Some of Mr. Dibble’s descriptions of the champion’s early battles

are nearly as thrilling as movie reels; some of the narrative of

chance encounters, such as with the bully of Mount Clemens, are most

picturesque; and occasionally quotations of the master’s own words give

spice and substance to the descriptions: “The longest scrap I ever had

went about twenty minutes, and that fellow was on the floor most of

the time. I was never learned to box. I learned myself from watching

other boxers. My style of boxing is perfectly oracular--no, I mean

original--with me.” As all devotees of the art of self-defence know,

John L.’s first great fight was with Paddy Ryan and what Mr. Dibble

has to say about it is interesting, particularly the part about Ryan’s

explanation of his defeat. “The defeated champion burst into print with

a series of statements which insisted that his rupture and his truss

had so crippled him that he was unable to fight with his customary

ferocity.” If Dr. John A. Bodine, one time surgeon in New York, were

still alive, he would be able to say that a similar statement would

be true if Sullivan had made it about his bout with Corbett. There

can be little doubt, I believe, that Sullivan’s trainers made him

enter that contest without a truss. And though alcohol had conditioned

the weakness of the abdominal muscles which promoted the hernia, the

immediate cause of the champion’s fall was due to a condition that

should have been remedied surgically.

Now that the technique of the art known as self-defence has become

elaborate and complicated, it is interesting to hear what it was for

the champion of champions: “His technique was simplicity itself: he

merely kept hammering with ruthless atavistic ferocity at his opponents

until the opponents became insensible.” In view of the legend, current

for a while at least, that John L. had first learned to fight by

whipping his father, “atavistic” does not seem to be particularly a

felicitous adjective. It is a small matter, but Mr. Dibble is not

perhaps as careful of his adjectives as an Instructor in the Department

of English in the University of Columbia should be. Laborious search

would have provided a more appropriate epithet than “cutest” for

Charlie Mitchell.

It is sincerely to be hoped that some of John L.’s retorts and remarks

were not of staircase engendering. Take for instance the following

anecdote:

A policeman, surrounded by an enthusiastic audience, said to him:

“You are drunk, you are under arrest.” “That ain’t true,” snapped

John, “but even if it was I’ll be sober to-morrow while you’ll be a

damn fool all your life.” It must occur even to his greatest admirer

on reading this tale that he may have heard the retort on the stage

where it has been bandied about for generations. However, it is quite

true that he may have stopped in the middle of a fight when he was

urged by a bloodthirsty creature in the audience to “go in and mop up”

his adversary. According to the story, he stepped to the front of the

platform, raised his hand and said: “Gentlemen, this affair to-night is

just a friendly set-to. Some day I may oblige you by killing a man.”

The vernacular may not be Sullivan’s, but the sentiment likely is.

The distressing part of the book is the account of his contest with

John Barleycorn. No one who has not himself a thirst for strong drink,

or who has not lived and laboured with those who had it and succumbed

to it, will be touched by it. But all drunkards, potential and actual,

and all doctors who have witnessed the devastating results of the

intemperate use of alcohol will sympathise with John L. and will

venerate him for the fight he finally made and the battle he won. Had

he been able to exercise a similar control of his appetite for food,

he might still be the living example of reformation. Apparently there

were plenty of friends to tell him that he drank too much, but no one

dared run the risk of making an enemy of him by telling him that he ate

too much, and so he went on adding to his avoirdupois until Fat Men’s

Club elected him to membership and even called him to office. This

offended him enormously and hurt him deeply, for even after he went far

beyond three hundred pounds, he was unwilling to admit that any one was

justified in calling him fat.

He was proud of his strength which was colossal and of his oratory

which was Lilliputian. But if his biographer is to be trusted, and I

think he is, his speeches were often reflective of common sense, or

perhaps it might better be said of common experience: “This talk of

tainted money is all rot. In all my years of wild spending I never

heard of nobody refusing to take the money of John L. Of all the money

I gave to churches, schools and other charities, I can’t remember a

single cent being flopped back to me because it was earned by biffing

some unlucky chap on the jaw. There is no such thing as tainted

money, and I have handled about every kind there is. The preacher’s

hadn’t ought to object to it. They ought to be on the level in their

professions just like us prize fighters always is. If any of you here

has got what you think is tainted cash in your pockets, just drop it in

my hat before you pass out. I thank you one and all very kindly, yours

truly, John L. Sullivan.” Preachers, moralists, uplifters, will find

food for reflection in these words.

Mr. Dibble’s biography is, as I said in the beginning, interesting and

diverting, but he would have been well advised had some one suggested

to him that he delete the epilogue; it is neither worthy of his

scholarship nor of his sensibility.

* * * * *

James J. Corbett, whose dominant ambition was to make his conduct and

appearance consonant with his sobriquet “Gentleman Jim,” has written

as much of his life as he thinks the public should know and he calls

it _The Roar of the Crowd_. Mr. Corbett learned the ninth letter of

the alphabet first and after he had mastered it he convinced himself

there was small need to bother with the others, and besides he had

no time. He must go into training. He must develop his ego; he must

make it go centripetally and centrifugally with equal facility and

he must develop his muscles and increase his weight so that he might

become “Champion of the World.” These things are not taught in school

so he was expelled and took to fighting in a boxstall of his father’s

livery stable. “I instinctively used my head even at that age.” That

is the burden of Mr. Corbett’s story. He always used his head before,

during and after the fight. Before, to put the fear of Corbett into his

opponent; during, to knock him out and gain his respect, and after, to

win his friendship. After he got his ego, his muscles and his weight

behaving satisfactorily, he cogitated, “I mustn’t be modest; all

successful prize fighters are arrogant, self-satisfied and noisy. I

shall be arrogant and self-satisfied, but never noisy.” After he had

fought several successful battles in livery stables, he knocked out Joe

Choinyski in what Billy Delomey, “the most famous of all seconds,”

said, was the fiercest battle he ever saw. And Corbett whipped him with

one hand! He not only admits it but asserts it. “It is a remarkable

feature of this fight that I fought this whole battle with my left

hand.” Having done this, it was easy to convince himself he could whip

Jake Kilrain with two hands, though his backer, Bud Renaud, who ran

a gambling house in New Orleans and was “a splendid character” could

scarcely be persuaded of the probability of it. But not so Gentleman

Jim. He telegraphed his father, “Will whip Kilrain sure.” He did it,

and then telegraphed, “Won with hands down.” Having gone on so well

with his head, aided by one hand up, and both hands down, he determined

to take on Peter Jackson, the great negro fighter from Australia, “a

very clever man,” said Corbett to a friend, “but no cleverer than I

am.” First he must make the negro angry, then get his goat, then whip

him. That would lead the way to John L. Sullivan. Needless to say he

did all these with decency and despatch. Then he “called” Sullivan. The

latter was wont to restrict his challenge to those whose mothers had

cuckolded their fathers. Naturally there were few takers. One evening

when John and Jim were making a round of the saloons of Chicago, the

latter tiring of the other’s boastfulness said, looking him right

in the eye, “Mr. Sullivan, you are the champion of the world, and

everybody is supposed to think that you can whip any ---- in the

world.... I don’t want you to make that remark in my presence again.”

And from what transpired in the next few seconds, Jim knew he had “got”

his man. So it was comparatively an easy matter to go to Florida and

give him the _coup de grâce_. Every one knows that he did. But he soon

had a change of heart. It saddened him that those thousands who came to

cheer the vanquished remained to fawn on the victor, and he said, “I

will be immodest no longer, I will be magnanimous and just, I really

did not whip Sullivan alone, J. Barleycorn and I did it together,” and

then he went to the Southern Athletic, where he took a glass of

milk. “This incident was wired all over the world and was published in

many newspapers.” The _Christian Science Monitor_ and the _Dearborn

Independent_ took no notice of the event. They might well have done

so without involuting their obvious rôles, for here was the birth of

virtue. John L. reformed soon after and James J. figures that “this

moderation helped me to what success I have had.”

[Illustration: J. J. CORBETT]

_Reprinted from “The Roar of the Crowd”

By permission of G. P. Putnam’s Sons_

Soon Mr. Corbett met Mr. Fitzsimmons, but the less said about that

the better. It facilitated his way to the stage which is where he

really belonged. He deserted it now and then to take on a fighter and

finally met Jeffries, who stopped him plentifully and permanently. That

permitted him to devote himself to his café and to his lines.

The most amazing chapter of this biographical narrative is entitled “My

Actor Friends.” Here Mr. Corbett poses as a diagnostician in the field

of psychiatry. “Come to think of it, I have had the misfortune to be

present when six famous stars have lost their reason.” Men lose their

reason as they do their purses or their umbrellas. They drop through

holes in the pocket or they are left in street cars. Dr. Corbett’s

procedure was original, but I find it difficult to believe he used

his head as much in diagnosticating as in fighting. “What’s all this

talk about your going crazy?” said he to a great comedian already

advanced in general paresis who instantly countered with protestation

of complete sanity. The slang comedian with whom he played pool at

the Lambs during his last rational hour “laughed and kidded” in his

familiar way, but Mr. Corbett distinguished the psychic output from

that of irrationality.

A friend and admirer of Mr. Corbett, a journalist, author and literary

promoter says, in a foreword to the book, that the ex-champion did

the book himself. Few will ask Mr. Anderson to prove it. “Jim said he

wanted it as it is, faults and all.” Jim is the man who got what he

wanted. Did he want a biography, that is the question?

XIV

FICTIONAL BIOGRAPHY

ARIEL, by _André Maurois_.

