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diff --git a/old/63754-0.txt b/old/63754-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 191d36d..0000000 --- a/old/63754-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14854 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of All In The Day's Work, by Ida M. Tarbell - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: All In The Day's Work - An Autobiography - -Author: Ida M. Tarbell - -Release Date: December 05, 2020 [EBook #63754] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK *** - - - - -[Illustration: _ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK_] - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO - DALLAS · ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO - - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MADRAS · MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - OF CANADA, LIMITED - TORONTO - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston_ - - _At 70_ -] - - - - - ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK - An Autobiography - - - BY IDA M. TARBELL - -[Illustration] - - - NEW YORK - - _The Macmillan Company_ - - 1939 - - - - - _Copyright, 1939, by_ - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - All rights reserved—no part of this book may be - reproduced in any form without permission in - writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer - who wishes to quote brief passages in connection - with a review written for inclusion in magazine - or newspaper. - - FIRST PRINTING. - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - AMERICAN BOOK—STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK - - - - - TO - - SARAH A. TARBELL - My Sister and My Loyal Friend - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - 1. MY START IN LIFE 1 - - 2. I DECIDE TO BE A BIOLOGIST 19 - - 3. A COEDUCATIONAL COLLEGE OF THE EIGHTIES 37 - - 4. A START AND A RETREAT 49 - - 5. A FRESH START—A SECOND RETREAT 64 - - 6. I FALL IN LOVE 89 - - 7. A FIRST BOOK—ON NOTHING CERTAIN A YEAR 124 - - 8. THE NAPOLEON MOVEMENT OF THE NINETIES 147 - - 9. GOOD-BYE TO FRANCE 161 - - 10. REDISCOVERING MY COUNTRY 179 - - 11. A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY SEEKS MY ACQUAINTANCE 202 - - 12. MUCKRAKER OR HISTORIAN? 231 - - 13. OFF WITH THE OLD—ON WITH THE NEW 254 - - 14. THE GOLDEN RULE IN INDUSTRY 280 - - 15. A NEW PROFESSION 301 - - 16. WOMEN AND WAR 319 - - 17. AFTER THE ARMISTICE 336 - - 18. GAMBLING WITH SECURITY 359 - - 19. LOOKING OVER THE COUNTRY 385 - - 20. NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN 398 - - INDEX 409 - - - - - ILLUSTRATIONS - - - AT SEVENTY _Frontispiece_ - - PAGE - EARLIEST PORTRAIT 2 - - OFFICE STAFF OF _THE CHAUTAUQUAN_, 1888 76 - - AT _McCLURE’S_, 1898 156 - - AT THE _AMERICAN_, 1907 258 - - IN A CONNECTICUT GARDEN, 1914 266 - - AT RED CROSS HEADQUARTERS, PARIS, 1919 338 - - POSING AS A GARDENER, 1925 360 - - - - - ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK - - - - - 1 - MY START IN LIFE - - -If it had not been for the Panic of 1857 and the long depression which -followed it I should have been born in Taylor County, Iowa. That was -what my father and mother had planned. In fact, however, I was born in a -log house in Erie County, Pennsylvania, on November 5, 1857. It was the -home of my pioneering maternal grandfather Walter Raleigh McCullough. No -home in which I have ever lived has left me with pleasanter memories of -itself. It was a Cape Cod house, a story and a half high, built of -matched hewn logs, its floors of narrow fitted oak planks, its walls -ceiled, its “upstairs” finished, a big fireplace in its living room. -There were spreading frame outbuildings to accommodate the multiple -activities of a farm which was in my time a going concern. I remember -best the big cool milk room with its dozens of filled pans on the racks, -its huge wooden bowl heaped with yellow butter on its way to the firkin, -its baskets piled with eggs, its plump dressed poultry ready for market. - -Like all young married people of pioneer ancestry and experience having -their way to make, my parents wanted land. Land of their own, combined -with what my father could earn at his profession as a teacher and his -trade as a joiner, meant future security. It was the proved way of the -early American. - -After much looking about in northwestern Pennsylvania where the families -of both were settled, they had decided that the West offered greater -opportunity and so in the spring of 1857, a year after his marriage, my -father, Franklin Sumner Tarbell by name, started out to find a farm. He -had but little money in his pocket, and the last one hundred fifty miles -of his search were made on foot. How enthusiastic he was over the claim -he at last secured! His letters tell of the splendid dome of sky which -covered it, of the far view over the prairie, of marvelous flowers and -birds, of the daily passing along the horizon of a stream of covered -wagons, settlers bound for California, Pikes Peak, Kansas, Nebraska; and -some of them, he found, were earlier Iowa settlers, leaving the very -state which for the moment seemed to him the gate to Paradise. - -He set himself gaily at breaking land, building the house for mother, -working in a sawmill to pay for the lumber. He did it alone, even to the -making of window frames and doors. I know how he did it—whistling from -morning till night, mischief and tenderness chasing each other across -his blue eyes as he thought of my mother’s coming, their future -together. - -The plan they had made provided for her going west with their household -goods in August. The money was arranged for, so they thought; but before -it was taken from the bank the panic came, and every county bank in -Pennsylvania was closed. There was no money anywhere, nothing for my -mother to do but stay where she was while my father struggled to earn by -teaching and carpenter work the money which would bring us on. But the -panic reached Iowa, dried up its money supply. People were living by -barter, my father reported. What a heartbreaking waiting it was for -them, coming as it did after an engagement of six years every week of -which they had both found long! - -The fall and winter of 1857, the spring and summer of 1858 passed. Still -there was no money to be had, and then in the fall of 1858 father -started out to _teach_ his way to us. Before he found a school he had -walked one hundred and eighty miles—walked until his shoes and clothes -were worn and tattered. It was “shabby and broke,” as he had written it -would be, that he finally in the spring of 1859, when I was a year and a -half old, made his way back to my mother still living in the log house -in Erie County. - -According to the family annals I deeply resented the intimacy between -the strange man and my mother, so far my exclusive possession. Flinging -my arms about my mother, so the story went, I cried, “Go away, bad man.” - -[Illustration: - - _Esther Ann McCullough Tarbell and Ida Minerva Tarbell, November 5, - 1858_ -] - -The problem for my father now was to earn money to take us back to Iowa, -for my mother to continue her patient waiting. For a dozen years before -her marriage she had taught in district schools in Erie County, as well -as in a private school of an aunt in Poughkeepsie, New York. She was a -good teacher, but she was married! She must stay with her family then -until her husband had a home ready for her; so ruled my grandmother, -chock-full as she was of the best and severest New England rules for -training girls to be ladies. You might live in a log house. You were -reminded loftily that many of the “best families” had done that while -“settling the country,” but you must “never forget who you are!” -“Remember that your father is a McCullough of an ancient and honored -Scotch clan, his mother a Raleigh of Sir Walter’s family, that I am a -Seabury, my great-uncle the first Episcopal Bishop in the United States, -my mother a Welles, her father on Washington’s staff.” It was a litany -her four daughters all had to learn! - -Exciting employment waited my father. For six or seven years before his -marriage, when he was earning his way through the Academy of Jamestown, -New York, he spent his summers running a fleet of three or more -flatboats of merchandise to be delivered at trading points on the -Allegheny and the Ohio River—always as far south as Louisville, -sometimes even up the Mississippi. “Captain Tarbell,” his small and -jolly crew called him. The River was the chief highway of a great -country. To its waters came the pioneer and trader, the teacher, the -preacher, the scientist, the prophet, as well as every species of -gambler, charlatan, speculator, swindler, cutthroat. My father’s stories -of what he saw were among the joys of my childhood: a great fleet of -steamboats burning at Pittsburgh, a hanging, river churches and -preachers and show boats, children who never knew other homes than a -boat, towns, cities, and what he loved best of all—nights floating -quietly down the great Ohio, the moon above. Not strange that after -those cruel months of working his way back to us he should have seized -this opportunity again to take charge of his Jamestown friend’s river -enterprise. - -The trip went well, and at the end of August, 1859, he turned back, -money in his pocket to take us to Iowa. But as he journeyed eastward he -was met everywhere by excitement. A man had drilled a well near a lumber -settlement in northwestern Pennsylvania—Titusville it was called—drilled -for oil and found it, quantities of it. My father, like most men who -traveled up and down the Allegheny and Ohio in those days, was familiar -with crude petroleum. He had used it to grease creaking machinery and, -too, as a medicine, a general cure-all, Seneca oil; used it for the -colds, the fever and ague, the weak lungs which had afflicted him from -boyhood. He knew, too, that there were those who believed that if rock -oil, as it was called, could be found in sufficient quantities it would -make a better light than the coal and whale oils then in common use. The -well near Titusville producing twenty-five to one hundred barrels a -day—nobody knew how much—proved that if other reservoirs or veins could -be opened by such drilling there would be oil to light the world. - -Rumors were exciting and grew in the telling. The nearer he came to Erie -County, the bigger the well. He met men on foot and horseback making -their way in. Something to look into before he started back to Iowa. He -looked into it, not merely at Titusville with its first well, but down -the stream on which the first well stood and where other wells were -already drilling. Oil Creek, it was called. What if they continued to -get oil? my father asked himself. Where would they put it? They would -need tanks, tanks in numbers. He believed he could build one that would -hold five hundred or more barrels. He said as much to the owner of a -well drilling down the creek near the mouth of a tributary called Cherry -Run. “Show me a model that won’t leak, and I’ll give you an order.” He -lost no time in making his model and got his order. - -Here was a chance for a business if oil continued to be found, a -business with more money in it than he had ever dreamed of making. -Moreover, he knew all the elements of that business, had had experience -in handling them. Tank building called for his trade, that of the -joiner. Iowa could wait. - -By the summer of 1860 he had his shop going at the mouth of Cherry Run -near the well for which he had received his first order. The shop -running, he built what was to be my mother’s first home of her own, the -one for which with infinite confidence and infinite pain she had been -waiting since her marriage four years and a half before. - -It was in October of 1860 that my father drove his little family over -the Allegheny foothills some forty miles. There were two of us children -now, for in July of 1860 my brother William Walter Tarbell, named from -his two grandfathers, had been born. Close beside his shop father had -built a shanty. It had a living room with an alcove, a family bedroom -with trundle beds for us children, and a kitchen. A covered passage led -into the shop, which was soon to be the joy of my life for here were -great piles of long odorous curly pine shavings into which to roll, to -take naps, to trim my gown, and in which to search day in and day out -for the longest, the curliest. - -But these shavings and my delight in them were a later discovery. My -first reaction to my new surroundings was one of acute dislike. It -aroused me to a revolt which is the first thing I am sure I remember -about my life—the birth in me of conscious experience. This revolt did -not come from natural depravity; on the contrary it was a natural and -righteous protest against having the life and home I had known, and -which I loved, taken away without explanation and a new scene, a new set -of rules which I did not like, suddenly imposed. - -My life in the log house had been full of joyous interests. There were -turkeys and ducks and chickens, lambs and colts and calves, kittens and -puppies—never could I be without playmates. There were trees and woods -and flowers in summer—a great fireplace with popcorn and maple candy in -winter, and I an only grandchild the center of it all. But what had I -come to? As mother realized, a place of perils, a creek rushing wildly -at the side of the house, great oil pits sunken in the earth not far -away, a derrick inviting to adventurous climbing at the door. No wonder -that warnings and scoldings and occasional switchings dogged my steps. -Moreover, I was no longer the center of the circle: a baby filled her -arms—“my” arms! A man still strange gave me orders and claimed her—“my” -mother. - -It was not to be endured, and so one November day just after my third -birthday I announced I was going to leave. “Going back to Grandma.” -“Very well,” my mother said. I knew the way the men went when they -walked away from the shop, and I followed it, but not far. Across the -valley in which we lived ran an embankment. To my young eyes it was as -high as a mountain, and the nearer I came the higher it looked, the -higher and blacker. And then suddenly as I came to its foot I realized -that I had never been on the other side, that I did not know the way to -Grandma’s. I knew I was beaten, and sat down to think it over. Never in -all these years since have I faced defeat, known that I must retreat, -that I have not been again that little figure with the black mountain in -front of it, a little figure looking longingly at a shanty dim in the -growing night but showing a light in the window. - -Finally I turned slowly back to the house and sat down on the steps. It -seemed a long time before the door opened and my mother in a surprised -voice said: - -“Why, Ida! I thought you had gone to Grandma’s.” - -“I don’t know the way,” I said humbly. - -“Very well. Come in and get your supper.” - -Respect for my mother, her wisdom in dealing with hard situations, was -born then. I was not to be punished; I was not to be laughed at; I was -to be accepted. Years later she told me of the unhappy hour she spent -watching me go off so sturdily, to come back so droopingly, watching -with tears running down her cheeks, but determined I must learn my -lesson. It was a bit of wisdom she never ceased to practice. My mother -always let me carry out my revolts, return when I would and no questions -asked. - -In the three years we spent in the shanty on the flats there was but one -other episode that had for me the same self-revealing quality as this -revolt. It was my first attempt to test by experiment. The brook which -ran beside the house was rapid, noisy, in times of high water dangerous -for children. Watching it, fascinated, I observed that some things -floated on the surface, others dropped to the bottom. It set me to -wondering what would happen to my little brother, then in dresses, if -dropped in. I had to find out. There was a footbridge near the house, -and one day when I supposed I was unobserved I led him onto it and -dropped him in. His little skirts spread out and held him up. -Fortunately at that moment his screams brought a near-by workman, and he -was rescued. I suppose I was spanked; of that I remember nothing, only -the peace of satisfied curiosity in the certainty that my brother -belonged to the category of things which floated. - -What I really remember of these early days concerns only my personal -discoveries, discoveries of the kind of person I was, of the nature of -things around me which stirred my curiosity. Whether a childish -experience was deep enough to etch itself on my memory or I only know of -it from hearing it told and retold, I always decide by this test: if I -really remember it, the happening is set in a scene—a scene with a -background, exits, entrances, and properties. I know I remember my -revolt and defeat because I always see it as an act on a stage, every -detail, every line clear. - -Of the pregnant, bizarre, and often tragic development going on about me -I remember nothing; yet the uncertainties and dangers of it were part of -our daily fare. - -Whether there was oil in the ground in sufficient quantities to justify -the prodigious effort being made to find it, nobody could know. If not, -the shop and shanty were a dead loss—another long delay on the road to -Iowa. All that winter of 1860 and 1861 my father was asking himself that -question; but in 1861 it was answered when up and down Oil Creek a -succession of flowing wells came in, wells producing from three hundred -to three thousand barrels a day—“fountain wells,” “gushers,” “spouters,” -they called them from the great streams which rose straight into the air -one to two hundred feet, to fall in an oily green-black spray over the -surrounding landscape. - -Deadly, dangerous, too, as the Oil Region learned to its sorrow by a -disaster almost at the doorsteps of our Cherry Run home. It was the -evening of April 17, 1861. The news of the Fall of Sumter had just -reached the settlement, remote as it was from rail and telegraph -connections, and all the men of the town had gathered after supper at -one place or another to discuss the situation. What did it mean? What -would the President do? My father was sitting on a cracker barrel in the -one general store. As he and his friends talked a man ran in to tell the -company that a fresh vein of oil had been struck in a well on the edge -of the town. Its owner, Henry Rouse, had been drilling it deeper; the -oil was spouting over the derrick. Great news for the community still -uncertain as to the extent of its field. Great news for my father. It -meant tanks. Everybody jumped to run to the well when the earth