of vessels was accompanied by suspicion on the part of the naval authorities, and the merchants were not favorably impressed. when the savannah approached the english coast with her single stack giving forth volumes of dense black smoke, it was thought by those on shore that she was a ship on fire, and british men-of-war and revenue cutters set out to aid her. when the truth was known, consternation reigned among the english officers. they were astonished at the way the craft steamed away from them after they had rushed to assist what they thought was a ship in distress. the reception of the savannah at liverpool was not particularly cordial. some of the newspapers even suggested that "this steam operation may, in some manner, be connected with the ambitious views of the united states." a close watch was kept on the boat while she lay in british waters, and her departure was welcome. in the second volume of "memoranda of a residence at the court of st. james," richard rush, then american minister in london, includes a complete log of the savannah. dispatch no. from minister rush reports the arrival of the ship and the comment that was caused by its presence as follows: london, july , . sir--on the th of last month arrived at liverpool from the united states the steamship savannah, capt. rogers, being the first vessel of that description that ever crossed the sea, and having excited equal admiration and astonishment as she entered port under the power of her steam. she is a fine ship of tons burden and exhibits in her construction, no less than she has done in her navigation across the atlantic, a signal trophy of american enterprise and skill upon the ocean. i learn from capt. rogers, who has come to london and been with me, that she worked with great ease and safety on the voyage, and used her steam full days. her engine acts horizontally and is equal to a horsepower. her wheels, which are of iron, are on the sides, and removable at pleasure. the fuel laid in was bushels of coal, which got exhausted on her entrance into the irish channel. the captain assures me that the weather in general was extremely unfavorable, or he would have made a much shorter passage; besides that, he was five days delayed in the channel for want of coal. i have the honor to be, etc., richard rush. to have made the first voyage across the atlantic ocean under steam was a great accomplishment and brought no little credit to capt. rogers and the united states. pioneers in many ventures, the american people had added another honor to their record. and this was even more of a credit because in those early days skilled workmen were comparatively few on these shores and the machine shops had not reached a stage of efficiency that came a short time later. there were, of course, in men who had developed into mechanics and there were shops of some account, as the steamboat for short trips had been in existence for some years. but the whole enterprise of planning a steam voyage in which the boat should be headed due east was characteristic of the boldness and bravery of the americans. the savannah did not return to the states directly from england. it steamed from liverpool to st. petersburg and brought forth further comment from the old world. she proved that the marine steam engine and side-wheels were practicable for deep-sea navigation. the idea of transatlantic travel under steam had been born and it was only necessary to develop the idea to "shorten the distance" between the two continents. this pioneer voyage, however, was then looked upon more as a novelty than as the inception of a new method of long-distance travel. the trip had failed to demonstrate that steam was an entirely adequate substitute for the mast and sail in regular service. since the savannah was primarily a sailing vessel, the loss of steam power by the crippling of the engine would not be serious, as she could continue on her way with paddle-wheels removed and under full sail. it was years later that the idea of employing vessels propelled by steam in trade between the united states and england came under the serious consideration of merchants and ship builders. in the interval the marine boiler and the engines had been improved until they had passed the stage of experiment, and coasting voyages had become common on both sides of the atlantic. the beginning of real transatlantic steam voyages was made by the sirius and the great western. the latter boat had been built especially for trips across the ocean and the former was taken from the cork and london line. the sirius started from liverpool on april , , and the great western four days later. they arrived in new york within hours of each other, the sirius at p.m. on april and the great western at o'clock the following afternoon. neither of the vessels carried much sail. these boats gave more or less irregular service until withdrawn because of their failure to pay expenses. in the cunard company was formed and the paddle steamers britannia, arcadia, columbia, and caledonia were put into service. from that time on the steamer developed with great rapidity, the value of which was never more demonstrated than at the present time. it will always be remembered, however, that this capt. rogers with his crude little savannah was the man whose bold enterprise gave birth to the idea of transatlantic travel under steam. * * * * * (a syndicate sunday magazine section of the _harrisburg patriot_) searching for the lost atlantis by grosvenor a. parker not so long ago a stubby tramp steamer nosed its way down the english channel and out into the atlantic. her rusty black bow sturdily shouldered the seas aside or shoved through them with an insistence that brought an angry hail of spray on deck. the tramp cared little for this protest of the sea or for the threats of more hostile resistance. through the rainbow kicked up by her forefoot there glimmered and beckoned a mirage of wealthy cities sunk fathoms deep and tenanted