THE DIVINE LADY, by _E. Barrington_.

THE NIGHTINGALE; A LIFE OF CHOPIN, by _Marjorie Strachey_.

Biography, like history, is often the most diverting and truest of

all fiction; but when it is treated severely, it frequently lacks

entertainment. We stand everything save boredom, even prohibition and

fundamentalism. Some who would not read a book entitled _The Life

of Shelley_ might be tempted by a novel called _Ariel_, which is a

delightfully presented and rigorously accurate biography of a great

poet. M. Maurois has not added an iota of imagination to his book; he

has stated the facts with the order and precision of the _Dictionary

of National Biography_. But he has coloured them with the art of the

novelist and he has done it in pastel tone, with a light hand and

warm heart. It seems the consensus of opinion that the hand has been

too light, but one feels between the written words the power of a

soul without a superior; the fascination of an intelligence liberated

from all bonds, unfortunately at times trammelled by the dictates of

a heart that was not liberated. Reading _Ariel_, some will wish that

Shelley had been a Latin; yet, England of doughty prejudices and dour

Puritanism is the country where such strange individuality phenomena

are frequently displayed. One marvels at this, just as one who knows

the Italian people and their profound scepticism, marvels that they had

St. Francis and St. Catherine.

_Ariel_ has had a vogue and has received praise that would not be

granted the _Dictionary of National Biography_. This indicates the

appetite of humans for facts, when they are sugar-coated, disguised or

made alluring by an attractive envelope. Biography presented in the

shape of fiction is one of the best kinds of biography and the most

interesting kind of fiction. Shelley’s life contains material that

would seem exaggerated if found in a novel, and it reveals facts that

would be denied if they were set forth in fiction. Before it appeared

in English translation, the book took France by storm. It did more than

popularise the name of Shelley, it revived an interest in biography

generally and it added allure to retrospects of the past, the past that

had been so neglected and depreciated by partisans of ego-analysis, and

that has been pushed aside by the psychological novel.

The lives of great men contain an inexhaustible fund of invaluable

material which is at the disposal of the novelist. If he does not

choose to be as frank as M. Maurois has been about Shelley, he may do

what Rose Wilder Lane has done in the novel entitled _He Was a Man_

which is a biography of Jack London. She has artfully disguised her

subject while Maurois presents him to his readers with all the data of

identification.

The charm of _Ariel_ resides in the manner in which the story is told;

in the graceful characterisations; in the sobriety of the style; in the

portraits of the women who made Shelley’s life happy or miserable; and

in the brilliant contrast that the author has drawn between his hero

and Lord Byron. The portrait of the latter, though sketchy, has such

emphasis on the shading that the picture is complete and arresting.

_Ariel_ is not the most typical example of fictional biography, for

though it is an account of Shelley’s life it is so faithful as to leave

little room for imagination. Were it not told adroitly and gracefully,

it would be no more picturesque than a record kept on index-cards.

It creates a strange contrast with _The Divine Lady_, a biography

of Lady Hamilton, true, but stamped with the hall-mark of fiction.

E. Barrington (Mrs. or Miss) had the most romanesque subject at her

disposal when she undertook to popularise the figure of Emma Hamilton,

the Emma of Nelson, whose beauty, grace, talent and intelligence kept

Europe astir for the better part of the late eighteenth century. She

deviated from the strict truth in several instances, but it was to

improve on the truth, and to give to her novel the epic quality that

Lady Hamilton’s biographies had not heretofore displayed. _The Divine

Lady_ is more closely allied to fiction than to history, and since the

author has not only great narrative power and an exquisite style, but

the qualities that permitted Théophile Gautier to make _Mademoiselle de

Maupin_ a masterpiece, and genuine capacity for feeling and emotion,

she presents Lady Hamilton in all her “divinity” with passionate need

of admiration and achievement. Lord Nelson is likewise depicted with

a sure hand. His reputation will suffer from the delineation, for

in addition to the way he treated his wife, there was other conduct

inconsistent with unqualified esteem. His _naïveté_ was the seal of his

doom, and it is allowed to no one to condemn a passion such as that

which united Lady Hamilton and Nelson. Those who have not known it

are not competent to judge--and those who have can find apologies and

excuses for it.

Lady Hamilton’s career was Napoleonic in its display, and, all

proportions guarded, it followed the same cycle. Obscure birth, great

qualities of mind (and in her case of body), rapid and miraculous

ascent to high power and reputation followed by an increase of

appetites and ambitions which blurred the straight path and made both

her and Nelson want more than any human being can stand, a slow but

fatal lowering of their stars, then hatred and scorn of the world, and

finally, for her, death obscure even as birth. In a few years, Emma had

run the gamut of all the ambitions and all the tortures; she had known

the greatest ecstasies of love and happiness and the lowest and

most degrading debauches; she had dispensed her favours and received

praises; she had scrubbed kitchens and been worshipped by Queens and

Kings; she had allowed a boor to make a public exhibition of her

charms, and she had sneered at the homage of a monarch.

[Illustration: LADY HAMILTON AS CIRCE]

_From “The Divine Lady,” by E. Barrington

Courtesy of Dodd, Mead & Co._

E. Barrington has made Lady Hamilton come to life once more in the

pages of her novel; she has caught her charm and her personality,

understood her perfections and vices, and she has succeeded even in

so grading her praise and disparagement that the reader is constantly

aware of the scullery-maid masquerading as ambassadress, and of the

demi-goddess hidden in the bosom of the protected _fille de joie_.

Her real place was with the lowly, and she was never more at home

than when she could shed her acquired English and her elegant manners

and indulge in the language and activities that she had loved in her

youth. E. Barrington has made all this clear, and she has given each

startling contradiction in the make-up of the Divine Lady its proper

emphasis--with the result that we wonder at such whims of nature, at

such diversity of characteristics in the same person, without ever

doubting the veracity of the author. It seems scarcely plausible

that Lady Hamilton should have been as adaptable and sensitive to

environment as she appears to have been--that she should have loved

Greville with the loyalty and patient submission which she displayed,

that she should have been so faithful and loving to Lord Hamilton

until she met Nelson, and that she should have felt for the latter the

irresistible passion which was the cause of her ruin. We marvel at the

union of talents that occurred in her; the aristocracy of her singing

voice, the vulgarity of her speaking voice, her mastery of wild horses

and her inborn gift for the terpsichorean arts, her tact and diplomacy,

and all the qualities which made her at the same time a divine lady and

a prostitute.

Her most extraordinary gift was her power to feel the rôle she had to

play in order to win hearts; and the diversity of her accomplishments

made such conquest easy for her. She won hearts, and she lost hearts,

but when we turn the last pages of the book, we have only admiration

for the Lady who inspired Nelson, and carried the renown of her country

beyond its confines at a time when international affairs were nearly as

muddled as they are a hundred years after her death.

_The Divine Lady_ is the kind of biography which makes one care more

for fiction--and the sort of fiction which makes one wonder why

novelists do not write more about historical characters whose lives and

personalities often surpass anything that imagination could dictate.

* * * * *

Miss Marjorie Strachey has written the latest word in the line of

fictional biography: _The Nightingale; A Life of Chopin_. She has

blended the facts of his life with the romance of fiction. By a series

of sketches, of fugitive evocations, she has added to the permanency of

Chopin as a man, and especially as an artist. She has made his genius

permeate his actions, and she has endowed him with the dream-qualities

of poetry and the realised qualities of practical life. Chopin is no

longer an unapproachable genius; he is life itself seen through the

veil of romance.

Miss Strachey has not done for her hero what E. Barrington did for

Lady Hamilton; she has not called attention to his “amours,” not even

the one with George Sand; her task lay, not in giving us the emotional

understanding of the musician, but in creating a true portrait

of him. This she did by interweaving his correspondence with his

conversations; his friends with his surroundings. They all form part

of the background on which he shines all the more brilliantly that it

is never exaggerated, and his life was enough of a romance to impart

to the biography its qualities of ethereal dream without addition or

distortion of facts on the part of the biographer.

_The Nightingale_ is more to be praised for what it does not say than

for what it says. It shows restraint, dignity and poise, which are the

accompaniment necessary to a biography of Chopin.

XV

MISCELLANEOUS

EVERYWHERE, THE MEMOIRS OF AN EXPLORER,

by _A. Henry Savage Landor_.

WHAT THE BUTLER WINKED AT, by _Eric Horne_.

The title of this book should be _Everywhere, Everything, Everybody_,

by I. K. It-All. When Mr. Landor was two years old, he fell through the

air twenty feet and landed on his head. His head swelled, and later he

had epileptoid attacks. The latter forsook him, the former remained. If

one were to estimate him from his last book, one would have to rate him

the vainest author in the world, the world which still numbers Mr. Bok

and Mr. Ford Madox Ford.

Explorer, painter, lecturer, inventor, writer--and supreme in all!