was -rocked by a mighty explosion. A careless light had ignited the gas which -had spread from the flowing oil until it had enveloped everything in the -vicinity. Before my father reached the place nineteen men, among them -his friend the well—owner Henry Rouse, had been burned to death. How -many had escaped and in what condition, nobody knew. - -Late that night as my father and mother grieved they heard outside their -door a stumbling something. Looking out, they saw before them a terrible -sight, a man burned and swollen beyond recognition and yet alive, alive -enough to give his name—one of their friends. My mother took him in—the -alcove became a hospital. For weeks she nursed him—the task of the woman -in a pioneer community, a task which she accepted as her part. Thanks to -her care, the man lived. The relics of that tragedy were long about our -household—comforts and bedquilts she had pieced and quilted for Iowa -stained with linseed oil, but too precious to be thrown away. - -But all this is as something read in a book, something which has become -more poignant as the years have gone by and I am able to feel what those -long weeks of care over that broken man meant to my mother. - -The business prospered, the shop grew. Little do I remember of all this, -or the increased comforts of life or moving into the new home on the -hillside above the town by this time known as Rouseville. But the change -in the outlook on the world about me, I do remember. We had lived on the -edge of an active oil farm and oil town. No industry of man in its early -days has ever been more destructive of beauty, order, decency, than the -production of petroleum. All about us rose derricks, squatted -engine-houses and tanks; the earth about them was streaked and damp with -the dumpings of the pumps, which brought up regularly the sand and clay -and rock through which the drill had made its way. If oil was found, if -the well flowed, every tree, every shrub, every bit of grass in the -vicinity was coated with black grease and left to die. Tar and oil -stained everything. If the well was dry a rickety derrick, piles of -debris, oily holes were left, for nobody ever cleaned up in those days. - -But we left the center of this disorder, went to the hillside, looked -down on it; and as for me I no longer saw it, for opposite us was a -hillside so steep it had never been drilled. It was clothed with the -always changing beauty of trees and shrubs, the white shadflowers and -the red maples, the long garlands of laurel and azalea in the spring, -the green of every shade through the summer, the crimson and gold, -russets and tans of the fall, the frost- and snow-draped trees of the -winter. I did not see the derricks for the trees. The hillside above our -house and the paths which led around it became a playground in which I -reveled. I was not the only one about to forget the ugliness of the -Valley and remember through life the beauty of those hillsides. Years -later I was to know fairly well one of the great figures in the -development of oil, Henry H. Rogers, then the active head of the -Standard Oil Company. We discovered in talking over the early days of -the industry that at the very moment I was beginning to run the hills -above Rouseville he was running a small refinery on the Creek and living -on a hillside just below ours, separated only by a narrow ravine along -each side of which ran a path. “Up that path,” Mr. Rogers told me, “I -used to carry our washing every Monday morning, go for it every Saturday -night. Probably I’ve seen you hunting flowers on your side of the -ravine. How beautiful it was! I was never happier.” That reminiscence of -Henry H. Rogers is only one of several reasons I have for heartily -liking as fine a pirate as ever flew his flag in Wall Street. - -Soon after we went to the home on the hill the oil country, at that -moment suffering a depression, was stirred by the news that a great well -had been struck ten miles from Rouseville at Pithole, an isolated -territory to which the veterans in the business had never given a -thought. The news caused a wild scramble. A motley procession of men -with and without money, with and without decency, seeking leases, jobs, -opportunity for adventure, excitement and swindling travelled on foot or -horseback up the Valley of Cherry Run in full view from our house. - -Father was one of the first to take advantage of the Pithole discovery, -putting up his tank shops there and doing a smashing business during the -short life of the field. Its “bottom fell out” in 1869. He rode back and -forth from his shop on a little saddle horse—Flora, beautiful -creature—usually with considerable sums of money in his pocket. The -country was full of ruffians, and stories of robbery were common. When -he was very late in returning mother would walk the floor wringing her -hands. I could never go to bed those nights until he had returned, not -because I felt her anxiety but because of the excitement and mystery of -it. I carried a dramatic picture of him in mind, a kind of Paul Revere -dashing along the lonely road, the rein on Flora’s neck, his pistol in -hand. But he always came home, always brought the money he had -collected, which he must keep in the tiny iron safe in his office -annexed to the house until he could carry it to Oil City where he -banked. - -My life became rapidly more conscious now that I had left the flats -behind, experience deeper. Here was my first realization of tragedy. It -was the spring of 1865. Father was coming up the hill, mother and I were -watching for him. Usually he walked with a brisk step, head up, but now -his step was slow, his head dropped. Mother ran to meet him crying, -“Frank, Frank, what is it?” I did not hear the answer; but I shall -always see my mother turning at his words, burying her face in her -apron, running into her room sobbing as if her heart would break. And -then the house was shut up, and crape was put on all the doors, and I -was told that Lincoln was dead. - -From that time the name spelt tragedy and mystery. Why all this sorrow -over a man we had never seen, who did not belong to our world—_my_ -world? Was there something beyond the circle of hills within which I -lived that concerned me? Why, and in what way, did this mysterious -outside concern me? - -I was soon to learn that tragedy did not come always from a mysterious -beyond. What a chain of catastrophes it took to teach the men and women -who were developing the new industry the constant risk they ran in -handling either crude or refined oil. They came to our very door, when a -neighboring woman hurrying to build a fire in her cookstove poured oil -on the wood before she had made sure there were no live coals in the -firebox. An awful explosion occurred and she and two women who ran to -her assistance were burned to a crisp. I heard horrified whisperings -about me. The refusal to tell me what had happened aroused a terrible -curiosity. I gathered that the bodies were laid out in a house not far -away and, when nobody was looking, stole in to look at them. Broken -sleep for me for nights. - -The mystery of death finally came into our household. There had been a -fourth child born in the house on the hill—“little Frankie,” we always -called him—blue-eyed like my father, the sunniest of us all. For weeks -one season he lay in the parlor fighting for life—scarlet fever—a -disease more dreaded by mothers in those days than even smallpox. Daily -I stood helpless, agonized, outside the door behind which little Frankie -lay screaming and fighting the doctor. I remember even today how long -the white marks lasted on the knuckles of my hands after the agony -behind the closed door had died down and my clenched fists relaxed. - -Little Frankie died, became a pathetic and beloved tradition in the -household. My little sister, who had made a terrible and successful -fight against the disease, told me how she could not understand why -father and mother cried when they talked of Frankie. - -“If they want to see him,” she thought, “why do they not put a ladder -from the top of the hill up to the sky into heaven and climb up? If -Frankie is there God would let them see him.” - -I have said that my first recollection of Lincoln was the impression -made by the tragedy of his death. That this was so was not for the lack -of material on him in our household. My father was an ardent Republican. -Back in ’56 he had written from his river trip, “Hurrah for Frémont and -Dayton.” As soon as he had had more money than the actual needs of the -family required, he had subscribed to _Harper’s Weekly_, _Harper’s -Monthly_, the New York _Tribune_, began to buy books. Of all of these I -remember only the _Weekly_ and _Monthly_. My brother and I used to lie -by the hour flat on our stomachs, heels in the air, turning over the -exciting pages of the War numbers; but none of it went behind my -eyes—none concerned me. Only now when I go back to the files of those -old papers there is a whispering of something once familiar. - -Of the _Monthly_ I have more distinct recollections. It was in these -that I first began to read freely. Many a private picnic did I have with -the _Monthly_ under the thorn bushes on the hillside above Oil Creek, a -lunch basket at my side. There are still in the family storeroom copies -of _Harper’s Monthly_ stained with lemon pie dropped when I was too deep -into a story to be careful. Here I read my first Dickens, my first -Thackeray, my first Marian Evans, as George Eliot then signed herself. -My first Wilkie Collins came to me in the _Weekly_. Great literature—all -pirated, I was to learn much later. My friend Viola Roseboro tells me -that at this time she was reading Harper’s pirated paper-bound copies of -Dickens. It was much later that they came my way. - -However, all the reading I was doing was not so respectable. On the sly -I was devouring a sheet forbidden to the household—the _Police -Gazette_—the property of the men around the house, for we had men around -the house, men of various degrees of acceptability to my mother, but all -necessary to my father’s enterprises. The business had grown; it meant a -clerk, bosses, workmen. In a pioneer community like ours it was hard to -find comfortable living quarters for single men. My father and mother, -both brought up on farms, accepted as a matter of course the housing and -feeding of hired men. So it was in line with their experience as well as -with the necessities of the case that our household was arranged to take -care of a certain number of men connected with my father’s business. For -sleeping quarters a bunkhouse was built on the hillside; mornings and -evenings, they sat at the family table. This accepting men of whose -manners and ways she often heartily disapproved was distasteful to my -mother; but she had not been a schoolteacher for nothing, and she -applied her notions of discipline. She would not have swearing, -drinking, rough manners, and certainly she would not have had the -_Police Gazette_ in the house. But the men had it, and now and then when -my brother and I played about the bunkhouse it was easy for me to pick -up a copy and slip it away where my dearest girl friend and I looked -unashamed and entirely unknowing on its rough and brutal pictures. If -they were obscene we certainly never knew it. There was a wanton gaiety -about the women, a violent rakishness about the men—wicked, we supposed, -but not the less interesting for that. - -One reason the _Police Gazette_ fascinated me was that it pictured a -kind of life I knew to be flourishing in a neighboring settlement, a -settlement where my father had shops run by a boss who, as well as his -sister, was a family friend, and where I was often allowed to visit. -This settlement, Petroleum Center, had by something like general consent -become Oil Creek’s “sink of iniquity.” - -The discovery of oil, the growing certainty that it was the beginning of -a new industry, that money was flowing into the Oil Region quickly -brought an invading host of men and women seeking fortunes. It was a new -and rich field for tricksters, swindlers, exploiters of vice in every -known form. They were soon setting up shops in every settlement and, to -the credit of the manhood of the Oil Region, usually being driven out by -self-directed vigilantes. - -At Rouseville a “joy boat” which made its way up the Creek that first -winter and tied up near my father’s shop was cut loose in the middle of -the night after its arrival. Its visitors found themselves floating down -the Allegheny River the next morning and obliged to walk back. From that -time open vice shunned the town. But when wealth poured out of the -ground at Petroleum Center there was too great excitement to think of -order, decency. Before it was realized, the town was alive with every -known form of wantonness and wickedness. By the time I was allowed to -visit our friends there, I saw from the corner of my eye as I walked -sedately the length of the street saloons, dance halls, brothels; and I -noted many curious things. The house where I visited stood on a slope -overlooking one of the most notorious dance halls of the Oil Region—Gus -Reil’s. Often I left my bed at night and watched that long low building -from which rose loud laughter, ribald songs, shouts, curses. Later -horror was added to Gus Reil’s fascination, for here a Rouseville boy -was shot one night. - -If Petroleum Center was giving me an opportunity to feed my curiosity -about things in the world of which I was not supposed to know, it -happened also to be the indirect means of awaking my interest in the -stars, one of the most beautiful interests of my youth. My father had -seen the early passing of the wooden oil tank, the coming of the iron -tank, and had used his capital to become an oil producer. One of his -first investments had been in an oil farm on the hills above the wicked -town which so excited my curiosity. His partner in this venture, M. E. -Hess, lived on this farm with his family. In that family was a daughter -about my age and bearing my name—Ida. We became friends and visited back -and forth as chance offered. My chance came often when Mr. Hess, riding -with a companion over the hills to Rouseville to consult with father, -dropped his companion and took me back with him, usually at night. A -fine pair of saddle horses he had—“High Fly” and “Shoo Fly.” My first -experience in horseback riding was following him on “Shoo Fly” over the -hills after dark. - -Mr. Hess was an altogether unusual man, educated, with a vein of poetry -in him. As we rode he would stop every now and then to name the stars, -trace the constellations, repeat the legends. My first consciousness of -space, its beauty, its something more than beauty, came then. - -Not a bad counterbalance for what I was gathering in the town below the -farm on the hill and seeing reproduced in the _Police Gazette_, which so -perfectly pictured its activities. - -But there were other correcting forces at work on me. The men who formed -the vigilante committee to make Rouseville difficult for commercialized -vice (my father one of them) set themselves early to establishing -civilizing agencies—first a church. - -It was decided by the men and women who were to build and support this -church that it should be of the denomination of which there were the -largest number in the community. The Methodists had the numbers, and so -my father and mother who were Presbyterians became and remained -Methodists. Their support was active. We did not merely go to church; we -stayed to class meeting; we went to Sunday school, where both father and -mother had classes; we went to Wednesday night—or was it Thursday -night?—prayer meeting. And when there was a revival we went every night. -In my tenth or eleventh year I “went forward” not from a sense of guilt -but because everybody else was doing it. My sense of sin came after it -was all over and I was tucked away in bed at night. I had been keenly -conscious as I knelt at the Mourners’ bench that the long crimson -ribbons which hung from my hat must look beautiful on my cream-colored -coat. The realization of that hypocrisy cut me to the heart. I knew -myself a sinner then, and the relief I sought in prayer was genuine. I -never confessed. It wasn’t the kind of sin other converts talked about. -But it aroused self-observation; I learned that often when I was saying -the polite or proper thing I was thinking quite differently. For a long -time it made me secretly unhappy thinking that in me alone ran an -underground river of thought. Later I began to suspect that other people -were like this, that always there flowed a stream of unspoken thought -under the spoken thought. It made me wary of strangers. - -A side of my life which moves me deeply now, as I think back, was the -continuous effort of my father and mother to give me what were called -advantages, to use their increasing income to awaken and develop in me a -taste for things which they had always been denied. They wanted music in -the household and our grandest possession became a splendid Bradbury -square piano—a really noble instrument—with one of the finest, mellowest -tones that I have ever heard in a piano. - -A music teacher turned up in the community and I was at once set at -five-finger exercises, and I was kept at them and all that follows them -for many years; but I found no joy in what I was doing. It is possible -that with different teachers from those available there might have been -a spring touched, for untrained as I am I am not without a certain -appreciation of music. - -I mastered the mechanics of piano playing well enough, however, to -become later one of the regular performers in the high school in the -town to which we were to move—Titusville, Pennsylvania. I remembered -nothing of this until two of my old friends in Titusville, school chums, -told me that I was one of the three or four who played the piano for the -morning exercises, that I sometimes played my show pieces, and that on -one occasion I was an actor in a scene which they recalled with glee. -They told me I was playing a duet with a classmate. We either lost our -place or did not agree as to time—stopped entirely, argued the matter -out, began over, and this time went through without dissension; but I -have only this secondhand memory of my contribution to the musical life -of the Titusville High School. - -I remember the efforts of my father and mother to show me something of -the outside world much more clearly than I do those to awaken my -interest in books and music. There were little trips, once as far as -Cleveland—the whole family—the marvel of the “best hotel,” of new hats -and coats and armfuls of toys. There were summers at the farm, only -thirty miles away. Best