only by strange sea creatures. for the tramp and her crew there was a stranger goal than was ever sought by an argosy of legend. the lost cities of atlantis and all the wealth that they contain was the port awaiting the searchers under the rim of the western ocean. it's no wild-goose chase that had started thus unromantically. the men who hope to gain fame and fortune by this search are sure of their ground and they have all the most modern mechanical and electrical aids for their quest. on the decks of their ship two submarine boats are cradled in heavy timbers. one of them is of the usual type, but the other looks like a strange fantasy of another jules verne. a great electric eye peers cyclops-wise over the bow and reaching ahead of the blunt nose are huge crab-like claws delicate enough to pick up a gold piece and strong enough to tear a wall apart. these under-water craft are only a part of the equipment that bernard meeker, a young englishman, has provided to help him in his search for the lost city. there are divers' uniforms specially strengthened to resist the great pressure under which the men must work. huge electric lamps like searchlights to be lowered into the ocean depths and give light to the workers are stacked close beside powerful generators in the ship's hold. in the chart room there are rolls of strange maps plotting out the ocean floor, and on a shelf by itself rests the tangible evidence that this search means gold. it is a little bowl of strange design which was brought up by a diver from the bottom of the caribbean. when this bowl first came to light it was supposed to be part of loot from a sunken spanish galleon, but antiquarians could find nothing in the art of the orient, or africa, or of peru and mexico to bear out this theory. even the gold of which it was made was an alloy of a different type from anything on record. it was this that gave meeker his first idea that there was a city under the sea. he found out the exact spot from which the divers had recovered the bowl, and compared the reckonings with all the ancient charts which spoke of the location of fabled atlantis. in one old book he located the lost city as being close to the spot where the divers had been, and with this as a foundation for his theories he asked other questions of the men who had explored that hidden country. their tale only confirmed his belief. "the floor of the sea is covered with unusual coral formation," one of them told him, "but it was the queerest coral i ever saw. it looked more like stone walls and there was a pointed sort of arch which was different from any coral arch i had ever seen." that was enough to take meeker to the caribbean to see for himself. he won't tell what he found, beyond the fact that he satisfied himself that the "coral" was really stone walls pierced by arched doors and windows. meeker kept all his plans secret and might have sailed away on his treasure hunt without making any stir if he had not been careless enough to name one of his submarines "atlantis." he had given out that he was sailing for yucatan to search for evidence of prehistoric civilization. it is true that the shores of yucatan are covered with the remnants of great cities but the word "atlantis" awoke suspicion. questions followed and meeker had to admit the bare facts of his secret. "only half a dozen men know the supposed location of atlantis," he said, just before sailing, "and we don't intend to let any others into the secret. those who have furnished the money for the expedition have done so in the hope of solving the mystery of the lost continent, and without thought for the profit. the divers and the other men of the crew have the wildest dreams of finding hoarded wealth. it is not at all impossible that their dreams will come true, and that they will be richly rewarded. at any rate they deserve it, for the work will be dangerous. "our plans are simple enough. with the submarine of the usual type we will first explore that part of the sea bottom which our charts cover. this vessel has in its conning tower a powerful searchlight which will reveal at least the upper portions of any buildings that may be there. for work in greater depths we will have to depend on the 'atlantis' with its special equipment of ballast tanks and its hatch-ways for the divers. "you see, we do not plan to lower the divers from the steamer or from a raft. instead they will step directly out on the sea floor from a door in the submarine which opens out of an air chamber. in this the diver can be closed and the air pressure increased until it is high enough to keep out the water. all that he has to do then is to open the door and step out, trailing behind him a much shorter air hose and life line than would hamper him if he worked from the surface. the air hose is armored with steel links so that there will be no danger of an inquisitive shark chopping it in two." previous to the diver's exploration the claws of the "atlantis" will search out the more promising places in the ruins. these claws work on a joint operated electrically, and on the tip of each is a sensitive electrical apparatus which sets off a signal in the conning tower of the submarine. crawling over the bottom like a strange monster, the claws will also help to avoid collisions with walls when the depths of the water veils the power of the searchlight. there is, in addition, a small electric crane on the nose of the submarine so that heavy objects can be borne to the surface. meeker does not expect to gain much in the way of heavy relics of the lost city, for certain parts of the sea bottom are so covered with ooze that he believes it only possible to clear it away through suction hose long enough to make quick observation possible. the subaqueous lights which will help this work are powerful tungsten lamps enclosed in a steel shell with a heavy prismatic lens at the bottom. these lamps are connected to the power plant on the steamer by armored cables and