There can be no doubt about it; he says it and calls witnesses from

kings to savages, from queens to chorus girls, to prove it. Garibaldi

caressed him, Marchand of Fashoda embraced him, Wilbur Wright envied

and feared him, d’Annunzio acknowledged that his book on Tibet inspired

_Piu Che l’Amore_, the Cuirassiers of Victor Emmanuel III presented

arms when he went to call on the King, Pope Pius IX said to him: “You

are my beloved son”--and we have no doubt that he was very proud of

him--Roosevelt shouted “Thank God” when he saw him in the reception

room of the White House, and Maude Adams confided to him her great

ambition, which was, “like all American visitors, to be taken to lunch

at the Cheshire Cheese.” There need be no further curiosity about the

retirement from the stage of this gifted actress at the height of her

career; her great ambition was realised. All London worth knowing went

to see Landor’s paintings and stayed to praise them; he was the first

man to enter Pekin in the Boxer outbreak and the last messenger to get

through Antwerp in the Great War; and he alone knows all the secrets of

Tibet and its monasteries. He is strong and brave. He walked a Scotch

gillie “who passed as the greatest walker in the world” off his legs,

while his own remained so fit that later he was able to dangle them

over a precipice six thousand five hundred feet high. In his spare

moments from painting, exploring, inventing, and orienting, he gave

lessons in courage to the lions in Africa. He is the man who has “run

all possible risks from nature and human beings,” and his motto has

ever been “Death or no death, we plunge once more into the unknown.”

Once only this admirable Crichton was stumped, and the experience

shows how easy it is to trip a god when he is off guard. Once the

house in which he was sleeping in London took fire. He was clad in his

blue kimono which bore three huge white fishes on its surface. The

temperature was twelve degrees below zero and the icy winds did blow.

He watched the efforts of the fire-fighters “with the utmost concern

and in attempting to keep the kimono well round me, as there were

ladies present, the longitudinal seam behind, which had deteriorated

in the laundry, suddenly split from head to foot. This compelled

me to remain with my back against a wall until it would please the

conflagration to stop.” A wholly unnecessary tarry or turn on the part

of Mr. Landor. There probably is not a lady in his native land, or yet

even in the whole world, who would not admire him from the soles of his

feet to the top of his head.

Mr. A. H. Savage Landor is a modest violet and the various photographs

of himself which adorn his book testify it. But the world is in his

debt; he discovered General Pershing. When we erect a national monument

to our great General, it is to be hoped that we shall not neglect his

discoverer. In the meantime he is handed the immodesty medal.

* * * * *

The refrain of a song popular a few years ago was “Everybody’s doing

it....” Were it sung to-day, “it” would mean writing biography. It is

a good sign. The more we learn about others, the less repulsive is

our thought, the less enigmatic our conduct. We should particularly

encourage those who see us full-face and at short range, like valets,

maids, nurses, secretaries, doctors, to write about us. M. Brousson

throws more light on Anatole France’s personality than everything that

has been written about him.

If _What the Butler Winked At_ was not written by a butler, the author

had butler ancestors. Eric Horne does what he set out to do and he

states his thesis clearly in the first sentence:

“Now that old England is cracking up, as far as

the Nobility is concerned, who are selling their

estates, castles and large houses, which are being

turned into schools, museums, hospitals, homes for

weak-minded--things entirely different from what they

were built for--it seems a pity that the old usages and

traditions of gentlemen’s service should die with the old

places, where so many high jinks and junketings have been

carried on in the old days, now gone for ever.”

He gives a picture of the “gentry” that is of real value. But the

sentence quoted is more than sufficient cause for digression. It is

a marvel. Who but a butler could be so ample and so involved. It is

a fair sample of the book in many ways. The man can’t write any more

than a babbling child, but he does it all so unconsciously and yet so

purposefully that he arrives somehow. He gets things said--plenty of

them, and that is more than many professional writers do.

His descriptions of the life he knows are real, but more real than

anything else is Eric Horne. He does not try to “reveal himself,” but

his book is a genuine self-revelation--or perhaps a dead give-away.

Probably this man knows more of the form of living than most Americans

dream of--no slight slip in etiquette would have evaded his trained

eye. And yet if there is such a thing as a “middle class” mind, he has

it. Nothing could have made him equal to an exalted position in the

world. Not that he had not brains; he had, and real executive ability,

but it was the texture of his thinking which marked him for his job.

You can’t make chiffon from a meal sack.

Eric Horne was probably what generations of service and of strong class

distinction made him. He was cast in a butler mould. No one thought of

him in any other way. He himself did not aspire very high or long. The

mould was too confining to permit of much moving around. In a thousand

ways the quality of his mind is revealed. His jokes are cheap and flat

and obvious. They are decidedly “back door” humour. He has absolutely

no continuity of thought. He lived between door bells, telephones,

electric buzzers. He thinks that way--jumps all over the place. He

has no sense of getting to the point; he has to pack his master’s

dress clothes first and instruct the under footman. The book shows a

continuous dissatisfaction with the manner of living that the “gentry”

imposed upon their servitors. At the same time, it displays a scorn

of the modern democracy of England. The butler can not think through

his problem or even at it. He knows he does not like them as they

are, but can not reconcile himself to a change. It is all curiously

contradictory, like the thinking of a child.

Yet the Butler is no child. He has a kind of precocious astuteness,

all out of harmony with the general fibre of his mind. He is keen and

clever at times in his writing, though one wonders if he knows it. His

descriptions are enviable. This about a fellow butler: “A ‛mongrel’

I called him. We had to be very careful not to let him see or hear

anything we did not wish to go farther. He put me in mind of a fellow

behind a draper’s counter who measures out yards of elastic.” This last

sentence is as vivid as Sherwood Anderson, only Anderson would have

done it with conscious art; with Eric Horne it was spontaneous.

The book is valuable as a revelation of an individual, but more

valuable as the show-up of an aspect of society largely neglected.

It is like seeing the reverse side of the life that Wells, or even

Galsworthy, writes of. The novel begins; the butler is bringing in the

electric toaster. The mistress enters in an elaborate breakfast costume

and a “pet.” But instead of remaining in her presence, you follow the

butler into the pantry. That is new, and not altogether pleasant. It

is cramped back there. Beds are “let down” in the pantry and there is

not too much freshness about the atmosphere. The cook quarrels with

the housekeeper; the housekeeper spies on the maids. The butler lords

it over the footmen; the footmen cuff the grooms. But they like each

other. They have their dinners and dances where social barriers are

even more strict than among the “gentry.” Living is good--wine is

plenty--if you have the keys.

Life here is quite like that on the other side of the picture, save

that you have no subtleties, no nerves, no intrigues. Everything is out

in the open, static, with a fist fight or so. At the same time there is

a certain style to it. Things must be done properly. The silver is put

in order--if you have to blister your hands--not because you are afraid

of “the sack,” but because of respect for things as they should be and

for the traditions of the house. There is a curious infiltration of

champagne somewhat mixed with dishwater.

As to the pictures of the “gentry,” they are real, and at times

touching. But they have been done before. We know the “gentry” better

than we do their servants. The butler has, until Eric Horne spoke,

been a sphinx to the world at large, so much so that one has been many

times tempted to punch him to see if he is real. He _is_, and once

having broken the traditional silence there is no stopping him. Words

fall over themselves in their haste to get written. This reminds him

of that, which has no connection with what came before it or what is

to follow. The butler is avenged! He has said his say. Let the gentry

writhe if they will, or smile if they can. The butler takes a long

breath--his first--he pops the gold buttons off his braided waistcoat.

Let them roll!

XVI

THE LADIES

MADAMA RÉCAMIER ET SES AMIS, by _Edouard Herriot_.

MY PORTION, by _Rebekah Kohut_.

NOON, by _Kathleen Norris_.

A WOMAN OF FIFTY, by _Rheta Childe Dorr_.

THE MOST FAMOUS BEAUTY OF CHINA, YANG KUEI-FEI,

by _Shu-Chiung_.

Few periods of French History have tempted the pens of biographers and

historians more than that of the Directoire. It was then that political

and literary passions clashed and in the effort to reconcile and unite

them, expression of ideas was encouraged; _salons_ were formed where

the craft of literature, art and statesmanship could be discussed;

and freedom of speech ceased to be a myth. Society was no longer

composed of the exclusive aristocracy; personal merit, intelligence

and wit were now the passports for the man--and charm, vivacity,

culture and kindness for the woman. All of them strove to be numbered

among the élite of the fastidious _salons_. Those who succeeded have

their names permanently written in the annals of the period. Many of

them contributed enormously to the development and dissemination of

literature among the upper middle class in France, and their influence

is still felt among critics and writers. Only two generations separate

us from them, and if Madame Récamier, Madame de Staël and Benjamin

Constant seem like figures of another world, remote and dimmed, their

younger contemporaries like Sainte-Beuve and Napoléon III belong to

modern times. It is not the distance of the Directoire that makes it

part of historical tradition; it is the extraordinary change that

has taken place in manners, in customs and in society, since then.

[Illustration: Mme. RÉCAMIER]

Of all the names that come to mind when the time of the Directoire

and the years following it are mentioned, none carries so much charm,

mystery, fascination and meaning as that of Juliette Récamier. She

personifies the early nineteenth century and as years go by motives

become clearer, and understanding easier; as the vista of time improves

judgment, biographers of Madame Récamier and her circle add to our

knowledge and to our appreciation of the period.

The latest of these is Edouard Herriot, recently Prime Minister of

France, a man of classical education, who attaches much importance

to culture and who has always shown interest in literature. _Madame

Récamier and Her Friends_ testifies to his quality. The mere mention

of her name suggests a world of wit, of beauty, of romance and of

achievement. M. Herriot has neglected none of the facets of her charm.

Indeed he dwells upon them at length; yet he gives to the story of her

life more significance than a mere record of herself; it reveals the

world of the early nineteenth century, and it is through this world

that we contemplate and admire his heroine.

As a study of character, M. Herriot’s attempt is not very successful.

He has failed to make live one of the most living creatures of history;

he has set up a statue which no Pygmalion could call to womanhood;

he has modelled the effigy of a woman who remains cold and lifeless

despite ample evidence of swarming life within. His biography is

neither exclusively descriptive nor analytical. He has followed

narrative order, and arranged his facts chronologically, but when it

is necessary to the understanding of the heroine, he does not hesitate

to anticipate actual events or to pass judgment on later actions.