remembered and most enjoyed were the -all-day-excursion picnics. No one can understand the social life of a -great body of the American people in the latter part of the nineteenth -century without understanding the hold the picnic had on them. The -Tarbell household took the picnic so seriously that it had a special -equipment of stout market baskets, tin cups and plates, steel knives and -forks, tin spoons, worn napkins (the paper ones were then unheard of). -The menus were as fixed as that for a Thanksgiving dinner: veal loaf, -cold tongue, hard-boiled eggs—“two apiece”—buttered rusks, spiced -peaches, jelly, cucumber pickles, chowchow, cookies, doughnuts (we -called them fried cakes), and a special family cake. And you ate until -you were full. - -Our grandest picnic excursions in those days were to Chautauqua Lake, a -charming sheet of water only some fifty miles from home. Near the head -of the lake lay an old Chautauqua County town, Mayville; at its foot, -Jamestown where my father for several years had been a student in the -Academy, and from which in vacations he had gone on his annual trips -down the Ohio. Loaded with big baskets of lunch, we took an early train -to Mayville, changed there to a little white steamer: zigzagged the -length of the lake, twenty or so miles, stopping at point after point. -We ate our lunch en route, and at Jamestown went uptown to drink a -bottle of “pop.” And then came the slow return home, where we arrived -after dark exhausted by pleasure. - -Three or four miles from Mayville on the west side of the lake jutted a -wooded promontory—Fair Point—the site in those days of a Methodist camp -meeting; and here we sometimes stopped for the day. We never liked it so -well as going to Jamestown; neither did father. - - - - - 2 - I DECIDE TO BE A BIOLOGIST - - -Five years went by in the house on the hill, and then in 1870 when I was -thirteen I found myself in Titusville, Pennsylvania, in a new house my -father had built. How characteristic of the instability of the oil towns -of that day, as well as of the frugality of my father, was this house! -From the beginning of the Pithole excitement he had, as I have said, -made money—more than he could ever have dreamed, I fancy; and then about -1869 practically without warning the bottom fell out, as the vernacular -of the region put it. The end shut up my father’s shops there, but it -also gave us the makings of a home. In that rapid development, only four -years long, a town of some twenty thousand had grown up with several big -hotels—among them, one called the Bonta House. It had features which -delighted my father—long French windows, really fine iron brackets -supporting its verandahs, handsome woodwork. The Bonta House was said to -have cost $60,000, but its owners were glad to take the $600 father -offered when the town “blew up.” He paid the money, tore down the -building, loaded its iron brackets and fine doors and windows, mouldings -and all, and I suppose much of its timber, onto wagons and carted it ten -miles away to Titusville where, out of it, he built the house which was -our home for many years. - -Titusville was not like Rouseville, which had suddenly sprung from the -mud as uncertain as a mushroom of the future. It had been a substantial -settlement twenty years before oil was found there, small but sturdy -with a few families who had made money chiefly in lumber, owning good -homes, carefully guarding the order and decency of the place. - -The discovery of oil overran the settlement with hundreds of fortune -seekers. They came from far and near, on foot, horseback, wagon. The -nearest railroad connection was sixteen miles away, and the roads and -fields leading in were soon cut beyond recognition by the heavy hauling, -its streets at times impassable with mud. - -The new industry demanded machinery, tools, lumber—and the bigger it -grew, the greater the demand. Titusville, the birthplace of all this -activity, as well as the gateway down the Creek, must furnish food and -shelter for caravans of strangers, shops for their trades, offices for -speculators and brokers, dealers in oil lands and leases, for oil -producers, surveyors, and draftsmen—all the factors of the big business -organization necessary to develop the industry. In 1862 the overflow was -doubled by the arrival of a railroad with a connection sixteen miles -away with the East and West. The disbanding of the Army in June of 1865 -brought a new rush—men still in uniform, their rifles and knapsacks on -their backs. Most of this fresh inflow was bound to the scene of the -latest excitement, Pithole. - -Stampeded though she was, Titusville refused to give up her idea of what -a town should be. She kept a kind of order, waged a steady fight on -pickpockets, drunkards, wantons; and in this she was backed by the -growing number of men and women who, having found their chance for -fortune in oil, wanted a town fit for their families. After churches, -the schools were receiving the most attention. It was the Titusville -schools which had determined my father and mother to make the town their -permanent home. - -But school did not play a serious part in my scheme of things at the -start. I went because I was sent, and had no interest in what went on. I -was thirteen, but I had never been in a crowded room before. In a small -private school the teacher had been my friend. Here I was not conscious -my teacher recognized my existence. I soon became a truant; but the -competent ruler of that schoolroom knew more than I realized. She was -able to spot a truant, and one day when I turned up after an -unexplainable absence she suddenly turned on me and read me a scathing -lecture. I cannot remember that I was ashamed or humiliated, only -amazed, but something in me asserted itself. I suppose that here a -decent respect for the opinions of mankind was born; at least I became -on the instant a model pupil. - -A few months later I passed into high school; and when at the end of the -year the grades were averaged at a ceremony where everybody was present -I stood at the head of the honor roll. Nobody could have been more -surprised. I had not been working for the honor roll: I had simply been -doing what they expected me to do as I understood it, and here I was at -the top. I remember I felt very serious about it. Having made the top -once, I knew what would be expected of me. I couldn’t let my father and -mother or my teachers down, so I continued to learn my lessons. It was a -good deal like being good at a game. I liked to work out the mathematics -and translations—good puzzles, but that they had any relation to my life -I was unconscious. And then suddenly, among these puzzles I was set to -solve, I found in certain textbooks the sesame which was to free my -curiosity, stir desires to know, set me working on my own to find out -more than these books had to offer. The texts which did all this for me -were a series I suspect a modern teacher might laugh at—Steele’s -Fourteen Weeks in Zoology, Geology, Botany, Natural Philosophy, -Chemistry. - -Here I was suddenly on a ground which meant something to me. From -childhood, plants, insects, stones were what I saw when I went abroad, -what I brought home to press, to put into bottles, to “litter up the -house.” The hills about Rouseville were rich in treasures for such a -collector, but nobody had ever taught me more than their common names. I -had never realized that they were subjects for study, like Latin and -geometry and rhetoric and other such unmeaning tasks. They were too -fascinating. But here my pleasure became my duty. School suddenly became -exciting. Now I could justify my tramps before breakfast on the hills, -justify my “collections,” and soon I knew what I was to be—a scientist. -Life was beginning to be very good, for what I liked best to do had a -reason. No doubt this uplift was helped by the general cheerfulness of -the family under our new conditions of life. - -Things were going well in father’s business; there was ease such as we -had never known, luxuries we had never heard of. Our first Christmas in -the new home was celebrated lavishly. Far away was that first Christmas -in the shanty on the flats when there was nothing but nuts and candy and -my mother and father promising, “Just wait, just wait, the day will -come.” The day had come—a gorgeous Christmas tree, a velvet cloak, _and_ -a fur coat for my mother. I haven’t the least idea what there was for -the rest of us, but those coats were an epoch in my life—my first notion -of elegance. - -This family blossoming was characteristic of the town. Titusville was -gay, confident of its future. It was spending money on schools and -churches, was building an Opera House where Janauschek soon was to play, -Christine Nilsson to sing. More and more fine homes were going up. Its -main street had been graded and worked until fine afternoons, winter and -summer, it was cleared by four o’clock for the trotting of the fast -horses the rich were importing. When New Year’s Day came every woman -received—wine, cakes, salads, cold meats on the table—every man went -calling. That is, Titusville was taking on metropolitan airs, led by a -few citizens who knew New York and its ways, even spoke familiarly of -Jay Gould and Jim Fisk, both of whom naturally enough had their eye on -us. Did not the Erie road from which they at the moment were filling -their pockets regard oil as one of its most profitable freights? We were -grain for their mill. - -There was reason for confidence. In the dozen years since the first well -was drilled the Oil Creek Valley had yielded nearly thirty-three million -barrels of crude oil. Producing, transporting, refining, marketing, -exporting, and by-products had been developed into an organized industry -which was now believed to have a splendid future. - -Then suddenly this gay, prosperous town received a blow between the -eyes. Self-dependent in all but transportation and locally in that -through the pipe lines it was rapidly laying to shipping points, it was -dependent on the railroads for the carrying of its crude oil to outside -refining points and for a shipping of both crude and refined to the -seaboard—a rich and steady traffic for which the Oil Region felt the -railroads ought to be grateful; but it was the railroads that struck the -blow. A few refiners outside the region—Cleveland, Pittsburgh, -Philadelphia—concocted a marvelous scheme which they had the persuasive -power to put over with the railroads, a big scheme by which those in the -ring would be able to ship crude and refined oil more cheaply than -anybody outside. And then, marvelous invention, they would receive in -addition to their advantage a drawback on every barrel of oil shipped by -any one not in the group. Those in the South Improvement Company, as the -masterpiece was called, were to be rewarded for shipping; and those not -in, to be doubly penalized. Of course it was a secret scheme. The Oil -Region did not learn of it until it had actually been put into operation -in Cleveland, Ohio, and leaked out. What did it mean to the Oil Region? -It meant that the man who produced the oil, and all outside refiners, -were entirely at the mercy of this group who, if they would, could make -the price of crude oil as well as refined. But it was a plan which could -not survive daylight. As soon as the Oil Region learned of it a -wonderful row followed. There were nightly antimonopoly meetings, -violent speeches, processions; trains of oil cars loaded for members of -the offending corporation were raided, the oil run on the ground, their -buyers turned out of the oil exchanges; appeals were made to the state -legislature, to Congress for an interstate commerce bill, producers and -refiners uniting for protection. I remember a night when my father came -home with a grim look on his face and told how he with scores of other -producers had signed a pledge not to sell to the Cleveland ogre that -alone had profited from the scheme—a new name, that of the Standard Oil -Company, replacing the name South Improvement Company in popular -contempt. - -There were long days of excitement. Father coming home at night, silent -and stern, a sternness even unchanged by his after-dinner cigar, which -had come to stand in my mind as the sign of his relaxation after a hard -day. He no longer told of the funny things he had seen and heard during -the day; he no longer played his jew’s-harp, nor sang to my little -sister on the arm of his chair the verses we had all been brought up on: - - Augusta, Maine, on the Kennebec River, - Concord, New Hampshire, on the Merrimack, etc. - -The commotion spread. The leaders of the New York Petroleum Association -left out of the original conspiracy, and in a number of cases (as was -soon to be shown) outraged chiefly for that reason, sent a committee to -the Oil Region to see what was doing. The committee was joyfully -welcomed, partly because its chairman was well known to them all. It was -my Rouseville neighbor, Henry H. Rogers. - -Mr. Rogers had left the Creek in 1867 and become a partner in the Pratt -firm of refiners and exporters of Brooklyn, New York. He and his -associates saw as clearly as his old friends in the Oil Region that—let -the South Improvement Company succeed in its plan for a -monopoly—everybody not in the ring would be forced to go out of -business. The New York men seem to have been convinced that the plans -for saving themselves which the organized producers and refiners were -laying stood a good chance of success, for back in New York Mr. Rogers -gave a long interview to the _Herald_. He did not mince words. Cleveland -and Pittsburgh were “straining every nerve to create a monopoly.” They -would succeed if their control of the railroads continued. He and his -fellows felt as the men in the Oil Region did, that the breaking up of -the South Improvement Company was a “necessity for self-existence.” They -were as bold in action as in words, for when a little later the -president of the Standard Oil Company of Cleveland, John D. Rockefeller -(to date, the only beneficiary of the South Improvement Company), sought -an interview in New York with Mr. Rogers and his committee he was -treated cavalierly and according to the newspapers retreated after a -brief reception “looking badly crestfallen.” - -Thus was the Henry H. Rogers of 1872. - -Out of the long struggle begun as a scrimmage came finally a well -developed cooperative movement guaranteeing fair play all around. It was -signed by the Standard Oil Company’s representative and all the -oil-carrying railroads. The railroads indeed were the first to succumb, -knowing as they did that what they were doing was contrary to the common -law of the land, and being thundered at as they were by the press and -politicians of all the country. “I told Willie not to go into that -scheme,” said old Commodore Vanderbilt; and Jay Gould whined, “I didn’t -sign until everybody else had.” - -Out of the alarm and bitterness and confusion, I gathered from my -father’s talk a conviction to which I still hold—that what had been -undertaken was _wrong_. My father told me it was as if somebody had -tried to crowd me off the road. Now I knew very well that, on this road -where our little white horse trotted up and down, we had our side, there -were rules, you couldn’t use the road unless you obeyed those rules, it -was not only bad manners but dangerous to attempt to disobey them. The -railroads—so said my father—ran through the valley by the consent of the -people; they had given them a right of way. The road on which I trotted -was a right of way. One man had the same right as another, but the -railroads had given to one something they would not give to another. It -was wrong. I sometimes hear learned people arguing that in the days of -this historic quarrel everybody took rebates, it was the accepted way. -If they had lived in the Oil Region through those days in 1872, they -would have realized that, far from being accepted, it was fought tooth -and nail. Everybody did not do it. In the nature of the offense -everybody could not do it. The strong wrested from the railroads the -privilege of preying upon the weak, and the railroads never dared give -the privilege save under promise of secrecy. - -In walking through the world there is a choice for a man to make. He can -choose the fair and open path, the path which sound ethics, sound -democracy, and the common law prescribe, or choose the secret way by -which he can get the better of his fellow man. It was that choice made -by powerful men that suddenly confronted the Oil Region. The sly, -secret, greedy way won in the end, and bitterness and unhappiness and -incalculable ethical deterioration for the country at large came out of -that struggle and others like it which were going on all over the -country—an old struggle with old defeats but never without men willing -to make stiff fights for their rights, even if it cost them all they -ever hoped to possess. - -At all events, uncomprehending as I was in that fine fight, there was -born in me a hatred of privilege—privilege of any sort. It was all -pretty hazy to be sure, but still it was well, at fifteen, to have one -definite plank based on things seen and heard, ready for a future -platform of social and economic justice if I should ever awake to my -need of one. At the moment, however, my reflection did not carry me -beyond the wrongness of the privilege which had so upset our world, -contradicting as it did the principle of consideration for others which -had always been basic in our family and religious teaching. I could not -think further in this direction, for now my whole mind was absorbed by -the overwhelming discovery that the world was not made in six days of -twenty-four hours each. - -My interest in science, which meant for me simply larger familiarity -with plants and animals and rocks, had set me looking over my father’s -books. Among them I found Hugh Miller’s “Testimony of the Rocks,” and -sat down to read it. Gradually I grasped with a combination of horror -and amazement that, instead of a creation, the earth was a growth—that -the creative days I had so clearly visualized were periods, eons long, -not to be visualized. It was all too clear to deny, backed as it was by -a wealth of geological facts. If this were true, why did the Bible -describe so particularly the work of each day, describe it and declare, -“And the evening and the morning were the first day,” etc., and end, -“and he rested on the seventh day”? Hugh Miller labored to prove that -there was no necessary contradiction between Genesis and Geology. But I -was too startled to accept what he said. A Bible that needed -reconciling, that did not mean what it said, was not the rock I had -supposed my feet were on; that