will develop , candle power each. the generating station on the parent ship of the expedition, as the rusty tramp is known, is as extensive as those on a first class liner or a dreadnought. little of the power will go for the benefit of the steamer though. its purpose is to furnish the light for the swinging tungstens and to charge the great storage batteries of the submarines. these batteries run the many motors on which depends the success of the work. if it were not for electricity, the searchers would be handicapped. as it is they call to their aid all the strong magic of modern days. index "accident that gave us wood-pulp paper, the," adventure as a source of interest, . agricultural journals, , , ; articles in, , , , , , , ; examples of articles in, , , ; excerpts from, , , aims in feature writing, alliteration in titles, amateur writers, opportunities for, , _american magazine_, articles from, , ; excerpt from, amusements as a source of interest, analysis of articles on factory school, , analysis of special articles, ; outline for, animals as a source of interest, appeals, kinds of, ; combinations of, "arbor day advice," arrangement of material, balance in titles, "bedroom in burlap, a," beginnings, ; structure of, ; types of, _boston herald_, article from, _boston transcript_, articles from, , ; excerpt from, "boys in search of jobs," "brennan mono-rail car," browning, john m., personality sketch of, "by parcel post," camera, use of, for illustrations, captions for illustrations, "centennial of first steamship to cross the atlantic," _chicago tribune_, excerpt from, children as a source of interest, _christian science monitor_, article from, clark, thomas arkle, personality sketch of, class publications, , , college training for writing, _collier's weekly_, excerpt from, collins, james h., article by, confession articles, , ; examples of, "confessions of a college professor's wife," contests for supremacy as a source of interest, correspondents as feature writers, cosgrove, john o'hara, on sunday magazine sections, "county service station, a," _country gentleman_, articles from, , ; excerpt from, cover page for manuscripts, ; form for, crime, presentation of, curiosity as a qualification for writers, definition of special feature article, _delineator_, article from, ; excerpt from, descriptive beginnings, _designer_, article from, _detroit news_, article from, ; excerpt from, diction, direct address beginnings, direct address titles, drawings for illustrations, ; mailing of, eaton, walter prichard, article by; editorial readers, editors, point of view of, entertainment as purpose of articles, ; wholesome, ethics of feature writing, , _everybody's magazine_, article from, _every week_, article from, examples, methods of presenting, exposition by narration and description, factory school, articles on, , , familiar things as a source of interest, _farm and fireside_, article from, farm journals, , , , ; articles in, , , , , , ; examples of articles in, , , ; excerpts from, , , figures of speech, as element of style, ; in beginnings, ; in titles, filing material, "forty years bartered for what?" 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examples of, personal experience articles, ; examples of, personal experience as a source of subjects, personal observation as a source of subjects, personal success as a source of interest, _philadelphia public ledger_, excerpt from, photographs, value of, ; securing, ; requirements for, ; sizes of, ; captions for, ; mailing of, _pictorial review_, article from, planning an article, , _popular science monthly_, excerpt from, practical guidance articles, , ; examples of, practical guidance units, processes, methods of presenting, prominence as a source of interest, _providence journal_, article from, ; excerpt from, purpose, definiteness of, ; statement of, qualifications for feature writing, question beginnings, question titles, quiller-couch, sir arthur, on jargon, quotation beginnings, quotation titles, _railroad man's magazine_, excerpt from, readers, editorial, readers, point of view of, , recipes, methods of presenting, reporters as feature writers, , revision of articles, rhyme in titles, romance as a source of interest, "sales without salesmanship," _san francisco call_, excerpt from, _saturday evening post_, articles from, , , scandal, presentation of, scientific publications as a source of subjects and material, , "searching for the lost atlantis," sentences, structure of, ; length of, shepherd, william g., article by, siddall, john m., on curiosity, ; on readers' point of view, ; on making articles personal, "singular story of the mosquito man, the," "six years of tea rooms," slosson, edwin e., on scientific and technical subjects, sources of subjects and material, space rates for feature articles, staff system on magazines, statistics, methods of presenting, stevenson, frederick boyd, on sunday magazine sections, stovaine, beginning of article on, striking statement beginnings, striking statement titles, study of newspapers and magazines, style, subjects for feature articles, _successful farming_, excerpts from, , summary beginnings, sunday magazine sections, syndicates, , syndicating articles, _system_, article from, ; excerpt from, "taking the school to the factory," "teach children love of art through story-telling," technical publications as a source of subjects and material, , "ten acres and a living," "they call me the 'hen editor,'" "things we learned to do without," time of payment for articles, timeliness in feature articles, titles, ; 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part ii; complete. foerster -- the chief american prose writers. the drama dickinson -- chief contemporary dramatists, first series. dickinson -- chief contemporary dramatists, second series. matthews -- chief european dramatists. neilson -- the chief elizabethan dramatists (except shakespeare) to the close of the theatres. houghton mifflin company none