Obviously M. Herriot’s effort was to make Madame Récamier part of a

whole; her friends, especially toward the latter part of the book, take

the floor constantly and leave her out of our sight and away from our

thought. If the author had succeeded in permeating his studies of her

followers with her influence; if he had left her enough power to be

felt throughout the book, whether or not he was dealing with Madame

Récamier herself, his study would have been more successful. But, not

himself inspired by her charm, viewing the whole period cold-bloodedly

and critically, he has been unable to convey Madame Récamier to his

readers. The advantage of such analytical examination is that it

facilitates judgment.

The great merit of M. Herriot’s book is its judiciality; he often

supports his own conclusions by those of others, qualified and sincere.

Indeed, this is one of M. Herriot’s most distinguishing traits.

Whenever opinions differ, when historians and biographers do not agree,

and when interpretation depends upon personal reactions, the author

effaces himself and allows events and facts to speak for themselves.

The final word has not yet been said of the controversies that were

waged in France after Madame Récamier first dazzled _le monde_, and

M. Herriot does not propose to say it. He has set up the period of

the Révolution, of the Directoire, the tentative monarchy, the Empire

and second monarchy clearly, concisely, specifically. His style is

substantial, unadorned and fluent.

A question of the greatest controversy has always been the

non-conjugality of the Récamiers. M. Herriot devotes a fifth of his

book to discussion of the reasons that have been suggested to explain

it. He calls in physicians and psychologists to bear witness and pass

judgment; he keeps his ears opened to gossip and to malicious chatter;

and he keeps an eye out for any indiscretion behind the curtains of

the _alcôve_, news of which might have trickled through the walls of

time. Discussions of personal relations between husband and wife,

post-mortem investigations and attempts at unveiling the mysteries that

were savagely guarded in life by their participants are in doubtful

taste. M. Herriot seems to uphold the thesis that Madame Récamier was

her husband’s daughter--an opinion which is defendable since he defends

it--but which is too monstrous to be advanced without irrefutable

proofs. The idea does not seem to repel him, and he finds explanations

and apologies for it. The few documents which are left that tell us how

they lived under the same roof he interprets as he chooses. Yet, there

is no suggestion of scandal; he is no bearer of oil to throw upon the

smouldering embers of her marital fire; he gives the results of his

efforts to elicit testimony, to obtain evidence and to submit it to

the world’s jury. All that can be said of the situation which existed

between Récamier and his wife was that, after all, it was their affair.

The fact that they had no conjugal relation may have been due to her

physical condition, or to his, or the result of mutual agreement.

The only right the biographer would have had to dwell at length on

it would be if it had had such bearing on the life of his heroine

that it might be taken as the fulcrum of her reactions and behaviour.

It did not, in Madame Récamier’s case, despite M. Herriot’s comment

that, “perhaps from this medley of abnormal circumstances in which she

had been placed, there remained in her suspicion, a leaning toward

discouragement, fear of love, a sort of resigned serenity, and the

first germ of the _coquetterie_ for which she was so often reproached

by those who did not understand its causes.”

She was no more a coquette than any woman would have been in her

position. She was not a beauty, but her charm and her finesse were such

as to conquer hearts more effectively than any Juno might have done.

She had intellectual powers which raised her far above her sex together

with an unusual capacity for fidelity, tenderness and sympathy; she

hesitated to wound her friends or to refuse them anything in her power

and thus she gave permanency to the affection her charm engendered.

She was wealthy, sought after and beloved; but her chief asset was

goodness. Her admirers and friends, indeed all she admitted to her

heart, were unanimous in praising her goodness, her tireless devotion

to their pleasures, her constant preoccupation with their pains.

M. Herriot is at his best when he discusses Madame de Staël’s influence

over her young friend Juliette. The ex-Premier is by nature and

experience better fitted to understand Madame de Staël than Madame

Récamier. Her political ideas were akin to his; her mind had many

masculine traits, her culture was deep; her talent admitted; her

influence sought. She supplies most of the background of the book, and

many of the anecdotes with which fortunately the book is sparingly

padded.

Now and then M. Herriot paints himself in the picture and all too

rarely expresses his ideas of life and human nature. We like to be

assured that “Women who are pretty and who can not but know it are

neither flighty nor fanciful; they are always self-contained; a

prudent reserve accompanies them even in their weaknesses, which are

never unconscious.” When he defends Madame Récamier against possible

criticisms, he admits that nowhere in her history is there anything

that could be interpreted as unworthy of her situation, or that would

justify her reputation as a woman given to intrigue. It can not be

denied that she opposed at first to the attacks of her admirers a

subtle and world-wise fencing; “but men have perhaps an unjustified

tendency to label ‛_coquetterie_’ all that which, in a woman, obstacles

their pride, or curbs realisation of their desires.”

Characterisations of the heroine are few, and it is obvious that her

latest biographer has not sought to make her stand out particularly

among her contemporaries. But she does, despite all; she was the

shining light around which all the moths swarmed, dazzled by its

brilliancy. Most of the characterisations are quotations from

contemporary authors, particularly Benjamin Constant, who portrayed

a side of Juliette which not all her admirers knew. Speaking of her

conduct toward Lucien Bonaparte, he writes, “She was disturbed by the

unhappiness she created, angry at her own disturbance, reviving hope

unconsciously by the sole aid of her pity, and destroying it by her

carelessness as soon as she had appeased the suffering that her passing

pity had engendered.” Chateaubriand felt the truth here expressed and

made use of most of Benjamin Constant’s material regarding Madame

Récamier, but passed over this particular characterisation of the woman

he had loved. Sainte-Beuve, far-sighted as he was and gifted with

vision, expressed the same idea: “Lucien loves; he is not spurned, yet

he will never be accepted. There is the nuance. It will be the same

with all the men who will rush to her, and with all those that will

follow.... She would have liked to remain in _April_, always.”

M. Herriot first modelled his heroine and after pedestalling her,

proceeded to walk around his statue and survey it. He remodelled here,

shortened there, smoothed this surface and softened that line. He

treated it as photographers treat their plates. By giving it ample

dimension, he has called attention more to the large lines than to

the details. When he finished it he set it up in a vast plaza. This

bigness of scope enabled him to group about her, as a rich background,

the figures of those who were attached to her chariot with ribands

of love and of admiration. The list of them is long; they were all

intellectuals. Madame Récamier, though kind to every one, never

attracted fools or bores, and her salon, which was the _chambre

d’accouchée_ of romantic literature, never sheltered a shallow mind, a

cold heart or an uninteresting soul.

Only once was Juliette really so consumed with love that she hoped a

divorce would free her--to marry Prince Augustus. But there again her

compassionate heart took pity on a husband who had lost his fortune

and who, despite many gallant adventures, harboured tender feelings

for her. Since she could not have Prince Augustus, she would have no

one; and from the episode of Benjamin Constant and of Ballanche, whose

love was most pathetic and devoted, to that of Chateaubriand, we see

Madame Récamier, anxious to please, glad to be able to do it, avid of

admiration which was directed to her mind more than to her body, and

willing to make any sacrifice to insure the success of a friend, the

accomplishment of a plan, the perpetuation of an idea.

The imprisonment of Madame Récamier, during the few days when she was

suspected of plotting against the safety of the State, recalls other

names whose possessors did not escape as gracefully as she did, but

M. Herriot does not allow himself to be distracted. He is telling the

story of Madame Récamier and her friends, and he is not hypnotised by

the high spots of the tragedy. Neither discursive nor willing to pass

judgment, he is the impartial historian, the unprejudiced biographer.

That he admires and loves Madame Récamier there can be no doubt, but

that is unavoidable, and his love is neither blind nor impetuous; it is

a reasoned love, but it is not so engrossing as to exclude criticism

and interpretation.

The merit of _Madame Récamier and Her Friends_ is founded in the

soundness of its conception and the brevity of the narrative. There

is repetition neither of words nor of effects. Few expressions could

be deleted without taking something from the story. It neither offers

suggestions nor makes startling discoveries regarding Madame Récamier.

To write of Madame Récamier in her own spirit and in that of her time

(which she was so influential in moulding) requires more graciousness

than M. Herriot gives; it needs less matter-of-fact handling, and it

should be softened by a great deal of poetry. Others have so described

her and the pictures that they made reveal her idealistically. M.

Herriot deals more with the matter than with the spirit, and what his

biography lacks in poetry it makes up in reality.

The end of the book, which tells in detail of the death of

Chateaubriand, is well rendered. Though filled with emotion, it does

not overflow. Madame Récamier had moved into his apartment that she

might be near him at the end. Blind and old, she showed herself equal

to the demand that was made on her strength and courage; “she was

constantly at the bedside of the dying man who seemed to be dragged for

some time out of his drowsiness by the beautiful days of June. He was

always silent. He could speak no longer; Madame Récamier could see no

longer.”

On the day of his death, “every time Madame Récamier, overwhelmed with

sadness, left the room, he followed her with his eyes, without calling

to her, but with a look of anguish in which was painted the fear of

never seeing her again. She was there at the last minute.”

Her death is related with the same simplicity, but the narrative has a

touch of the grandiose. M. Herriot was wisely counselled to undertake

the biography of Madame Récamier, and his wisdom was to hear and obey.