words could have other meaning than that -I had always given them, I had not yet grasped. - -I was soon to find that the biblical day was disturbing a great part of -the Christian world, was a chief point of controversy in the church. I -had hardly made my discovery when Genesis and Geology appeared in the -pulpit of the Methodist Church of Titusville, Pennsylvania. Filling this -pulpit at that time was a remarkable and brilliant man, Amos Norton -Craft. Dr. Craft was an indefatigable student. It was told of him to the -wonder of the church that he laid aside yearly $200 of his meager salary -to buy books. Like all the ministers of those days, he was obliged to -face the challenges of science. Many of his fellows—most of them, so far -as my knowledge went—took refuge in heated declarations that the -conclusions that science was making were profane, godless, an affront to -divinity. Not so Dr. Craft. He accepted them, strove to fit them into -the Christian system. He startled his congregation and interested the -town profoundly by announcing an evening course of lectures on the -reconciliation of Genesis and Geology. The first of the series dealt -with the universe. I had never known there was one. The stars, yes. I -could name planets and constellations and liked nothing better than to -lie on my back and watch them; but a universe with figures of its size -was staggering. I went away from those Sunday night lectures fascinated, -horror-stricken, confused—a most miserable child, for not only was my -idea of the world shattered, not only was I left dizzily gyrating in a -space to which there was no end, but the whole Christian system I had -been taught was falling in a general ruin. I began to feel that I ought -to leave the church. I did not believe what I was supposed to believe. I -did not have the consolation of pride in emancipation which I find youth -frequently has when it finds itself obliged to desert the views it has -been taught. Indeed, I doubted greatly whether it was an emancipation. -What troubled me most was that if I gave up the church I had nothing to -put in place of something it had given me which seemed to me of supreme -importance; summed up, that something was in the commandment, “Do as you -would be done by.” Certainly nothing which Hugh Miller or Herbert -Spencer, whom I began to read in 1872 in the _Popular Science Monthly_, -helped me here. They gave me nothing to take the place of what had -always been the unwritten law of the Tarbell household, based as I knew -upon the teachings of the Bible. The gist of the Bible, as it had come -to me, was what I later came to call the brotherhood of man. Practically -it was that we should do nothing, say nothing, that injured another. -That was a catastrophe, and when it happened in our household—an -inarticulate household on the whole, though one extraordinarily -conscious of the minds and hearts of one another—when it happened the -whole household was shadowed for hours and it was not until by sensitive -unspoken efforts the injured one had been consoled, that we went on -about our usual ways. - -This was something too precious to give up, and something for which I -did not find a substitute in the scientific thinking and arguing in -which I was floundering. The scientists offered me nothing to guide me -in human relations, and they did not satisfy a craving from which I -could not escape; that was the need of direction, the need of that which -I called God and which I still call God. Perhaps I was a calculating -person, a cautious one. At all events I made up my mind to wait and find -out something which better took the place of those things which I so -valued. It cost me curious little compromises, compromises that I had to -argue myself into. The chief came in repeating the creed. - -I could repeat, “conceived of the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary,” -because for many years I did not know what that meant. It was the -resurrection that disturbed me. I could not accept it, nor could I -accept the promise of personal immortality. That had become a grave -doubt with me when I first grew dizzy with the consciousness of the -vastness of the universe. Why should I expect to exist forever as a -conscious mind in that vast emptiness? What would become of me? I did -not want to think about it, and I came then to a conviction that has -never left me: that as far as I am concerned immortality is not my -business, that there is too much for me to attend to in this mortal life -without overspeculation on the immortal, that it is not necessary to my -peace of mind or to my effort to be a decent and useful person, to have -a definite assurance about the affairs of the next world. I say this -with humility, for I believe that some such assurance is necessary to -the peace and usefulness of many persons, and I am the last to scoff at -the revelations they claim. - -And yet it was hard to give up heaven. Among the books on our -shelves—many of them orthodox religious books—was one that had a -frontispiece which I had accepted as a definite picture of the heaven to -which I was to go. Jehovah sat on a throne, cherubim and seraphim around -him, rank upon rank of angels filling the great amphitheater below. I -always wondered where my place would be, and whether there would be any -chance to work up in heaven as there seemed to be on earth, to become a -cherub. - -But giving up this heaven was by no means the greatest tragedy in my -discovery that the world was not made in six days of twenty-four hours -each. The real tragedy was the birth in me of doubt and uncertainty. -Nothing was ever again to be final. Always I was to ask myself when -confronted with a problem, a system, a scheme, a code, a leader, “How -can I accept without knowing more?” The quest of the truth had been born -in me—the most tragic and incomplete, as well as the most essential, of -man’s quests. - -It was while groping my way, frightened like a lost child, I found a -word to hold to—evolution. Things grew. What did they grow from? They -all started somewhere. I was soon applying the idea. Nothing seemed to -matter now, except to find the starting point of things and, having -that, see why and how they grew into something else. How were you to go -to work to find the start of life? With a microscope. And I soon was in -the heat of my first intellectual passion, my first and greatest—that -for the microscope. With a microscope I could perhaps get an answer to -my mystification about the beginning of life, where it started; and -then, I believed, I should find God again. - -I was a practical person apparently, for I at once began to save my -money and soon had enough to put into a small instrument. The house in -Titusville, like many of its period, had a tower room, a steep staircase -running up to it. This room was surrounded on three sides with big -double windows. I begged to have it for my own. Here I was allowed to -set up shop; here I had my desk, my papers, and my microscope; here I -was alone with my problems. That little microscope had a good deal to do -with my determination to go to college. If I was to become a -microscopist—I had already adopted that word—I must study, get an -education. - -This determination of mine to get an education, go to college, was -chiefly due, no doubt, to the active crusade going on in those days for -what we called woman’s rights. Ours was a yeasty time, the ferment -reaching into every relation of life, attacking and remodeling every -tradition, every philosophy. As my father was hard hit by the attack on -his conception of individualism in a democracy—freedom with strictest -consideration for the rights and needs of others—as I was struggling -with all the handicaps of my ignorance, with the nature of life, a -search for God, so my mother was facing a little reluctantly a -readjustment of her status in the home and in society. She had grown up -with the Woman’s Rights movement. Had she never married, I feel sure she -would have sought to “vindicate her sex” by seeking a higher education, -possibly a profession. The fight would have delighted her. If she had -gone to Iowa she surely would have soon joined the agitation led there -in the late fifties by Amelia Bloomer, the inventor of the practical and -ugly costume which still carries her name, the real founder of dress -reform. We owe it to Amelia Bloomer that we can without public ridicule -wear short skirts and stout boots, be as sensible as our feminine -natures permit—which is not saying much for us when it comes to -fashions. But my mother found herself a pioneer in the Oil Region, -confronted by the sternest of problems which were to be settled only by -immediate individual effort and good will. - -The move to Titusville, however, soon put my mother in touch with the -crusade for equal political rights which was taking the place of the -earlier movement for woman’s rights. The Civil War had slowed up that -agitation; indeed, many of its best talking points had been conceded and -were slowly going into practice. Most of the militants had thrown -themselves into war work and, after the war, into the campaign for negro -suffrage; but the passing of the Fourteenth Amendment in 1868, for the -first time introducing the word “male” into the Constitution, aroused a -sense of outrage, not only in the advocates of equal rights but in many -women who had not approved of previous agitations. Elizabeth Cady -Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, the greatest of the early leaders, failing -to keep the humiliating distinction out of the Amendment, began a -tremendous national crusade for woman’s suffrage. They marshaled a group -of splendid women and undertook an intensive campaign meant to reach -every woman in the country. It reached us in Titusville, even reached -our home where my father and mother, always hospitable to crusaders, -opened their doors to them. I remember best Mary Livermore and Frances -Willard—not that either touched me, saw me; of this neglect I was -acutely conscious. I noted, too, that the men we entertained did notice -me, talked to me as a person—not merely as a possible member of a -society they were promoting. There was Neal Dow—father by this time was -a prohibitionist—who let me show him our Dante with Gustave Doré’s -pictures. Men were nicer than women to me, I mentally noted. - -As the struggle for equal rights grew in heat I became aware that it was -far from a united struggle, that as a matter of fact leaders and -followers were spending almost as much time disapproving of one -another’s methods as fighting for their cause. The friction came largely -from the propensity of Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony to form alliances -shocking to many of their oldest and wisest friends. Before the war they -had, rather recklessly from a political point of view, supported easier -divorce. As one of their friends wrote them, they had in so doing broken -the heart of the portly _Evening Post_ and nearly driven the _Tribune_ -to the grave. Time had not cooled their ardor for strange bedfellows. -They made an alliance now of which I heard no little talk by my mother -and her friends; it was with the two most notorious women in the eye of -the public at the moment. “Hussies,” conservative circles in Titusville, -Pennsylvania, called them—Victoria Woodhull and Tennessee Claflin. - -It was not difficult for even a girl of fifteen to pick up some idea of -what these women were, so well did they advertise themselves, and so -delightedly did the press back them up in their doings. Beginning their -careers as clairvoyants, they had developed professionally their -undoubted powers until they were in the sixties—the two best known and -best paid trance-physicians of their day. Victoria claimed to have -raised a child from the dead, and Tennessee, the harder worker of the -two, made enough money to keep thirty-five relations in comfort. “If I -am a humbug sometimes, look at the dead beats I have to support,” was -her answer to those who accused her of abusing her talents. Both women -frankly advocated free love, and so it was believed quite as frankly -practiced it. - -With this equipment they entered Wall Street in the eighteen-sixties as -consultants. The “lady brokers,” they were called. They quickly built up -a profitable business. Old Commodore Vanderbilt was so tickled by their -combination of beauty and effrontery, talents and ambitions, that he is -said to have proposed marriage to Victoria. He was more valuable as a -friend. She kept his picture on the wall of the salon where she received -her clients, and under it the framed motto, “Simply to thy cross I -cling.” - -In 1870 Victoria Woodhull announced herself as a candidate for President -in 1872. So successful was she in attracting and holding big audiences, -and so brilliantly did she present the arguments for equal rights, that -Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony threw scruples to the wind and took her -into their camp—from which promptly there was a considerable exodus of -scandalized ladies. Not only did Victoria win the countenance of these -two great leaders, but she involved them in the Beecher-Tilton scandal, -which for months she worked steadily to force before the public. - -The reverberations of the conflict inside the suffrage party, together -with what I picked up about the Beecher trial (I read the testimony word -by word in our newspapers), did not increase my regard for my sex. They -did not seem to substantiate what I heard about the subjection of women, -nor did what I observed nearer home convince me. Subjection seemed to me -fairly divided. That is all: I saw there were “henpecked men,” as well -as “downtrodden women.” The chief unfairness which I recognized was in -the handling of household expenses. Women who must do the spending were -obliged to ask for money or depend on charging. My mother had not been -trained to live on as generous a scale as was now possible, but my -father never said, “We have so much and no more to spend.” They worked -often at cross purposes. So I gathered as I listened to intimate talks -between women, listened to suffrage speakers, read the literature; so -did many American husbands and wives. I felt no restraint myself, for I -always had at least a little money and I, too, could charge. This -foolish practice led me into funny expenditures. - -I had no sense of the appropriate in clothes. Often I had an ardent -desire for something fitted only for grown-ups, and I always had a keen -ambition to fit myself out for occasions. Some time in the early -seventies Clara Louise Kellogg came to town. My father and mother were -in the West, but they had arranged that I was to hear her. It seemed as -if some kind of regalia was necessary, so I charged a wide pink sash and -a pair of yellow kid gloves. - -Out of the agitation for rights as it came to me, two rights that were -worth going after quite definitely segregated themselves: the right to -an education, and the right to earn my living—education and economic -independence. - -The older I grew, the more determined I became to be independent. I saw -only one way—teach; but if I was to teach I must fit myself, go to -college. My father and mother agreed. I had a clear notion of what I -wanted to teach—natural science, particularly the microscope, for I was -to be a biologist. I made my choice—Cornell, first opened to women in -1872; but at the moment when the steps to enter Cornell were to be -taken, there appeared in the household as an over-Sunday guest the -president of a small college in our neighborhood, only thirty miles -away, Allegheny. Among the patrons of that college was the Methodist -organization known as the Erie Conference, to which the Titusville -church belonged. I had heard of it annually when a representative -appeared in our pulpit, told its story and asked for support. The -president, Dr. Lucius Bugbee, was a delightful and entertaining guest -and, learning that I was headed Cornellward, adroitly painted the -advantages of Allegheny. It was near home; it was a ward of our church. -It had responded to the cry of women for educational opportunity and had -opened its doors before the institution I had chosen. - -Was not here an opportunity for a serious young woman interested in the -advancement of her sex? Had I not a responsibility in the matter? If the -few colleges that had opened their doors were to keep them open, if -others were to imitate their example, two things were essential: women -must prove they wanted a college education by supporting those in their -vicinity; and they must prove by their scholarship what many -doubted—that they had minds as capable of development as young men. -Allegheny had not a large territory to draw from. I must be a pioneer. - -As a matter of fact the only responsibility I had felt and assumed in -going to college was entirely selfish and personal. But the sense of -responsibility was not lacking nor dormant in me. It was one of the few -things I had found out about myself in the shanty on the flats when I -was six years old and there was a new baby in the family. - -The woman looking after my mother had said, “Now you are old enough to -make a cup of tea and take it to her.” I think, in all my life since, -nothing has seemed more important, more wonderful to me than this being -called upon by an elder to do something for mother, be responsible for -it. I can feel that cup in my hand as I cautiously took it to the bed, -and can see my mother’s touching smile as she thanked me. Perhaps there -came to her a realization that this rebelling, experimenting child might -one day become a partner in the struggle for life so serious for her at -the moment, always to be more or less serious. - -But to return to Dr. Bugbee and his argument; before he left the house I -had agreed to enter Allegheny in the fall of 1876. And that I did. - -What did I take with me? Well, I took what from my earliest years I had -been told was necessary to everyone—a Purpose, always spelled with a -capital. I had an outline of the route which would lead to its -realization. Making outlines of what was in my mind was the one and only -fruit that I had gathered so far from long terms of struggle over -grammar, rhetoric, composition. Outlines which held together, I had -discovered, cleared my mind, gave it something to follow. I outlined all -my plans as I had diagramed sentences. It was not a poor beginning for -one who eventually, and by accident rather than by intention, was to -earn her living by writing—the core of which must be sound structure. - -One thing by choice left out of the plan I carried from high school was -marriage. I would never marry. It would interfere with my plan; it would -fetter my freedom. I