* * * * *

Rebekah Kohut, a Hungarian Jewess who has lived all her life in America

and who has been closely identified with the Jewish intelligentsia

of this country, believes that she has a story to tell, and that

she should chronicle the emergence of the American Jewess into the

communal life of the country. She has a story; it is an interesting

one and she tells it convincingly. _My Portion_ is the expression of a

personality that has had firm contacts with varied currents of a full

and active life. The daughter of a rabbi of liberal views and the wife

of another, a distinguished scholar, Mrs. Kohut is widely known to her

co-religionists as a woman of heart and determination.

Her story is not a conscious attempt to analyse, dissect, propound,

or in any way enlarge upon the “inner workings” of the intellectual

and emotional elements that go to make the individual. A sentence at

the end of the book conveys the spirit of the writing: “As I turn

the leaves of the past, I find myself growing as interested as though

some one in a book, _not myself_, were the active participant.”

Marie Bashkirtseff would hardly have said that. She would have been

interested because it _was_ herself. Mrs. Dorr would not have said

it, and her reason would have been much the same, though she would

have expressed it differently. Mrs. Kohut’s book is a self-forgetting

autobiography.

Her account of her husband’s life is also the revelation of a

personality. This man lives before us, both he and his work, the _Aruch

Completum_. Of this Mrs. Kohut writes:

“... when I looked forward to the problems of married

life, I counted my future charges as a husband and eight

children. Soon I learned I should have counted them as a

husband, the _Aruch Completum_, and eight other children.

The oldest daughter called the Aruch her oldest brother,

and pretended to be jealous of it. Certainly it received

all the consideration and preference of the traditional

first-born. The rest of us at certain times felt our

secondary importance.”

And Mrs. Kohut was born amid the exactions of scholarship--this was no

amateur’s point of view!

In her account of her husband’s life and work the writer reveals

herself no less than in the parts more directly autobiographical. Here

lay her deepest concerns and interests. As he came first during the

years of her marriage, so he is the most prominent feature of her book.

_My Portion_ is so sincere, straightforward, and genuine that one is

sure the glimpses one gets beneath the surface are true ones. A strong,

active personality pervades every page. You get the revelation, not by

a concentrated, but rather by a pleasantly diffused, light. Mrs. Kohut

sums herself up very clearly in her last sentence:

“For a moment, I stop there and say: ‛That’s all. That

has been my portion.’ But no, life holds even more, and

in that more it has been my portion to share, too. Life,

above all, is a going on, a never resting. And I see

myself always going on, never pausing in the present,

always restless, always straining forward for something

that has not been but should be.”

Is such a book of service to mankind? Decidedly yes. To the

unprejudiced it is a valuable picture of an ever-interesting people.

To the prejudiced it can not fail to bring a feeling of respect by its

dignity and direct dealing. Mrs. Kohut’s early struggle (was it worth

while to be a Jew, frankly and openly, to face social ostracism and

hatred) and her very definite stand can not fail to awaken admiration.

She was born a Jewess, and took her place in the world as a power for

the Jews. She did it very largely for religious reasons. The religious

genius of her people was too strong, too vital, to be abandoned,

whatever the cost. She gives an insight into the religious aspirations

of such men as her father and her husband that is almost Biblical in

its qualities.

Her picture of the family life of the finest Jewish types is eminently

worth while, did the book contain nothing else. They worked for and

with one another despite hardships and varied fates. The tribe still

feels its call and its power in the response to that call. All through

the book one is made to feel a spirit which must have come out very

clearly in one of Mrs. Kohut’s talks. The quotation is long, but it

seems to strike the keynote of the book:

“Later I was asked to address the pupils of the

fashionable and exclusive Ely School. I could see that

these lovely girl pupils giggled when I was presented as

a Jewess. I was determined to have my revenge, and in my

talk made them so homesick that they wept. Then I told

them part of Heine’s _Princess Sabbath_ and the _Rabbi of

Bacharach_, in which the ghetto Jew carries the burden

typical of his race through the ages. On Sabbath eve,

returning from the synagogue and entering his little

home, he finds the table set with snowy cloth and lighted

candles and the Sabbath bread, and becomes transformed,

not only in figure, but in face. The bowed shoulders

straighten, light enters his eyes. Is he not then a

Prince of Israel, and is not his home a palace? The girls

giggled no more at the mention of ‛Jew’.”

What Mrs. Kohut did for those pupils she will do for her readers: give

them a better understanding of the Jews and therefore greater respect.

And aside from the question of race, the book is of real value because

of the wholesome attitude toward life that it constantly presents. It

is an oasis amid the “glowing sands” of erotic literature, and affected

scribbling where to-day we wander.

* * * * *

Of all the persons who have succeeded in attaining fame, wealth and

happiness and who remember with kindliness their years of struggle,

obscurity, poverty and misery, few harbour such tenderness in their

hearts for their hard years of labour as Kathleen Norris shows in

_Noon_, a little autobiographical sketch. It might as well be the

story of all those she has loved and who have contributed to her

self-fulfilment. They are numerous and exceptional--are they perhaps

embellished and polished by love? Have they perhaps taken on a new

aspect with the help of years? Were they really as worthy of admiration

and as near perfection as Kathleen Norris makes them? We have no way of

knowing, but we can make no mistake about one thing: the mother-theme

is the predominant idea throughout the book. It is constantly repeated

with different nuances and cadenzas, but it throbs with life and

reality. The picture Kathleen Norris draws of her own youth reminds the

reader of Miss Louisa Alcott’s _Little Women_. The atmosphere of the

household is not soon forgotten.

They, Mrs. Norris and her husband, suffered the inevitable torments

of young people who come to New York, with twenty-five dollars a week

for all support, and who expect to take the city by storm and climb to

the top of the literary ladder. The way they did it was made easy and

beautiful through love, understanding, good friends, a little planning,

much effort and mutual concessions. Luck was not always with them,

but Kathleen Norris had the good heart not to be discouraged, and she

refused to believe that success was not a natural sequence of work. She

had much to be thankful for, and she knew it.

_Noon_ may not display either genius or much profundity, but it is like

a ray of sunshine; it brightens up a life that too many are tempted to

find futile and unjust and it leaves no room for pessimism.

* * * * *

Mrs. Dorr’s _A Woman of Fifty_ is about as introspective as an account

of a very active king in a chess game might be. It is, in truth, an

account of feminism poured into an autobiographical mould by a clever

reader of the trend of the day toward that form of literature. There

is much in it that is personal, no doubt, but certainly the motive is

in the direction of a “movement” rather than toward an analysis of

individual reactions to that movement. If Mrs. Dorr’s purpose had been

unmixed self-revelation, I have the feeling she would have done it in

a more up-to-the-moment manner; in the hair-splitting, soul-dissecting

fashion of the hour.

As biography, I don’t think it holds water. As a summing up of the

struggle of women toward recognition as entities, it is vigorous,

rather dashing, well put together with a perception of essentials, and

valuable as a record.

The writer becomes more likeable as the book progresses, but the

reader is satisfied that fate has not made his and her paths cross.

At times, he wishes she would either get out of the picture or add

something vital to it. She has made a “go,” but at the same time, in

trying to write a double header, a so-called personal narrative with

a purpose that is far from personal, she has now and then failed; the

individual gets in the way of the subject up for discussion--feminism.

But the book is readable and this is a quality of which not all

biographies can boast.

* * * * *

Chinese ladies have had their day in literature. They have served the

same purpose as European women in building or destroying Empires when

such existed. Reading about them, we do not anticipate that we shall

deepen our knowledge of personality, but we know that we shall be

convinced anew of the potency of pulchritude; of the inconstancy of man.

Yang Kuei-Fei, who lived in the eighth century, was one of a quartette

of famous beauties whose tradition is still alive in the Celestial

Empire; one was known for her beauty, another for her patriotism; a

third for her virtue, but Yang Kuei-Fei, who was the most beautiful of

all, is known to fame for her artfulness. She held, in her lily-white

hand, the fate of the Empire, and, aided by her beauty and her

ambition, she climbed to the high position of Emperor’s favourite

concubine. That she was not successful in steering the ship of state

into a safe harbour may have been partly due to woman’s alleged and

accepted incapacity in political matters--but the story of her life as

told by Mrs. Shu-Chiung shows plainly that it was largely due to her

falling in love with a young Tartar. The Emperor loved her--and his

love was of the sort that blinds its victims so completely as to make

them absurdly credulous--but he was unable to resist the charm of his

former favourite and of the sister of Yang Kuei-Fei. Yang Kuei-Fei

was in love with the Emperor, because he was Emperor, and incapable

of withstanding the ardent love of the Tartar. Orgies and debauches

culminated in tragedy, downfall and death--but as in all Chinese

stories there must be a tenuous element of dream, of etherealness, of

mysticalness--and it relieves the horror of the story and its pathos.

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NOON

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SELECTIONS FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT AND

HENRY CABOT LODGE

_Charles Scribner’s Sons_

BRIGHAM YOUNG

M. R. Werner. _Harcourt, Brace and Company_

WOODROW WILSON

William Allen White. _Houghton Mifflin Company_

JOHN KEATS

Sidney Colvin. _Charles Scribner’s Sons_

EDGAR A. POE

John W. Robertson. _G. P. Putnam’s Sons._

THE LIFE OF OLIVE SCHREINER

S. C. Cronwright-Schreiner. _Little, Brown & Company_

THE LETTERS OF OLIVE SCHREINER

Edited by S. C. Cronwright-Schreiner. _Little, Brown & Company_

THE LIFE OF ALICE FREEMAN PALMER

George Herbert Palmer. _Houghton Mifflin Company_

THE LIFE OF PASTEUR

René Valléry-Radot, trans. by Mrs. R. L. Devonshire. _Doubleday,

Page & Company_

OUT OF THE PAST

Margaret Symonds. _Charles Scribner’s Sons_

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Lord Charnwood. _Henry Holt and Company_

THE PORTRAIT OF ZÉLIDE

Geoffrey Scott. _Charles Scribner’s Sons_

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS

Horatio F. Brown. _Smith, Elder & Co._

LA VIE AMOUREUSE DE L’IMPÉRATRICE JOSÉPHINE

Gérard d’Houville. _Flammarion, Paris_

LA VIE AMOUREUSE DE MADAME DE POMPADOUR

Marcelle Tinayre. _Flammarion, Paris_

LA VIE AMOUREUSE DE FRANÇOIS-JOSEPH TALMA

André Antoine. _Flammarion, Paris_

LA VIE AMOUREUSE DE LOUIS XIV

Louis Bertrand. _Flammarion, Paris_

LA VIE AMOUREUSE DE CASANOVA

Maurice Rostand. _Flammarion, Paris_

LA VIE AMOUREUSE DE MARCELINE DESBORDES-VALMORE

Lucien Descaves. _Flammarion, Paris_

LIVES AND TIMES

Meade Minnigerode. _G. P. Putnam’s Sons_

WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQUIRE

George S. Hellman. _Alfred A. Knopf_

LETTERS FROM THEODORE ROOSEVELT TO ANNA ROOSEVELT COWLES

_Charles Scribner’s Sons_

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

Douglas Goldring. _Thomas Seltzer_

THE LIFE OF THOMAS HARDY

Ernest Brennecke, Jr. _Greenberg, Inc._

H. G. WELLS

Ivor Brown. _Henry Holt and Company_

BERNARD SHAW

Edward Shanks. _Henry Holt and Company_

IMPRESSIONS OF GREAT NATURALISTS

Henry Fairfield Osborn. _Charles Scribner’s Sons_

AMIEL’S JOURNAL

Translated by Mrs. Humphry Ward. _The Macmillan Company_

THE JOURNAL OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN

W. N. P. Barbellion. _Chatto & Windus, London_

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Edward Livingston Trudeau, M.D. _Doubleday, Page & Company_

THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

_Houghton Mifflin Company_

RECOLLECTIONS OF A HAPPY LIFE

Maurice Francis Egan. _George H. Doran Company_

A SON OF THE MIDDLE BORDER

Hamlin Garland. _The Macmillan Company_

EPISODES BEFORE THIRTY

Algernon Blackwood. _E. P. Dutton & Company_

THE LIFE OF GLADSTONE

John Morley. _The Macmillan Company_

MY LIFE

Richard Wagner. _Dodd, Mead & Company_

HECTOR BERLIOZ

_E. P. Dutton & Company_

THE IRON PUDDLER

J. J. Davis. _The Bobbs-Merrill Company_

FROM A PITMAN’S NOTE-BOOK

Roger Detaller. _Jonathan Cape_

MY LIFE FOR LABOR

Robert Smillie. _Mills & Boon_

THE MAN OF TO-MORROW

Iconoclast. _Thomas Seltzer_

SEVENTY YEARS OF LIFE AND LABOR

Samuel Gompers. _E. P. Dutton & Company_

FROM IMMIGRANT TO INVENTOR

Michael Pupin. _Charles Scribner’s Sons_

THE STORY OF MY LIFE

Sir Harry H. Johnston. _The Bobbs-Merrill Company_

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK RUTHERFORD

_George H. Doran Company_

FATHER AND SON

Edmund Gosse. _Charles Scribner’s Sons_

WILLARD STRAIGHT

Herbert Croly. _The Macmillan Company_

HENRY CABOT LODGE

William Lawrence. _Houghton Mifflin Company_

THE TRUE STORY OF WOODROW WILSON

David Lawrence. _George H. Doran Company_

THE ROYAL MARTYR, A NEW STUDY OF THE LIFE OF KING CHARLES I

Charles Wheeler Coit. _Selwyn & Blount, Ltd._

LIFE OF DISRAELI, EARL OF BEACONSFIELD

W. F. Monypenny and G. E. Buckle. _The Macmillan Company_

INDEX

Adams, Henry, 51, 268.

_Adventure of Living, The_, John St. Loe Strachey, 200.

_Agricola_, Tacitus, 17.

Alcott, Louisa, 326.

_A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu_, Marcel Proust, 50.

_Alexander the Great_, Quintus Curtius, 17.

_Alps and Sanctuaries_, Samuel Butler, 41.

_Ambassadors, The_, Henry James, 91.

_Americanisation of Edward Bok, The_, Edward W. Bok, 190.

Amiel, Henri Frederic, 47.

_Amiel’s Journal_, Mrs. Humphry Ward, 47.

_Anatole France à la Béchellerie_, Marcel Le Goff, 99, 106.

_Anatole France and His Circle_, Paul Gsell, 99, 105.

_Anatole France en Pantoufles_, Jean-Jacques Brousson, 105.

_Anatole France Himself_, Jean-Jacques Brousson, 99, 103.

_Anatole France, the Man, and His Work_, J. Lewis May, 99, 101.

_Ancestry of Abraham Lincoln, The_, Lea and Hutchinson, 162.

Anderson, Sherwood, 63.

Antoine, André, 32.

_Ariel_, André Maurois, 31, 300.

Arnold, Matthew, 108.

_Arrowsmith_, Sinclair Lewis, 59.

Arthur, Sir George, 179.

Asquith, Margot, 59.

Augustine, St., 57.

_Autobiography_, Mark Rutherford, 59.

_Autobiography of a Mind, The_, W. J. Dawson, 202, 206.

_Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin_, 58.

_Autobiography of Harriet Martineau_, 55.

_Autobiography of Samuel Gompers_, 59.

_Autumnal, The_, John Donne, 134.

Aymot, Jacques, 18.

Balfour, Graham, 142.

Barbellion, W. N. P., 46, 134.

Barrie, James, 235.

Barrington, E., 300. 302.

Barton, William E., 161, 242, 259.

Bashkirtseff, Marie, 47, 324.

Bazalgette, Léon, 63, 80.

Benson, Stella, 94.

Berlioz, Hector, 54.

_Bernard Shaw_, Edward Shanks, 40.

Bertrand, Louis, 32.

_Between the Old World and the New_, Miss M. P. Willocks, 39.

Bishop, Joseph B., 266, 274.

Blackwood, Algernon, 59.

Blake, William, 154.

Bok, Edward W., 188, 190, 255.

_Book of American Negro Poetry, The_, James Weldon Johnson, 220.

Bordeux, Jeanne, 225.

Boswell, James, 22, 25, 44.

Brennecke, Ernest, Jr., 38.

_Brigham Young_, M. R. Werner, 242, 251.

_British Poets_, Thomas Campbell, 136.

Brooks, Van Wyck, 63, 80, 89.

_Broom_, Alfred Kreymborg, 152.

Brousson, Jean-Jacques, 99, 103.

Brown, Horatio F., 28.

Brown, Ivor, 40.

Brown, John, 79.

Browne, Sir Thomas, 42.

Browning, Orville, 260.

Bruce, Harold, 147, 154.

Burke, Thomas, 99, 136.

_Burke_, Lord Morley, 29.

Butler, Samuel, 41.

Byron, Lord, 26.

Campbell, Thomas, 136.

Campbell, Mrs. Olwen, 27.

Carlyle, Thomas, 191.

Carnegie, Andrew, 51.

_Casanova_, Maurice Rostand, 32.

Cellini, Benvenuto, 28, 43.

_Chance_, Joseph Conrad, 125.

Channing, William Ellery, 87.

Charnwood, Lord, 24, 260, 265.

Chateaubriand, 114.

_Chita_, Lafcadio Hearn, 70.

Clémenceau, Georges, 188.

Cocteau, Jean, 152.

Cody, Sherwin, 147, 168.

Cohan, George, 225, 235.

Coit, Charles Wheeler, 27.

Coleridge, Hartley, 92.

_Confessions_, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 22, 47.

_Confessions_, Leo Tolstoi, 57.

_Confessions of St. Augustine_, 57, 134.

Conrad, Joseph, 94.

Corbett, James J., 291, 295.

Coulon, Maurice, 177.

Crane, Dr. Frank, 193, 202.

Crane, Stephen, 122.

_Cromwell_, Lord Morley, 29.

Cronwright-Schreiner, S. C., 19, 43.

Cushing, Harvey, 24, 277.

Damrosch, Walter, 213.

Darwin, Charles, 57.

Davis, J. J., 59.

Dawson, W. J., 202, 206.

Delahaye, Ernest, 177.

Descaves, Lucien, 32.

Detaller, Roger, 59.

Dibble, R. F., 291.

_Divine Lady, The_, E. Barrington, 31, 300, 302.

Donne, John, 129.

_Don Quixote_, Cervantes, 206.

Dorr, Rheta Childe, 314, 327.

_Early Life of Mark Rutherford_, 60.

_Edgar A. Poe, a Psychopathic Study_, Dr. John W. Robertson, 147, 170.

_Education of Henry Adams, The_, Henry Adams, 51.

Egan, Maurice Francis, 53.

_Eleonora Duse_, Jeanne Bordeux, 225.

_Eleonora Duse_, Edouard Schneider, 225.

_Elegies_, John Donne, 129.

_Episodes Before Thirty_, Algernon Blackwood, 59.

_Essay in Criticism_, Robert Lynd, 69.

_Essay on Shelley_, Francis Thompson, 127.