didn’t quite know what Freedom meant; certainly I -was far from realizing that it exists only in the spirit, never in human -relations, never in human activities—that the road to it is as often as -not what men call bondage. But above all I must be free; and to be free -I must be a spinster. When I was fourteen I was praying God on my knees -to keep me from marriage. I suspect that it was only an echo of the -strident feminine cry filling the air at that moment, the cry that woman -was a slave in a man-made world. By the time I was ready to go to -college I had changed my prayer for freedom to a will to freedom. Such -was the baggage I carried to college, where I was soon to find several -things I had not counted on. - - - - - 3 - A COEDUCATIONAL COLLEGE OF THE EIGHTIES - - -When I entered Allegheny College in the fall of 1876 I made my first -contact with the past. I had been born and reared a pioneer; I knew only -the beginning of things, the making of a home in a wilderness, the -making of an industry from the ground up. I had seen the hardships of -beginnings, the joy of realization, the attacks that success must -expect; but of things with a past, things that had made themselves -permanent, I knew nothing. It struck me full in the face now, for this -was an old college as things west of the Alleghenies were reckoned—an -old college in an old town. Here was history, and I had never met it -before to recognize it. - -The town lay in the valley of a tributary of the Allegheny River—French -Creek. Its oldest tradition after the tales of Indians was that George -Washington once drank from a spring on the edge of the campus. Certainly -he passed that way in 1753 when he came up the river valley from Fort -Duquesne (Pittsburgh), following the route which led to Fort Le Bœuf -near Lake Erie. He comments in his diary, published the year after his -trip, on the extensive rich meadows through which he had passed, one of -which “I believe was nearly four miles in length and considerable wider -in some places.” To this particular “rich meadow” a few years later came -one David Mead and laid out a town and sold land. Here soon after came -the representative of the Holland Land Company, colonizers of first -quality. Good men came, distinguished names in Pennsylvania’s history, -and they wanted a college. The answer to their wish came in 1815 when -one of the most scholarly men of that day, Timothy Alden of -Massachusetts, heard their call and, picking up all his worldly -possessions, made the two months’ trip by coach and boat to the -settlement called Meadville. - -Timothy Alden, like many of his fellows, was fired by a deep belief that -through Christian democracy alone could men arrive at the better world -towards which he, scholar that he was, knew they had been groping from -their earliest beginnings. But men could only come to an understanding -of their individual and collective responsibilities to democracy through -education. Therefore, as men spread westward he and others like him must -follow them with education. - -But once in Meadville how little he found with which to carry out his -project—a log courthouse for a schoolhouse, and little or no money, -though of what they had men gave freely. Now Timothy Alden knew that -throughout the East were men of scholarly traditions convinced as was he -that democracy would work only if men were trained to understanding and -sacrifice. He believed that they would help his Western venture. In 1816 -he went East to find out. He was not wrong in thinking there would be -sympathy for the young college. Out of their meager store men gave—this -one, fifty cents; that one, five dollars; few, more—and men gave books, -one, two, five. The list of donors now in the college archives shows -many of the best known names of the day—Lowell, Adams, Tucker, Parkman, -Channing in Boston and twenty-nine fine New York names. Friends were -made for Allegheny in every town and city where its brave story was -told. Timothy Alden came back with $361 in money and with books, more -needed than money, estimated to be worth $1,642.26. - -From that time he kept the undertaking steadily before the East, -promoted it by every method known to the times. A great response to his -passionate effort came in 1819 when the college world of the East was -shocked by learning that William Bentley of Salem, Massachusetts, had -left his famous collection of “classical and theological books, -dictionaries, lexicons and Bibles” to a college in the wilderness of -northwestern Pennsylvania, a college without a home, still doing its -work in a log courthouse. That gift, long a bitter drop in the cup of -Harvard, it is said, made a home of its own necessity for Allegheny, and -in 1820 the corner stone of Bentley Hall, named for the donor, was laid. -It took many years to complete it; but, when done on the lines Timothy -Alden had himself laid down, it was one of the most beautiful buildings -in the country. Today it easily stands after Independence Hall as the -most perfect piece of Colonial architecture in the state of -Pennsylvania. For me Bentley Hall was an extraordinary experience. It -was the first really beautiful building I had seen, a revelation, -something I had never dreamed of. - -Fifty-six years had passed since the corner stone of Bentley Hall was -laid, and not one of them without disappointments and sacrifices. More -than once it had seemed as if the brave attempt must fail. Two buildings -only had been added in these years: Culver Hall, a frame boarding house -for men; Ruter Hall, a grim uncompromising three-story rectangular brick -structure, fifty by ninety feet in size, a perfect reflection of the -straitened period to which it belonged. The “Factory” was our slighting -name for Ruter Hall, but in this stern structure I was to find a second -deep satisfaction—the library; in a room on the top floor, ninety feet -long and at least sixteen in height was housed not only the splendid -Bentley collection, but one even more valuable, that of Judge James -Winthrop of Cambridge, Massachusetts, rare volumes from the great -presses of Europe, three tons of books brought overland in wagons by -Boston teamsters in 1822. They lined the great unbroken inside wall, as -well as every space between openings. From the window seats one looked -out on the town in the valley, its roofs and towers half hidden by a -wealth of trees, and beyond to a circle of round-breasted hills. Before -I left Allegheny I had found a very precious thing in that severe -room—the companionship there is in the silent presence of books. - -Allegheny did not of course admit women at the start; but the ferment -caused by the passing of the Fourteenth Amendment making it clear that -only men were to be regarded as citizens stirred the Allegheny -constituents mightily. Its chief patron, as I have said, was the -Methodist Church. Now the Methodist Church was a militant reformer. The -greatest of its bishops, Matthew Simpson, had backed Mrs. Stanton and -Miss Anthony and their colleagues at every step. Leaders among Methodist -women had been abolitionists, aggressive temperance advocates, and now -they became militant suffragists. Their influence began to tell. In -1870, with misgivings in not a few minds the admission of women was -voted. This was the same year that the University of Michigan opened its -doors to women, and two years before Cornell. In the six years before I -entered ten women had graduated. When I came there were but two seniors, -two juniors, no sophomores. I was a lone freshman in a class of forty -hostile or indifferent boys. The friendly and facetious professor -charged with the care of the “young ladies” put it that I was “Lost in -the Wilderness of Boy.” - -From the first I was dimly conscious that I was an invader, that there -was abroad a spirit of masculinity challenging my right to be there, and -there were taboos not to be disregarded. My first experience was that of -which Virginia Woolf speaks so bitterly in “A Room of One’s Own”—the -closing of the college green to her at Oxbridge. Nearly fifty years -before her book was written I was having at Allegheny the same -experience. - -The sloping green of the campus below Bentley Hall was inviting. Between -classes I made my way one day to a seat under a tree only to hear a -horrified call from the walk above, “Come back, come back quick.” An -imperative summons from an upper-class woman. “You mustn’t go on that -side of the walk, only men go there.” - -It was not so simple to find a spot where you could go and be -comfortable. If Bentley Hall, where all the classes were held, was a -beautiful piece of architecture, its interior could hardly have been -more severe. The rooms were heated with potbellied cast-iron stoves, -seated with the hardest wooden chairs, lighted by kerosene lamps. In -winter (and the winters were long) the snow tracked in kept the floors -wet and cold. Often one wore a muffler in chapel. But of all that I was -unheeding. My pioneer childhood served me well. Moreover, I realized at -the start that I had found what I had come to college for, direction in -the only field in which I was interested—science. I found it in a way -that I doubt if Cornell could have given me at the moment, shy and -immature as I was: the warming and contagious enthusiasm of a great -natural teacher, one who had an ardent passion for those things which -had stirred me and a wide knowledge which he fed by constant study and -travel—Jeremiah Tingley, the head of Allegheny’s department of natural -science. - -Professor Tingley was then a man of fifty, sparkling, alive, informal. -Three years before, he had been one of the fifty chosen from many -hundred applicants to spend the summer with Louis Agassiz on the island -of Penikese in Buzzards Bay. Agassiz had planned with enthusiasm for the -Penikese Summer School, and for those privileged to enter who could -understand and appreciate it was an unforgettable experience; certainly -it was for Jeremiah Tingley. He carried there Agassiz’s faith in -observation and classification, as well as his reverence for Nature and -all her ways. For both men the material world was but the cover of the -spirit. Professor Tingley would quote Agassiz sometimes: “Nature always -brings us back to absolute truth whenever we wander.” - -This fervent faith had a profound and quieting effect on my religious -tumult. I learned a new word: Pantheism. Being still in that early stage -of development where there must be a definite word by which to classify -oneself, I began to call myself a pantheist—and I had a creed which I -repeated more often than the creed I had learned in childhood: - - Flower in the crannied wall, - I pluck you out of the crannies, - I hold you here, root and all, in my hand - Little flower—but _if_ I could understand - What you are, root and all, and all in all, - I should know what God and man is. - -It reassured me; I was on the right track, for was I not going to find -out with the microscope what God and man are? - -Professor Tingley’s method for those he found really interested in -scientific study was to encourage them to look outside the book. There -was where I had already found my joy; but I suspected it was the willful -way, that the true way was to know first what was in the books. Here in -Professor Tingley’s classes you were ordered to go and see for yourself. -He used to tell us a story of his first experience at Penikese. A stone -was put before him, a round water-washed stone, on which he was to -report. He looked at the stone, turned it over. There was nothing to -report. “It is not the outside, it is the inside of things that -matters,” said Agassiz. And in the laboratory that became our watchword: -Look inside. - -Discovering my interest in the microscope, I was not only allowed, I was -urged to use the magnificent binocular belonging to the college, was -given the free run of the laboratory along with a few as crazy as -myself. Here my most exciting adventure apart from what I found under -the microscope came from actually having my hands on a “missing link.” -Evolution, to which I was clinging determinedly, could only be -established, I realized, by discovering the links. There was one -peculiar to the waters in our valley, the _Memopomo Alleghaniensis_, a -creature twelve to fifteen inches long with gills and one lung, able to -live in the water or mud as circumstances required. The mud puppy, as it -was appropriately called, was slimy, loathsome, but I worked over it -with awe. Was I not being admitted into the very workshop of Nature -herself—seeing how she did it? - -Professor Tingley took his little group of laboratory devotees into his -home circle. He and Mrs. Tingley were housed in a wing of Bentley -Hall—big rooms built for classrooms. They had no children, and in the -years of their study and travel they had gathered about them things of -beauty and interest. The atmosphere of those rooms was something quite -new and wonderful to me. It was my first look into the intimate social -life possible to people interested above all in ideas, beauty, music, -and glad to work hard and live simply to devote themselves to their -cultivation. - -And such good talks! Much of it was concerned with fresh scientific -thought, the inventions and discoveries which were stirring the world. -An omnivorous reader of the scientific publications of Europe and -America, Professor Tingley kept us excited, not only by what had been -done but what it might mean. There was the telephone. I had been in -college but a few weeks when my father asked me to go with him and my -brother to the Centennial Exposition of 1876. President Bugbee, who had -made me his special care for a time—Mrs. Bugbee even taking me into -their home until an appropriate boarding place could be found—was -heartily in favor of my going. I went, and when I returned Professor -Tingley’s first question was, “Did you see the telephone?” I hadn’t even -heard of it. Two exhibits only of that exposition made a deep enough -impression on me to last until today—my first Corot and the Corliss -engine. Professor Tingley was greatly disappointed, and I did not -understand why until a few weeks later he called the student body -together to explain and illustrate the telephone by a homemade -instrument. “You’ll talk to your homes from these rooms one day,” he -told us. “New York will talk to Boston.” He didn’t suggest Chicago. -“Dreamer,” the boys said. “Dreamer,” my father and his Titusville -friends said a little later when an agent of the Bell Associates, the -first company to attempt putting the new invention within reach of -everybody, came to town selling stock. How often I heard it said later, -“If I’d bought that telephone stock!” - -Years later I told Alexander Graham Bell of my introduction to the -telephone. “Nobody,” he said, “can estimate what the teachers of science -in colleges and high schools were doing in those days not only to spread -knowledge of the telephone but to stir youth to tackle the possibilities -in electricity.” - -What I best remember is not the telephone but Professor Tingley’s -amazing enthusiasm for the telephone. This revelation of enthusiasm, its -power to warm and illuminate was one of the finest and most lasting of -my college experiences. The people I had known, teachers, preachers, -doctors, business men, all went through their day’s work either with a -stubborn, often sullen determination to do their whole duty, or with an -undercurrent of uneasiness, if they found pleasure in duty. They seemed -to me to feel that they were not really working if they were not -demonstrating the Puritan teaching that labor is a curse. It had never -seemed so to me, but I did not dare gloat over it. And here was a -teacher who did gloat over his job in all its ramifications. Moreover, -he did his best to stir you to share his joy. - -But while I looked on what I was learning in the laboratory as what I -had come to college for, while each term stiffened my ambition to go -deeper and deeper into the search for the original atom, science was not -all that interested me. The faculty, if small, was made up largely of -seasoned men with a perspective on life. There was not only deep -seriousness but humor and tolerance, and since we were so small a -college the student was close enough to discover them, to find out what -each man as an individual had to offer him. As I learned the power of -enthusiasm from Jeremiah Tingley, I learned from another man of that -faculty the value of contempt. Holding the chair of Latin was one of the -few able teachers I have known, George Haskins, father of that sound -scholar of international repute, the late Charles Homer Haskins, at the -time of his death Professor Emeritus of Medieval History at Harvard -University. What deep satisfaction his career gave his father, himself a -man of many disappointments! - -George Haskins labored, usually in vain, to arouse us to the choiceness -of Latinity, the meaning of Rome’s rise and fall, the quality of her -men, the relation of that life to ours. Professor Haskins’ contempt for -our lack of understanding, for our slack preparation, was something -utterly new to me in human intercourse. The people I knew with rare -exceptions spared one another’s feelings. I had come to consider that a -superior grace; you must be kind if you lied for it. But here was a man -who turned on indifference, neglect, carelessness with bitter and -caustic contempt, left his victim seared. The sufferers lived to say, -some of them at least: “I deserved it. He was never unjust, never -inappreciative of effort.” - -“Cherish your contempts,” Henry James advised me once when he had drawn -from me a confession of the conflict between my natural dislike of -saying anything unpleasant about anybody and the necessity of being -cruel, even brutal, if the work I had undertaken was to be truthful in -fact and logic. “Cherish your contempts,” said Mr. James, “and strength -to your elbow.” If it had not been for George Haskins I doubt if I -should have known what he meant; nor should I ever have become the -steady, rather dogged worker I am. The contempt for shiftlessness which -he inspired in me aroused a determination to be a good worker. I began -to train my mind to go at its task regularly, keep hours, study whether -I liked a thing or not. I forced myself not to waste time, not to loaf, -not to give up before I finished. If I failed at any point in this -discipline I suffered a certain mental and spiritual malaise, a -dissatisfaction with myself hard to live with. - -In spite of my painful efforts to make a regular worker out of myself, -life at college was lightened by my discovery of the Boy. Incredible as -it seems to me now, I had come to college at eighteen without ever -having dared