_Everywhere_, A. Henry Savage Landor, 59, 308.

_Far Away and Long Ago_, W. H. Hudson, 57.

_Father and Son_, Edmund Gosse, 59.

Fausset, Hugh l’Anson, 99, 125.

_Figure in the Carpet, The_, Henry James, 92.

Firkins, Oscar W., 63, 68.

Fitzgerald, Edward, 154.

_Footlights and Spotlights_, Otis Skinner, 225, 234.

Forbes-Robertson, Sir Johnston, 225, 233.

Ford, Ford Madox, 99, 120.

France, Anatole, 71, 92, 99, 169, 186.

Franklin, Benjamin, 58, 59.

_From a Pitman’s Note-Book_, Roger Detaller, 59.

_From Immigrant to Inventor_, Michael Pupin, 59.

Fuchs, Emil, 213, 222.

_Funeral Elegy, The_, John Donne, 132.

Galton, Francis, 59, 174.

Garland, Hamlin, 59.

Gaskell, Mrs., 30.

Gautier, Théophile, 302.

_Glorious Apollo_, E. Barrington, 27, 31.

_Golden Bowl, The_, Henry James, 91.

Goldring, Douglas, 39.

Gompers, Samuel, 59.

Gorky, Maxim, 115.

Gosse, Edmund, 59, 127.

Gourmont, Rémy de, 70, 108, 190.

Graham, Cunninghame, 120.

Grant, Ulysses S., 58.

Griswold, Rufus W., 173.

Gsell, Paul, 99, 105.

_Guermantes Way, The_, Marcel Proust, 50.

Hall, G. Stanley, 277, 285.

Hamilton, Lady, 302.

Haussonville, Count d’, 108.

Hawtrey, Charles, 225, 231.

Hazeltine, Mayo W., 190.

Hearn, Lafcadio, 69.

Hearn, Mrs. Lafcadio, 70.

Hecht, Ben, 63, 68.

Hedgcock, Dr. F. A., 39.

Hellman, George S., 37.

Henley, Wm. E., 141.

_Henry Cabot Lodge_, William Lawrence, 41.

_Henry Thoreau_, Léon Bazalgette, 63, 79.

Herbert, George, 134.

Herndon, 260.

Herriot, Edouard, 317.

_He Was a Man_, Rose Wilder Lane, 31, 301.

Holland, Josiah, 260.

Holt & Co., Henry, 40.

Horne, Eric, 308, 310.

Houville, Gérard d’, 32.

Howells, Wm. Dean, 73.

Hudson, W. H., 57.

Hueffer, Ford Madox, 91.

Hugo, Victor, 111.

Huxley, Thomas H., 58.

_Ibsen_, Janko Lavrin, 114.

_Illuminations, Les_, Arthur Rimbaud, 177.

_Illustrations to the Book of Job_, William Blake, 154.

_Impressions of Great Naturalists_, Henry Fairfield Osborn, 39.

_Innocents Abroad_, Mark Twain, 74.

_Iron Puddler, The_, J. J. Davis, 59.

_Irving Berlin_, Alexander Woollcott, 46, 213, 217.

Isman, Felix, 225, 239.

James, Henry, 88, 122.

_James Elroy Flecker_, Douglas Goldring, 39.

Jeritza, Maria, 213, 221.

_John Addington Symonds_, Horatio F. Brown, 28.

_John Donne_, Hugh l’Anson Fausset, 99, 125.

_John Keats_, Amy Lowell, 147, 160.

_John L. Sullivan_, R. F. Dibble, 291.

Johnson, James Weldon, 220.

Johnston, Sir Harry, 59.

Jones, Henry Festing, 120.

_Joseph Conrad: A Personal Remembrance_, Ford Madox Ford, 99, 120.

_Joseph Pulitzer, His Life and Work_, Don C. Seitz, 188, 196.

_Journal_, Marie Bashkirtseff, 47.

_Journal of a Disappointed Man_, The, W. N. P. Barbellion, 46.

_Journal of Amiel_, Mrs. Humphry Ward, 47.

_Journal of Discourses_, The, 252.

Joyce, James, 50, 63, 152.

_Joy of Living, The_, John St. Loe Strachey, 174.

Kaun, Alexander, 99, 114.

_Keats; A Study in Development_, Hugh l’Anson Fausset, 127.

Kohut, Rebekah, 315, 323.

_Kokoro_, Lafcadio Hearn, 70.

Krehbiel, Henry E., 69.

Kreymborg, Alfred, 147.

La Bruyère, 111.

_Lafcadio Hearn’s American Days_, Edward Larocque Tinker, 63, 70.

Lamennais, 114.

Landor, A. Henry Savage, 59, 308.

Lane, Rose Wilder, 31, 301.

La Rochefoucauld, 113.

Lavrin, Janko, 114.

Lawrence, David H., 242, 250.

Lawrence, William, 41.

Lea and Hutchinson, 162.

Lee, Robert E., 179.

Lee, Sir Sidney, 26, 46.

Le Goff, Marcel, 99, 106.

_Leonid Andreyev_, Alexander Kaun, 98, 115.

_Less Lonely_, Alfred Kreymborg, 152.

_Letters from Theodore Roosevelt to Anne Roosevelt Cowles_, 242, 275.

_Letters of an Unsuccessful Actor_, 225, 236.

_Letters of Lafcadio Hearn_, Mrs. Elizabeth Bisland Wetmore, 70.

_Letters of Olive Schreiner, The_,

Edited by S. C. Cronwright-Schreiner, 19, 43.

Lewis, Estella Anna, 175.

Lewis, Sinclair, 59, 158.

_Life and Confessions of a Psychologist_, G. Stanley Hall, 277, 285.

_Life and Letters_, Charles Darwin, 57.

_Life and Letters of John Donne_, Edmund Gosse, 127.

_Life and Letters of Macaulay_, Sir George Trevelyan, 26.

_Life of Abraham Lincoln, The_, William E. Barton, 161, 242, 259.

_Life of Abraham Lincoln_, Lord Charnwood, 24, 260.

_Life of Abraham Lincoln_, Herndon, 260.

_Life of Abraham Lincoln_, Josiah Holland, 260.

_Life of Abraham Lincoln_, Nicolay and Hay, 260.

_Life of Abraham Lincoln_, Ida M. Tarbell, 260.

_Life of Alice Freeman Palmer_, George Herbert Palmer, 19.

_Life of Charlotte Brontë_, Mrs. Gaskell, 30.

_Life of Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, The_, Monypenny and Buckle, 26.

_Life of Doctor Trudeau, The_, Dr. Edward L. Trudeau, 51.

_Life of Gladstone_, Lord Morley, 29.

_Life of Hector Berlioz_, Hector Berlioz, 54.

_Life of Jerome Cardan_, Henry Morley, 29, 278.

_Life of John Donne_, Izaak Walton, 22.

_Life of Joséphine_, Gérard d’Houville, 32.

_Life of Olive Schreiner, The_, S. C. Cronwright-Schreiner, 19.

_Life of Pasteur_, René Valléry-Radot, 19, 24, 278.

_Life of Richard Hooker_, Izaak Walton, 22.

_Life of Samuel Johnson_, James Boswell, 25, 44.

_Life of Shakespeare_, Sir Sidney Lee, 26.

_Life of Sir William Osler, The_, Harvey Cushing, 24, 277.

_Life of Stevenson_, Miss Masson, 142.

_Life of Thomas Hardy_, Ernest Brennecke, Jr., 38.

_Life of Victor Horsley_, Stephen Paget, 278.

_Life of Walter Scott_, John G. Lockhart, 25.

_Life of William White_, Agnes Repplier, 278.

_Life on the Mississippi_, Mark Twain, 74.

_Lima Beans_, Alfred Kreymborg, 151.

Lincoln, Abraham, 161, 242, 259.

_Little Angel, The_, Leonid Andreyev, 115.

_Little Women_, Louisa Alcott, 326.

_Lives and Times, Four Informal American Biographies_,

Meade Minnegerode, 35.

_Lives of Famous Men_, Plutarch, 17.

_Livre de Mon Ami, Le_, Anatole France, 106.

Lockhart, John G., 25.

Lodge, Henry Cabot, 266.

London, Jack, 31, 301.

_Lord Wolseley_, Maj.-Gen. Sir Frederick Maurice and

Sir George Arthur, 179.

Louis XIV, 22.

_Louis XIV_, Louis Bertrand, 32.

Lowell, Amy, 147, 160.

_Luck or Cunning_, Samuel Butler, 41.

_Lundis, Les_, Sainte-Beuve, 111.

Lynd, Robert, 69.

_Madame Récamier et Ses Amis_, Edouard Herriot, 315.

_Mademoiselle de Maupin_, Théophile Gautier, 302.

_Many Marriages_, Sherwood Anderson, 67.

_Marceline Desbordes-Valmore_, Lucien Descaves, 32.

Marinetti, F. P., 152.

_Mark Twain’s Autobiography_, 63, 73.

Martineau, Harriet, 55.

Masson, Miss, 142.

Maugham, Somerset, 231.

Mauriac, François, 96.

Maurice, Maj.-Gen. Sir Frederick, 179.

Maurois, André, 300.

May, J. Lewis, 99, 101.

Mayne, Ethel Colburn, 27.

_Memoirs_, Benvenuto Cellini, 28, 43.

_Memoirs_, Margot Asquith, 59.

_Memoirs of an Editor_, Edward P. Mitchell, 136, 188.

_Memoirs of My Life_, Francis Galton, 59.