to look fully into the face of any boy of my age. To be -sure, I had from childhood nourished secret passions for a succession of -older individuals whom I never saw except at a distance, and with whom I -never exchanged a word. My brother and his friends, my father and his -friends—these I had always hobnobbed with; but those who naturally -should have been my companions, I shunned. I was unable to take part in -those things that brought the young people of the day together. I did -not dance—the Methodist discipline forbade it. I was incredibly stupid -and uninterested in games—still am. I had no easy companionable ways, -was too shy to attempt them. I had my delights; the hills which I ran, -the long drives behind our little white horse, the family doings, the -reading of French regularly with my splendid friend Annette Grumbine, -still living, still as she was then a vitalizing influence in the town -and state for all that makes for a higher social life—these things and -my precious evening walks, the full length of Titusville’s main street, -alone or with some girl friend while we talked of things deepest in our -minds. - -But in all this there was no boy. I was not long in discovering him when -I reached Allegheny, for the taboos I encountered at the start soon -yielded under the increased number of women, women in college, in -special courses, in the Preparatory Department. They swept masculine -prohibitions out of the way—took possession, made a different kind of -institution of it, less scholastic, gayer, easier-going. The daily -association in the classrooms, the contacts and appraisements, the -mutual interests and intimacies, the continual procession of college -doings which in the nature of things required that you should have a -masculine attendant, soon put me at my ease. I was learning, learning -fast, but the learning carried its pains. I still had a stiff-necked -determination to be free. To avoid entangling alliances of all kinds had -become an obsession with me. I was slow in laying it aside when I began -to take part in the social life of the college, and because of it I was -guilty of one performance which was properly enough a scandal to the -young men. - -There were several men’s fraternities in the college; most of the boys -belonged to one or another. It was an ambition of the fraternities to -put their pins on acceptable town and college girls. You were a Delta -girl, or a Gamma girl or a Phi Psi girl. I resented this effort to tag -me. Why should I not have friends in all the fraternities? And I had; I -accumulated four pins and then, one disastrous morning, went into chapel -with the four pins on my coat. There were a few months after that when, -if it had not been for two or three non-Frat friends, I should have been -a social outcast. - -I spent four years in Allegheny College. Measured by what I got instead -of by what I did not get and was obliged to learn later, I regard them -as among the most profitable of my life. I find often that men and women -accuse the college of not opening their minds to life as it is in the -world. For a mind sufficiently developed to see “life as it is” I cannot -conceive a more fruitful field than the classics. If I had been -sufficiently mature I could have learned from George Haskins’ teachings -of Cicero and Tacitus and Livy more than I know today about the ways of -men in their personal and their national relations, more of the causes -of war, of the weaknesses of governments. But I was not ready for it. -Life is the great teacher, and she leads us step by step. It is not the -fault of the human teacher that his pupil must learn to climb by -climbing. - -It was in the spring of 1880 that I graduated. I still carried the same -baggage with which I had entered—a little heavier to be sure, a little -better packed, a little better adapted to the “Purpose.” The only -difference which threatened disturbance was that I had added an item -which I had refused to bring with me in 1876. Then I was not willing to -believe I would ever marry—now I thought possibly some day I might; but -the item was not heavy, not heavy enough at least to prevent my -rejoicing over the fact that I was graduating with a job. I had signed a -contract with an institution of which I had never heard until the -negotiations leading to it opened. After frequent communications with -the faculty a representative of the Poland Union Seminary of Poland, -Ohio, with some misgivings had employed me to serve as its -Preceptress—$500 a year “and board yourself.” I was jubilant. It meant -economic independence—the first plank in my platform. I would use my -leisure to work with the microscope; I would save my money; I would one -day go abroad and study with some great biologist. I would never abandon -my search for the beginning of life, the point where I expected to find -God. - -It was then with entire confidence in the future that I started out in -August of 1880 for the town of Poland on the Western Reserve of Ohio, to -begin what women were then talking of in more or less awed tones as a -Career. - - - - - 4 - A START AND A RETREAT - - -If I had been going on my honeymoon I should scarcely have been more -expectant or more curious than I was in August of 1880 when I left home -to take my first position: “Preceptress of Poland Union Seminary, -Poland, Mahoning County, Ohio—$500.00 a year and board yourself”! Poland -was not a long journey from my home—four or five hours. - -I found the village delightful. It had the air of having been long in -existence, as it had. Here there was no noise of railroads, no sign of -the coal and steel and iron industries which encircled it but had never -passed its boundaries. Here all people seemed to me to live tranquilly -in roomy houses with pleasant yards or on near-by farms where there were -fine horses and fat blooded sheep, and where planting and harvesting -went ahead year in and year out in orderly fashion. - -The chief and only industry of Poland was its seminary, now about thirty -years old. It was a community enterprise started in 1848 by Mr. B. F. -Lee, the financial agent who had hired me. Everybody in the village had -subscribed to its endowment, practically every church had at one time or -another been its patron. The long depression of the seventies had -crippled its finances sadly; but times were better now, and the -well-to-do Presbytery of Mahoning County had agreed to take it under its -care. But I was soon to learn that Poland Union Seminary in spite of the -patronage of the Presbytery lived on a narrow and worn shoestring. -Moreover, I at once divined, kind as were those who were responsible for -my being there, that I had been injected into a situation of which Mr. -Lee had given me no hint strong enough to penetrate my inexperience. It -was serious enough, as on the very day the school bell first rang for me -the villagers began to let me know. Men and women would stop me on the -street to say: - -“So it’s you that’s taking Miss Blakeley’s place. You have no idea how -badly we feel about her resigning. I went to school to her, my father -and mother went to school to her. I had hoped all my children would go -to her. She was a wonderful teacher, a beautiful character. You look -pretty young; you haven’t had much experience, have you?” - -I was not long in learning that the devotion of the community to Miss -Blakeley was deserved. The village was right in honoring her, in -mourning her. It no doubt felt a certain satisfaction in letting me know -at the start it in no way regarded me as an adequate substitute. Its -insistence was such that, before the end of my first fortnight, I was -ready to resign. - -My morale would hardly have been so quickly shaken if I had not at once -discovered to my consternation that there was an important part of my -duties which was in danger of proving too much for me. The worst of it -was that it concerned the largest block of pupils in an institution -where every pupil counted, where Mr. Lee regarded it as of vital -importance that every pupil be given what he wanted. Here he advertised -you could prepare for college, here you could have special advanced work -in anything you wanted. And Mr. Lee was right if the seminary was to -live as a cog in the country’s educational wheel. - -Somebody ought to write, perhaps somebody has written of the passing of -this once valuable institution. It came before the college and the high -school and for a time did the work of both; but when the high school -began to prepare students for the college and the colleges added -preparatory departments and at the same time offered special courses the -seminary slowly realized that it must either go out of business or -combine with one or another of its healthy growing rivals. - -In a few places, as in Poland Village, the seminary was hanging on -tenaciously, trying to demonstrate that it was still a better man than -these new undertakings, these high schools, these colleges with their -preparatory schools. - -The faculty which was to make the demonstration at Poland was made up of -three persons: in order of rank, the President, the Preceptress, her -assistant. The acting President insisted on all the perquisites of his -title. His chief duty he regarded as conducting the chapel with more or -less grandiloquent remarks. When my assistant and I complained of too -much work he would scowl and say that his executive duties made it -impossible for him to take on more classes. The result was that I -started out with two classes in each of four languages—Greek, Latin, -French, and German, as well as classes in geology, botany, geometry, -trigonometry. In addition there was my threatened Waterloo, the two -largest classes in the school: one in what was called “verb grammar,” -the other, “percentage arithmetic”—so named from the points in the -textbooks where the term’s work began. From time immemorial these two -classes had been conducted in the interests of the district -schoolteachers of the territory. It was the custom for these teachers to -spend one term a year in the seminary, where, regardless of the number -of years they had been teaching, the number of times they had treated -themselves to a period of study, they always (so I was told) insisted on -their verb grammar and their percentage arithmetic. It was like a -ritual. As they were the numerical backbone of the institution, there -was nothing so important in the judgment of management as their -satisfaction. - -It was a killing schedule for one person, but I was so eager, so -ridiculously willing, so excited, and also so fresh from college that I -did not know it. Indeed, as I look back on it I think I did fairly well, -all things considered. I should have had no great alarm about my success -if it had not been for the grammar and the arithmetic. From the first -day I realized I was on ground there which, once familiar, was now -almost unintelligible. I could and did teach my geometry and “trig” with -relish; I could and did pilot fairly advanced classes in four languages -so that the pupils at least never discovered that in one of them I was -far beyond my depth, and that in all of them I at times knew myself to -be skating on thin ice; but these district schoolteachers, several of -them older than I, were not to be deceived or bluffed. They had had -experience—I had not; and like the villagers of Poland they proposed to -make me realize that no college diploma could make up for inexperience. -Experience in “percentage arithmetic” and “verb grammar” came from doing -the same examples and diagraming and parsing the same sentences year -after year and going back to teach them in their communities. Many of -these examples were tricky. Many of the sentences were ambiguous. They -had learned solutions for both, solutions which had the backing of -tradition. I was soon terrified lest I be trapped, so scared I would -wake up in the night in cold sweats. This was my state of mind when one -day the most important man in the Village, Robert Walker, the local -banker, stopped me on the street. - -“Sis,” he said—he was to always call me Sis—“Sis, you are following a -fine teacher.” I could have wept—the same old story. “But don’t worry, -what you must do is keep a stiff upper lip.” - -“Oh, thank you, sir,” I said as I hurried on lest I cry in the street. - -But that “keep a stiff upper lip,” coming from the man it did, restored -me; and I resolved, cost what it would, to find a way to master my -district schoolteachers. True, it took me two months to discover the -weak place in their armor. Finally I learned they were solving problems -and parsing sentences not according to principles but according to -answers they had learned. The reason they insisted on going over them -year after year at the seminary was to keep the solutions in their -memory. I had no skill in solving puzzles, but I did know something -about the principles and determined to try them on problems and -sentences that were not in their books or any books to which they had -access. - -And so one day, luckily for me before they had a chance to demonstrate -my incapacity as two or three of them I am confident were expecting to -do, I casually put on the board two or three rather tough examples from -outside arithmetics, two or three not simple sentences from grammars I -felt sure they had never seen. I always recall with satisfaction the -perplexity with which the two or three young men I most feared looked at -what I had set for them, their injured protest. “But those examples are -not in our books.” “What difference does that make? The only important -thing is that you know the principles. If you can’t apply them, why -learn them?” - -After a month of excursions into territory unfamiliar to them I had them -humbled and slowly grasping certain new ideas. I knew I was regarded -with respect. It was the one conquest in the two years I spent as the -Preceptress of the Poland Union Seminary of which I was proud. - -Before these two years were up Mr. Lee must have realized he would never -get from me the help he needed in his ambition to preserve the school as -a seminary, that I would never become another Miss Blakeley. He wanted -some one ambitious to make teaching a life work. I was not. Teaching was -a mere stepping-stone in my plan of life, and at Poland Union Seminary -it had proved a slippery stone. From the time I bounded out of bed in -the morning—for in those days I did bound out of bed—until I dropped -into it at an early hour, dead tired, I had no time for my microscope. -It had become dusty on the table, but the passion for it and what it -might reveal was still strong in me. My confidence that I could save -money to continue my studies on five hundred dollars a year had proved -illusory. I found myself coming out short, obliged to borrow from my -father. There came to be a mutual, if unspoken, agreement between Mr. -Lee and me that I should resign. Neither of us was getting what he had -hoped, and so at the end of the second year, June, 1882, I gave up -teaching as a stepping-stone. - -So far as I could then see or did see for a long time, this first effort -at an independent self-directing life was an interlude which had no -relation to what I wanted at the time to do or what, as it turned out, I -did do. - -The most lasting impressions and experiences in this Poland interlude -had little or nothing to do with my work in the seminary. They came from -the friendships I formed while that work went on, centering in the -family of the understanding gentleman who had at the outset stopped me -on the street to say, “Keep a stiff upper lip.” - -I was soon to realize that this shrewd bit of advice was instigated by -his daughter Clara, who was to become and who remains one of my dearest -friends. Indeed, it was due to her understanding and affection that my -two years in Poland, quite apart from the professional disappointment in -them, were the gayest, most interesting, and in many ways the happiest -of my life up to that time. - -Clara Walker, or “Dot,” as high and low in and about Poland called her, -was a fine example of the out-of-door girl of the eighties, the girl who -had revolted against lacing, high heels, long skirts, and substituted -for them an admirable uniform of independence—tailor-made coat and -skirt, high-neck shirtwaist with four-in-hand tie, flat heels. This -outfit suited Clara Walker’s sturdy figure, her vigorous and free -movement. Her eyes suited her costume, for they were grey, direct, -merry, looking unwaveringly on everybody and everything. - -Dot was close-mouthed, but when she sensed possible unfairness in a -situation which interested or concerned her she had her own wordless way -of dealing with it. It was she who realized the determination of the -villagers of Poland to make me feel that I never could fill Miss -Blakeley’s place to their satisfaction. She was loyal as they to the old -teacher, but she wanted me to have my chance and, the first week of -school, announced herself my champion by appearing at the door of the -seminary as I was making my weary way out at the end of the day. - -“Wouldn’t you like to take a drive?” she said. - -And there stood her smart turnout. What an escape from verb grammar and -percentage arithmetic and my growing inferiority complex! From that time -she never lagged in her determination to help me conquer my problem by -taking me away from it. She apparently took real pleasure in showing me -the country. Never a week that we did not go somewhere: Into town for -the theater—the first time I saw Mary Anderson, then the most beloved -actress as well as the most beautiful woman in the country, was in -Youngstown in “Pygmalion”; to big farms with great flocks of blooded -sheep and horses and ponies; to coal mines and iron mills; to little old -towns and run-down settlements skipped, like Poland, by the invasion of -industry. - -Clara peopled all these various places with the unadorned realistic -tales of living and dead men and women. She had been born and had grown -up in Mahoning County. She had a widely scattered family connection, but -most important was her genuine interest in all human beings and theirs -in her. She was a perfect listener, never prying. People liked to talk -to her; she never forgot, related things, judged shrewdly and kindly, -with the result that she had in her mind a map of the human life of the -country, quite as reliable as a road map—a map in warm humorous colors. - -Years later I realized that in those two years in Poland I had had under -my eyes a vivid picture of what happens to the farmer, his home, his -town, his children when industry invades his land. - -This Mahoning country had been so rich, so apparently stable. The men -and women so loved what they and their forebears had done that