_Midsummer Night’s Dream, A_, Shakespeare, 194.

Mill, John Stuart, 58, 174.

Minnigerode, Meade, 35.

Mitchell, Edward P., 136, 188.

_Mon Frère Arthur_, Isabelle Rimbaud, 177.

Monypenny and Buckle, 26.

Moore, George, 38, 70.

Morley, Henry, 29, 278.

Morley, John, Lord, 29.

_Most Famous Beauty of China, Yang Kuei-Fei, The_,

Mrs. Shu-Chiung, 35, 315, 328.

Mott, Lewis Freeman, 98, 107.

Motteville, Madame de, 22.

_My Life_, Richard Wagner, 59.

_My Life and Loves_, Frank Harris, 150.

_My Life for Labour_, Robert Smillie,5 9.

_My Musical Life_, Walter Damrosch, 213.

_My Portion_, Rebekah Kohut, 315, 323.

Nicolay, John J., 184.

Nicolay and Hay, 260.

Nightingale, Florence, 56.

_Nightingale, The: A Life of Chopin_, Marjorie Strachey, 31, 300, 306.

_Noon_, Kathleen Norris, 315, 326.

Norris, Kathleen, 315, 326.

_Nun of the Temple of Amida, The_, Lafcadio Hearn, 70.

O’Brien, Frank M., 189.

_Old Maid, The_, Edith Wharton, 262.

_Once There Lived_, Leonid Andreyev, 115.

Osborn, Henry Fairfield, 39.

Osler, Sir William, 95, 186, 277.

_Out of the Past_, Margaret Vaughan, 19, 29.

Oxford, Lady, 59.

Page, Walter, 251.

Paget, Stephen, 278.

Palmer, George Herbert, 19.

_Paternity of Abraham Lincoln, The_, William E. Barton, 261.

Pepys, Samuel, 22.

Perry, Bliss, 68, 169.

_Petit Pierre, Le_, Anatole France, 106.

_Pierre Nozière_, Anatole France, 106.

_Pilgrimage of Henry James, The_, Van Wyck Brooks, 63, 89.

_Player Under Three Reigns, A_, Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, 225, 233.

Plutarch, 17.

_Plutarch Lied_, 235.

_Poe--Man, Poet and Creative Thinker_, Sherwin Cody, 147, 168.

_Pointed Roofs_, Dorothy Richardson, 50.

_Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_, James Joyce, 50.

_Portrait of Zélide, The_, Geoffrey Scott, 25, 31, 32.

_Port-Royal_, Sainte-Beuve, 112.

Pound, Ezra, 152.

_Princess Casamassima, The_, Henry James, 91.

_Problème de Rimbaud, Poète Maudit, Le_, Maurice Coulon, 177.

Proust, Marcel, 50, 65, 139, 210.

Pupin, Michael, 59.

_Queen Victoria_, Lytton Strachey, 26.

_Quest of a Simple Life, The_, W. J. Dawson, 210.

Quintus Curtius, 17.

_Rab and His Friends_, John Brown, 79.

Rabelais, 206, 257.

Rainsford, Dr. W. S., 235.

_Recollections of a Happy Life_, Maurice Francis Egan, 53.

_Religio Medici_, Sir Thomas Browne, 42.

_Reminiscences_, Mrs. Lafcadio Hearn, 70.

Repplier, Agnes, 278.

Richardson, Dorothy, 50.

Rickword, Edgell, 147, 176.

_Rimbaud_, Edgell Rickword, 147, 176.

Rimbaud, Isabelle, 177.

_River of Life, The_, John St. Loe Strachey, 188, 200.

_Roar of the Crowd, The_, James J. Corbett, 291, 295.

_Robert E. Lee the Soldier_, Sir Frederick Maurice, 179.

_Robert Louis Stevenson_, John A. Steuart, 99, 140.

Robertson, Dr. John W., 147, 170.

Rolland, Romain, 55.

Roosevelt, Theodore, 52, 255, 266.

Rostand, Maurice, 32.

_Roughing It_, Mark Twain, 74.

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 22, 46, 174.

_Royal Martyr, The_, Charles Wheeler Coit, 27.

Rutherford, Mark, 59, 60.

Sainte-Beuve, 315.

_Sainte-Beuve_, Count d’Haussonville, 108.

_Sainte-Beuve_, Lewis Freeman Mott, 99, 107.

Saint-Simon, 22.

_Samson in Chains_, Andreyev, 115.

Santayana, George, 94.

_Satan’s Diary_, Leonid Andreyev, 115.

Schneider, Edouard, 225.

Schreiner, Olive, 47.

Scott, Geoffrey, 25, 32.

Seitz, Don C., 188, 196.

_Selections from the Correspondence of Theodore Roosevelt

and Henry Cabot Lodge_, 242, 266.

_Seven That Were Hanged, The_, Leonid Andreyev, 115.

Sévigné, Madame de, 22.

Shakespeare, 194.

Shanks, Edward, 40.

Shanks, L. P., 101

Shaw, George Bernard, 264.

Shelley, 300.

_Shelley and the Unromantics_, Mrs. Olwen Campbell, 27.

Sherman, Stuart P., 69.

Shu-Chiung, Mrs., 35, 315, 328.

Skinner, Otis, 225, 234.

Smillie, Robert, 59.

_Socrates_, Xenophon, 17.

_Some Do Not ..._, Ford Madox Ford, 120.

_Songs and Sonnets_, John Donne, 129.

_Son of the Middle Border, A_, Hamlin Garland, 59.

Spencer, Herbert, 56.

Staël, Madame de, 315.

Steed, Wickham, 188.

Stein, Gertrude, 152.

Steuart, John A., 99, 140.

_Story of a Varied Life_, Dr. W. S. Rainsford, 235.

_Story of My Life_, Sir Harry Johnston, 59.

_Story Teller’s Story, A_, Sherwood Anderson, 63.

Strachey, John St. Loe, 174, 188, 200.

Strachey, Lytton, 26, 135.

Strachey, Marjorie, 306.

_Study in Discord, A_, Hugh l’Anson Fausset, 125.

_Sunlight and Song_, Maria Jeritza, 213, 221.

_Swann’s Way_, Marcel Proust, 50, 65.

Swift, Jonathan, 290.

Swinnerton, Frank, 141, 142.

Symonds, John Addington, 44, 60.

Symonds, Margaret. _See_ Vaughan.

Tacitus, 17.

_Tale of a Tub_, Jonathan Swift, 290.

_Talma_, André Antoine, 32.

Tarbell, Ida M., 260, 265.

_Theodore Roosevelt and His Time_, Joseph B. Bishop, 274.

_Thomas Hardy_, Dr. F. A. Hedgcock, 39.

Thompson, Francis, 127.

_Thoreau, the Poet-Naturalist_, William Ellery Channing, 87.

_Thought_, Leonid Andreyev, 118.

Tinayre, Marcelle, 32.

Tinker, Edward Larocque, 63, 70.

Tolstoi, Leo, 57.

_Tom Sawyer_, Mark Twain, 74.

Trevelyan, Sir George, 26.

Trollope, Anthony, 58.

_Troubadour_, Alfred Kreymborg, 147.

Trudeau, Dr. Edw. L., 51.

_True Story of Woodrow Wilson, The_, David Lawrence, 242, 250.

_Truth at Last, The_, Charles Hawtrey, 225, 231.

_Turn of the Screw, The_, Henry James, 91.

Twain, Mark, 63, 73, 188, 257.

_Twenty Years on Broadway_, George Cohan, 225, 235.

_Twice Thirty_, Edward W. Bok, 188, 190.

Tzara, Tristan, 152.

_Une Saison en Enfer_, Arthur Rimbaud, 177.

Valléry-Radot, René, 19, 24, 278.

Vasari, 22.

Vaughan, Margaret, 19, 29.

_Vie Amoureuse de Madame de Pompadour, La_, Marcelle Tinayre, 32.

_Vie de Pasteur, La_, René Valléry-Radot, 278.

_Vie En Fleur, La_, Anatole France, 106.

_Virginibus Puerisque_, R. L. Stevenson, 144.

_Volupté_, Sainte-Beuve, 111.

Wagner, Richard, 59.

_Walden_, Henry David Thoreau, 85.

Walpole, Horace, 22.

Walton, Izaak, 22, 127, 133.

Ward, Mrs. Humphry, 47.

_Washington Irving_, George S. Hellman, 37.

Watterson, Henry, 188.

_Weber and Fields_, Felix Isman, 225, 239.

Werner, M. R., 242, 251.

Wetmore, Mrs. Elizabeth Bisland, 70.

Wharton, Edith, 97, 262.

_What the Butler Winked At_, Eric Horne, 308, 310.

White, William Allen, 242.

White, Wm. Hale, 60.

_Why I Am a Christian_, Dr. Frank Crane, 202.

_William Blake in This World_, Harold Bruce, 147, 154.

_William Dean Howells_, Oscar W. Firkins, 63, 68.

Willocks, Miss M. P., 39.

_Wind and the Rain, The_, Thomas Burke, 99, 136.

_With Pencil, Brush and Chisel_, Emil Fuchs, 213, 222.

Wollstonecraft, Mary, 56.

Wolseley, Lord, 179.

_Woman of Fifty, A_, Rheta Childe Dorr, 315, 327.

Woodberry, George E., 173.

_Woodrow Wilson_, William Allen White, 242.

Woollcott, Alexander, 46, 213, 217.

_Writers of the Day_, Henry Holt & Co., 40.

Xenophon, 17.

Yang Kuei-Fei, 35, 328.