they -yielded slowly to the coal miner and the mill man, but they were giving -way in the eighties. The furnace was in the back yard of the fine old -houses with their ample barns; and the shaft of the coal mine, in the -richest meadows. The effort to reconcile the two was making, but -industry was conquering: the destruction of beauty, the breaking down of -standards of conduct, the growth of the love of money for money’s sake, -the grist of social problems facing the countryside from the inflow of -foreigners and the instability of work—all this was written for him who -could read. I could not read then, but I gathered a few impressions -which I realize now helped shape my future interests and thinking. - -It was on these long drives I first learned that not cities alone but -all communities have dregs, slums. Strange that it should be in such a -place as Poland, but here it was—a disreputable fringe where a group of -men and women had long been living together with or without marriage. -You heard strange tales of incest and lust, of complete moral and social -irresponsibility, and they were having a scandalously jolly time of it. -Why I was not more shocked, I do not know; probably because incest and -lust were almost unknown words to me in those days. - -And there were indelible impressions of the industrial world. When we -drove into Youngstown, ten miles away, we passed between iron furnaces -lying along the Mahoning River. After the long depression of the -seventies they were again busy, and into the valley were coming hundreds -and hundreds of foreigners brought from Europe by the news that there -was once again work in the United States. It was in passing through the -very heart of this furnace district one night returning from the theater -that I first learned of the terrible dangers that lie in the smelting of -ore. A furnace had burst; men had been trapped by the molten metal, and -their charred remains were being carried across the road. Unforgettable -horror. - -And it was on one of these chance drives that I first saw what women can -do in moments of frenzied protest against situations which they cannot -control, first had my faith challenged in the universally peaceful -nature of my sex. I learned the meaning of Maenads, Furies, as we came -upon a maddened, threatening crowd rushing towards the offices of the -mills which had been shut down without warning. It was led by big robust -shrieking women, their hair flying, their clothes disheveled. It was a -look into a world of which I knew nothing, but like the charred bodies -carried across the road as I rode from the theater it was an -unforgettable thing. - -There were other introductions to the industrial world less horrifying. -It was while in Poland that I first went into a coal mine—a deep -old-fashioned coal mine, a subsidiary to a farm. Under some of these -great farms with their blooded sheep, their fine orchards and fields, -their horses and ponies, coal had been found. And it was being mined as -a side line of the farm, a new kind of crop. Near the head of the shaft -were little houses for the miners; and when dull times came and the mine -was shut down the farmers took on their care. There was a slaughter of -an immense number of pigs, the putting down of barrels of pork, the -smoking of an incredible number of hams, the making of sausages and -headcheese. - -“But why, why all this?” I asked. - -“Oh,” said my hostess, “mining is unstable business. When there are long -shutdowns we must help the miners out, see that they have food.” - -The intimacy with Dot Walker gave me a home. Mrs. Walker treated me as a -daughter, and as for Robert Walker, who still called me “Sis,” he liked -to have me around and to give me a word of wise counsel now and then. It -is because, in those months, I learned him to be as kindly, shrewd, -honest, simple-minded a man as I have ever known that I must interrupt -my narrative long enough to put in here the story of one of the cruelest -episodes of which I personally have known in the fifty years that I have -been a more or less understanding observer of our national political -life. The story is of Robert Walker and his one-time friend William -McKinley, the twenty-fifth President of the United States. - -When I became an intimate of the Walker household a person I often heard -mentioned by its head was “the Major”—Major McKinley. Now it was not in -1880 a name unfamiliar to me. I had met it already at Allegheny College, -where McKinley had once been a student. When the Civil War broke out he -had joined the exodus of students who volunteered at the first call. He -had come out of the war a major, studied law, and settled in Canton, -Ohio, only sixty or seventy miles from Poland and in the same -Congressional District. Here in 1876—the Mahoning district as it was -called—had sent him to Congress. It was a matter of interest in -Allegheny in my time to have one of its former students turn out a -Congressman, its usual crop being teachers, preachers, and missionaries. - -When I came to Poland I learned quickly that McKinley had lived there as -a boy, had attended the seminary, and was their proudest example of “the -boy who had made good.” For four years he had been their Congressman. -How they boasted of him! How solidly they voted for him! - -I was not long in the Walker household before I sensed something more in -Robert Walker than a citizen’s pride in McKinley. It was that species of -adoration a modest, honest-minded man often has for his leader—his -leader who can do no wrong. I realized this when I first saw them -together. The Major had come to our seminary commencement in June of -1881. I remember nothing at all of the speech he made, but the scene on -the wide green in front of the village church after the exercises were -over remains vivid. Scattered about were scores upon scores of girls and -women in the frilly white gowns, the long white feather boas, the -flower-trimmed hats, the gay parasols of the period; and in and out -wound the Major, shaking hands, smiling, exchanging friendly -greetings—all together at home, no back slapping, no kissing of babies. -It was all so gentle, so like a picture of an English garden party where -the politics are hidden beneath the finest of social veneers. And there -was Robert Walker almost effulgent. - -“Well, Sis,” he asked me later, “what do you think of the Major?” A -remark to which he expected no answer. What answer other than his could -there be? - -What I did not know then was that from the beginning of William -McKinley’s political career Robert Walker had been his chief—and for a -time, I think, his only—financial backer. Beginning with his first -campaign for Congress in 1875 Mr. Walker had advanced the Major $2,000 -for expenses. He continued equal advances before each successive -campaign, the understanding being that $1,000 a year was to be paid on -the debt. - -Along with this financial support went a staunch support of all the -Major’s political ideas. These ideas were those of the Republican party, -and for men like Robert Walker the party was hallowed. It was “the party -of Lincoln.” Loyalty to Lincoln required loyalty to all that was -directly or indirectly connected with him. - -“Is Robert Lincoln a dude?” one of my Mahoning County acquaintances -asked me years later when I told him that I had been talking with Robert -Lincoln about his father. - -“Is he a dude?”—by which he meant, as I took it, a kind of Ward -McAllister. - -“No, no, not that,” I assured him. - -“Well,” he said reflectively, “even if he was a dude I would vote for -him for President because he is Abraham Lincoln’s son.” - -The chief test of loyalty to the party of Lincoln in Ohio was the degree -of support given to the high protective tariff. William McKinley’s -support was devout and unqualified. He looked on a duty so low that it -allowed importations as a species of treason. There was tin plate, for -example. - -The year that I went to Poland, 1880, McKinley first espoused a duty on -tin plate. There was strong opposition among iron and steel -manufacturers. They felt they already had all they could look after in -Congress; but when they told this to McKinley his answer was that unless -they supported tin plate he would not support their tariffs. Naturally -they yielded, and tin plate was added to their list of protégés. -McKinley felt so sure of ultimate victory for the duty that he evidently -did not hesitate to advise his friends to get ready for its coming. At -all events he encouraged Robert Walker, suggested to him in fact that he -establish in Youngstown, Ohio, a stamping plant for the making of -tinware, taking with him as partner his brother-in-law Andrew J. Duncan. -As Andrew Duncan had no money to invest the Major gave to Mr. Walker a -sheaf of signed notes to be used whenever he had need of money. - -Now Robert Walker was not a manufacturer; he was a farmer and a good -one—a coal operator—the banker of the Village of Poland and the -surrounding country, but it was not in Robert Walker’s nature to refuse -to help the Major or his relatives in their ambitions, as he had already -frequently proved. Indeed, at that time he was backing McKinley’s -brother Abner in a business venture which was soon to fail with loss of -all he had put in. But Robert Walker’s faith in McKinley’s wisdom was -such that he could not conceive of failure in anything he advised. - -The plant was started in 1890. There could not have been a more unlucky -moment to launch a new industry. The long depression of the nineties was -beginning. Iron and steel were already seriously affected. Money was -tight. Robert Walker found himself almost at once forced to use the -Major’s notes. He found only too soon that he had embarked on a hopeless -undertaking, and in February of 1893 the works were closed. - -Now at that moment Mark Hanna and his colleagues on the National -Republican Committee were counting on William McKinley to win the -Presidential election for them in 1896. The announcement that he was -involved in the Walker failure to the tune of some one hundred thousand -dollars, more than the combined fortune of himself and wife, was a cruel -blow to their plan. McKinley was straightforward with them. He had -signed the notes; he must give up politics, go back to the law, and pay -his honest debts. But that could not be permitted. He was too -important—one hundred thousand dollars was a small sum compared to what -the Republican Committee expected from his election. The money was -raised—not so quietly. It became necessary to explain how McKinley had -become involved to this amount, and the explanation which McKinley’s -political friends put out was that he was a victim of “a man named -Walker,” as Mark Hanna’s able biographer, Herbert Croly, calls him—a man -whom he had trusted, and who had deceived him as to the amount of money -he was raising on his notes. That is, the Republican committee -deliberately put on Robert Walker the stigma of fraud, presented him to -the public as a man who had betrayed confidence, and William McKinley -never denied their presentation. - -I have it from Robert Walker and from his daughter that no note of -William McKinley was ever cashed without consulting him, and I believe -them. Moreover, Andrew Duncan was in this enterprise and knew what was -going on. It is an interesting fact that when my friend Clara Walker, -who kept the accounts for the McKinleys and her father, went the morning -after the announcement of the failure to her office in Youngstown, all -her books had disappeared along with many papers which belonged to the -firm. - -I had been living abroad for two years when all this happened, but just -before I had left America I had talked with Robert Walker about his -venture—the money he was trying to raise on McKinley’s notes. His -confidence was untarnished. - -“The Major knows, Sis. He will see this thing through. I’d do anything -to back him.” - -And he did. When on my return I went to see my friends I found they had -given up practically everything, and Robert Walker himself was utterly -broken by the ignominy heaped on him. - -I begged him to give me his side of the story, let me tell it, told him -I would never rest until I had an opportunity to put down what I knew of -his long support of the Major’s ambitions, what I believed of him as a -man of unselfish integrity. He absolutely and finally refused. “Nobody -would ever believe the Major could do anything wrong. I didn’t.” - -But the Major had allowed the oldest and most loyal friend he had in his -public life to be ruined not only in fortune but in reputation. Now that -Robert Walker and Mrs. Walker are both gone and reviving the episode can -no longer give them pain, it gives me a certain solace to put down the -story as I believe it. - - -I was leaving Poland, but what was I to do? Today, with my passion for -the microscope still undimmed, I would naturally seek a place in one of -the many laboratories now open to women. Hundreds of women in the -country bent on scientific research are now in industrial, -institutional, or governmental laboratories, but in 1882 there was -almost nothing of that kind open to women. The change is due, first, to -the tremendous advance in scientific research; second, to the way women -have proved their adaptability to laboratory work. No doubt the great -majority of them are, like the majority of women in offices, laboratory -wives, but we have inspired workers among them; probably, all things -considered, as large a proportion as among men. - -If things had been as they were in 1876, when I asked my father if he -could put me through college and he had so cheerfully and happily, I -think, agreed, I could have asked to be financed for higher studies. But -things were not as they had been, and it would have been quite out of -the question in 1882, when I decided that my first step towards economic -independence was mistaken, for him to finance me—the country was coming -into a new depression, that of ’83 and ’84, and the oil business was in -a serious state for those who produced the oil. - -But my home was open, wide open. I think it was this fact that is at the -bottom of my strong conviction that the home is an essential link in the -security of men and women. After one has gone forth on his own there -frequently comes a time when he is shelterless as far as his own -resources go. To have a refuge of which he is sure is one of the most -heartening and stabilizing experiences in a life. If my Poland venture -was a failure professionally it did not throw me on the street; I had a -place to go and think it over. When I asked my mother if it would be all -right for me to come home, her answer was what it always was to be in -the future when I was obliged (more than once) to make the request: “Of -course, that is your right.” That is, my father and mother looked on the -home they had created not as something belonging only to them—a place -they had for their comfort and privacy, it was a place for all of those -in the family procession who had no other place to go. In turn I saw -that home opened to grandmother and grandfather, aunts and uncles, -children and grandchildren, quite regardless of the extra burden it put -on their resources, limitations on their space, the irritations and -complications that are always bred by the injection of extra persons, -however beloved and close, into a settled group. - -It was in June, 1882, that I went back home, dusted my desk in the Tower -room now shared with my sister’s playhouse and dolls—set up my -microscope and went to work on the Hydrozoa. But not for long. - - - - - 5 - A FRESH START—A SECOND RETREAT - - -It was the custom of the Tarbell household to do its part in -entertaining the Methodist ministers and presiding elders who -periodically “filled the pulpit” of our church. In the winter after my -return from the Poland venture we had a guest, an important local -personage, Dr. Theodore L. Flood, a preacher who had retired from active -ministry to take the editorship of a magazine called _The Chautauquan_, -published in the town thirty miles from Titusville where I had so -recently spent four years—Meadville, the home of Allegheny College. - -On this visit Dr. Flood asked me to “help him out” for a month or two in -a new department in his magazine. I was quick to accept, glad to be -useful, for I had grown up with what was called the Chautauqua Movement. -Indeed, it had been almost as much a part of my life as the oil -business, and in its way it was as typically American. If we had a truer -measure for values we would count it more important. - -This Chautauqua Movement had grown out of a Methodist camp meeting held -annually at Fair Point on the pleasant lake which in my childhood had -been the terminus of our most ambitious all-day excursions. The -president of this Association by 1870 was a man justly respected in all -that part of the world for his good deeds, as well as his business -acumen—Lewis Miller, a manufacturer of Akron, Ohio. Mr. Miller was to be -known nationally as the father-in-law of Thomas Edison, but old-time -Chautauquans put it the other way: “Edison is Lewis Miller’s -son-in-law.” That was enough recommendation for Edison in their minds. - -Lewis Miller’s interest in Chautauqua went beyond the annual camp -meeting. He saw the opportunity to build up there a summer home where -parents could give their children healthy out-of-door amusement, -protection from the evil ways of the unregenerate, and sound modern -instruction in the Bible. Sympathy with this program induced a -half-dozen families in the Titusville Methodist Church to join in the -purchase of a lot on the outskirts of the grounds and start a Titusville -settlement—a cottage with a mess hall and a few rooms—tents serving as -sleeping quarters for extras. Father joined the colony soon after we -moved to Titusville. We had a tent and a flat-bottomed boat. - -Through the years I have been recalling, the years in high school, -college, as Preceptress of Poland Union Seminary, part of all my summers -had been spent at Chautauqua. Lewis Miller’s laudable attempt to furnish -attractive instruction in the Bible meant little or nothing to me at -first; the flat-bottomed boat meant a great deal. But in 1874 something -happened that dragged me away from the water. Lewis Miller had persuaded -the most eminent advocate of the Sunday school in America, Dr. -(afterwards Bishop) John H. Vincent, to select Fair Point as the home of -a National Interdenominational Sunday School Institute which he and -those who saw with him had been for some time planning. The first -session of this new organization was held in 1874 under the name of the -Chautauqua Assembly. It was recognized at once as a revolution upsetting -the old order. - -The most spectacular feature of the revolution was the Chautauqua -platform, making as it did stirring, challenging contacts with current -intellectual life. There one heard the great speakers of the day on all -sorts of subjects. There fine concerts were given. It was the scientific -lectures which caught me, particularly those of Dr. R. Ogden Doremus of -New York. His platform experiments, in which two skillful women -assisted, excited me as I had never been before. But what aroused me -most were certain demonstrations with a magnificent microscope which -they were giving in a little building at one side. Nothing in the world -seemed to matter to me so much as to be able to talk with these women, -to ask their advice about the work I was beginning with the little -instrument bought with my own carefully saved money. Perhaps, oh, -perhaps, I dreamed, they would let me look through the great beauty they -handled so deftly, focus it, watch the life which went on in its field. -So one day I hung around after the talk was over, slipped up to them, -steeled myself to tell them that I was going to be a microscopist, -begged them to give me a few lessons, advise me. The two ladies smiled -down from their height, so plainly showing they thought me a country -child with a queer behavior complex. “Quite impossible,” they said, and -turned back to their conference with Dr. Doremus. - -Abashed, humiliated, but luckily too angry to cry I made my way back to -my flat-bottomed boat. I would show them, I resolved, clenching my -fists! - -It was years before I attempted again to get from a Chautauqua -undertaking more than it was offering to the public at large. There were -many of these undertakings. Dr. Vincent saw to that. A man better fitted -by experience, conviction, and personality to persuade a half-asleep, -wholly satisfied community to accept a new order could not have been -found in the America of the eighties. John Vincent was forty-two years -old when he came to Chautauqua—handsome, confident, alert, energetic, -radiating well-being. And he was an orator, and orating at Chautauqua -made men tolerant even of heresy. He went about his business of -organizing the work of the Assembly with a skill which commanded the -admiration of everybody, even those hostile to the secularization of -their beloved camp meeting. As a platform manager I never have known his -equal. He had magnetism, but he knew when and how to turn it on; he was -shrewd, cunning, pungent. He pricked bubbles, disciplined his audience. -The Chautauqua audience came to be one of the best behaved out-of-door -audiences in the country. The fact that we were out of doors had -persuaded us that we were free to leave meetings if we were bored or -suddenly remembered that we had left bread in the oven, or that the baby -must have wakened. When the performance had been stopped once or twice -to “give that lady a chance to go out without further disturbing the -speaker” we learned to stay at home or to sit out the lecture. - -There is only one word to describe what Lewis Miller and Dr. Vincent now -did to Chautauqua, and that is “electrification.” The community was made -up mainly of hard-working men and women who wanted a vacation in -surroundings where they would not “have to worry about the children.” -Certainly if high fences with gates through which you could not pass in -or out after ten P.M.—never pass without your ticket, and not even with -one on Sundays—if watchful guards and ten o’clock curfew, if a mass -public opinion on the part of elders in support of these restrictions, -could have suppressed all the mischief and lawlessness in the youth -which swarmed Chautauqua, parents were right in sleeping tranquilly. As -a matter of fact I never knew of any serious offenses, though there -probably were many which I was still too much of a little girl to -recognize. The worst mischief in which I personally assisted was playing -tag up and down the relief model of Palestine, which skirted the lake as -Palestine does the Mediterranean. It was spotted with plaster-of-Paris -models of towns from Damascus to Bethsaida. I remember one rule of our -game was that you could not be tagged if you straddled Jerusalem. The -most serious vandalism of which I knew and in which I had no part was -stealing Damascus or Nazareth or Tyre and carrying it away bodily. - -Dr. Vincent did not change the restrictions, but he made them more -endurable by the fresh interest he put into our lives. His effect on the -community physically was immediate. It began to grow. The sound of the -hammers nailing together the, for the most part, flimsy cottages was -never still. The result was very like what Mark Twain found in the -summer colony of Onteora in the Catskills in its first year—“the -partitions so thin you can hear the women changing their minds.” - -Housekeeping improved. It had been as sketchy as the cottages—picnic -housekeeping. You saw them at it, out in the rear of their cottages, -over an old wood stove or stone fireplace, the men in their shirt -sleeves, the women in big aprons, if not wrappers. Planks on sawhorses -for tables, mats (we had not learned to say “doilies” yet), benches for -seats. The natural practice of bringing discarded furniture from home to -furnish the cottages led to the only distinctive piece of Chautauqua -furniture I recall—a long high-backed bench made from an old-fashioned -four-post bedstead. There were few garrets in all the country about -Chautauqua that did not harbor one or more such bedsteads. They had been -hidden away when families could afford the new-styled quartered-oak or -walnut bedroom suites. Some ingenious mind had seen that by shortening -the sidepieces of a four-poster to seat width, using the headboard for a -back, you had a commodious and, with cushions, a comfortable seat, even -couch. They were scattered all over the place. - -With the coming of Dr. Vincent, Chautauqua rapidly developed a Promenade -along the south end of the lake front. Cottages here were lathed and -plastered, had wicker chairs on their verandahs, and the residents soon -were taking their meals at the really stately Athenaeum Hotel. It was in -this front row that Dr. and Mrs. Vincent came to live in a tent, a tent -de luxe with a real house—so it looked to us—behind it. - -Sometimes when we were properly dressed and shod we walked past the -hotel and the cottages housing our aristocrats, and if by chance we saw -Dr. or Mrs. Vincent or, best of all, the “Vincents’ little boy”—George, -we later learned his name to be—why, then we boasted of it at the supper -table as one might say today, “I saw President Roosevelt, Mrs. -Roosevelt, Sistie, Buzzie.” - -Dr. Vincent kept the place on its toes not only by the steady -improvement of its platform, its amusements, in the quality of the -people who came to teach and preach, but by a steady flow of new -undertakings. He planned incessantly to stir not only our souls but our -minds. We came to expect new ideas at each successive session and were -never disappointed if sometimes a little bewildered. Behind all these -various undertakings was the steadying hand of Lewis Miller, the silent -partner, who had begun by spying out the land, establishing a community, -laying the foundations for the Institution as it exists today—a center -of democratic, Christian culture. - -Dr. Vincent’s masterpiece, as I always thought, came in 1878 when he -laid before his Chautauquans a plan which had been long simmering in his -never quiet mind. He did this in the finest of what we call -inspirational talks that I ever heard—at least it stirred me so deeply -that I have never forgotten the face of the orator nor, more important, -the upturned faces of his hearers. He announced a scheme for a four-year -course of home reading under the direction of the Chautauqua management -adapted to men and women who had missed a college education, but who -felt a deep desire for knowledge and were willing to adopt any practical -plan which would give them a college outlook. It was to be called the -Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle. - -Now this does not sound exciting; but as a matter of fact it was deeply -exciting, for the speaker was pouring out his heart. He had never had a -college education; he had never ceased to feel the lack of what he -believed it would have given him. He had struggled to make up for his -loss by persistent, systematic daily reading and study. Establishing the -habit as a boy, he had never abandoned it. It had given him deep -satisfaction, supplied, he thought, the college outlook. He believed -there were thousands of men and women in the United States, scores, -possibly hundreds, in his audience, who had been forced, as he had been, -to sacrifice their early ambitions for education. They had hidden the -hunger in their hearts where at times it still gnawed. He was offering -them the same help he had found, and confidently, glowingly, he outlined -the course of home reading which Dr. John H. Finley has so aptly named -the American Adult Education Pioneer. - -The uplifted faces all about me told the story, particularly the faces -of the women of thirty or more. Women of that generation had had their -natural desire for knowledge intensified by the Woman’s Rights movement, -in which the strongest plank had been a demand for the opportunity for -higher education. These women were now beyond the day when they could go -to college, but here was something which they saw intuitively was -practical. - -The immediacy of their response was in a degree accounted for by their -devotion to Dr. Vincent. I suppose most of the women who frequented -Chautauqua were more or less in love with him, the worship a man of -overflowing sentiment receives from the benches, but most of his -audience would have preferred to die rather than reveal their secret -passion. - -Well, it was a great emotional experience with large and immediate -practical results, for, before the summer session was over, eight -thousand people had joined the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific -Circle. - -They had joined, and they were buying the books chosen. The most -important volume in that first year’s course was Green’s “Short History -of the English People”—in my judgment the most important book save one -that the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle ever included, that -exception being W. C. Brownell’s “French Traits.” The sudden demand for -so large and expensive a volume as Green’s History, outside of regular -trade channels, followed as it was by spectacular sales of other books -from which neither publisher nor writer had expected anything out of the -normal, set the whole publishing world agog, and naturally raised the -question, “How are we to get in on this new market?” - -There were many approaches, all legitimate enough so far as I know. I -found a rather amusing proof of one not long ago in Marjorie Wiggin -Prescott’s fine collection of manuscripts and rare books—a volume of Lew -Wallace’s “Ben Hur” enriched by a letter to the publisher, signed by -Mrs. Wallace and dated November 24, 1884. The letter, which is -self-explanatory, is reproduced here with Mrs. Prescott’s permission. - - Crawfordsville, Nov. 24, 1884. - - Dear Sir - - Because of inquiries of correspondents as to the _number_ of _wives_ - Gen. Wallace has had, I have thought best to instruct you to add to - the dedication of _Ben-Hur_, making it: - - To - The Wife of My Youth - who still abides with me - - This with Gen. Wallace’s consent. - - Several literary clubs have made it a handbook for study in - connection with Roman History. If by some means you could have it - adopted by the Chautauqua Club, which numbers twenty thousand - members, it might be worth while to try. Pardon the suggestion. - - May I ask you to furnish me a report of the sales of _Ben-Hur_, year - by year, from the beginning? - - With high regard, - - Very truly yours - SUSAN E. WALLACE. - -As the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle grew, there came -increasing necessity of a steady sympathetic administration. To help in -this task it was decided in 1880 to establish a monthly organ—_The -Chautauquan_, it was to be called—in which portions of the required -readings could be published more cheaply than in book form, and through -which by counsel and suggestions the leaders could keep in closer touch -with the readers—better meet their needs. Dr. Vincent was quick to sense -weak places in the organization, and ingenious in devising ways to take -care of them. It was to try out one of his devices that Dr. Flood was -now asking my temporary help. - -Here was the situation that had been uncovered—hundreds of those who had -joined the great circle and bought its books were without dictionaries, -encyclopaedias, explanatory helps of any kind, and they lived too far -away—on the Plains, in the mountains, on distant farms—to reach -libraries. Headquarters were inundated with questions: How do you -pronounce this word, translate this phrase? Who was this man, this -woman? What does this or that mean? - -“Could not _The Chautauquan_ take care of this difficulty,” suggested -Dr. Vincent, “by annotating the portions of the various texts to be read -in that particular month? Let some one try it out.” - -As I happened to be the “some one” within reach when Dr. Flood received -the suggestion, the attempt was put up to me—temporary trial, I was made -to understand. Now I had known from childhood homes and towns where -there were practically no books beyond the Bible and the children’s -spellers. As books had always come after bread in our household I -naturally pitied those who did not have them; so I undertook the notes -with the determination to make them as helpful as I could. - -To my surprise and delight Dr. Vincent sent word to me that I had caught -his idea, and that he had advised Dr. Flood to ask me to prepare similar -notes each month. - -“Will you do it?” asked Dr. Flood. - -I jumped at the chance, calculating that it would take not over two -weeks of my month, give me pin money, and leave time for the -microscope—that my future was in it, I did not dream. - -But my task required better equipped libraries than Titusville offered; -Meadville, only thirty miles away, headquarters for _The Chautauquan_, -had them, and so I arranged to do my work there, remaining until I had -read the proofs—an exacting job which never ceased to worry me. What if -the accent was in the wrong place? What if I brought somebody into the -world in the wrong year? Something of the kind happened occasionally, -and when it did I quickly discovered that, while there might be many -Chautauqua readers who did not have books of reference, there were more -that did and knew how to use them. - -Once in touch with the office of _The Chautauquan_ I began to see things -to do. Dr. Flood had little interest in detail. The magazine was made up -in a casual, and to my mind a disorderly, fashion. I could not keep my -fingers off. A woman is a natural executive: that has been her business -through the ages. Intuitively she picks up, sets to rights, establishes -order. I began at once to exercise my inheritance, proved useful, was -offered a full-time job, and threw myself heartily into an attempt to -learn how to make up a magazine in the way I suspected a magazine should -be made up. - -When the long-suffering foreman of the printing office discovered I was -in earnest he undertook my education, taught me the vocabulary—the only -galley I had heard of up to that time was a war vessel of the Middle -Ages—suggested dummies, and offered a model. He installed a proper -respect for the dates on which copy was to be in, and forms closed: -showed me the importance of clean copy by compelling me to see with my -own eyes the time it took to make a correction, trained me until I could -stand over the closing of the last form and direct the necessary changes -to be made in order to make room for a three-line advertisement which -had just arrived, and which, such was the need of _The Chautauquan_ for -advertising, must under no consideration be thrown out. When I could do -that nonchalantly I felt as if I had arrived. And this training I owed -to as fine a craftsman as there was in the trade at the time; as well, -he was a courteous and patient gentleman—Adrian McCoy, long the head of -the pressroom where _The Chautauquan_ was printed. - -My willingness to take on loose ends soon brought to my desk much of the -routine office correspondence—letters to be answered by a more or less -set form, signed with Dr. Flood’s name and mailed without troubling him -to read them. - -In this grist were many letters from readers, women chiefly, who laid -their troubles and hopes on our shoulders, confident of understanding -and counsel. Dr. Flood’s answers to such communications were courteous -but formal. Probably he appreciated as I did not that there lay safety. -I felt strongly that such an appeal or confidence should have a -personal, sympathetic letter, and I began producing them, pouring out -counsel and pity. I shudder now to think of the ignorant sentiment I -probably spilled. But my career as a professional counselor was checked -suddenly by the unexpected result of a series of letters to a -contributor. This gentleman, a foreign lecturer and teacher, had been -chilled by the lack of understanding by Americans of his ideals. And all -of this he was expressing in letters to the office after our acceptance -of one or two of his articles. I was deeply touched by his outpourings -and answered in kind—of course signing my editor’s name. Then one day -Dr. Flood received a letter saying that on such a day the gentleman -would be in Meadville. He must see the one who so understood him. And -come he did. Poor Dr. Flood did not know what it was all about. - -“But these letters,” the visitor exclaimed. “Oh,” Dr. Flood said, “Miss -Tarbell wrote those. We’ll speak to her.” - -And so he was presented—letters in hand—Dr. Flood looking sternly at me -and leaving me to my fate. - -“Did you write these letters?” the bewildered and disappointed stranger -asked. - -All I could say was, “Yes, I wrote them.” - -“And Dr. Flood never saw them?” - -“No,” I said, “he never does.” - -“I might have known it was a woman,” he groaned, and fled. And that was -the last we ever saw or heard of him. But it made a vast difference in -my editorial correspondence. - -I was not satisfied, however, with setting things to rights and -counseling the unhappy. Having convinced my editor-in-chief that I could -keep his house in better order than he had been interested in doing, I -became ambitious to contribute to its furnishing, to extend its field -beyond matters purely Chautauquan. I began by offering contributions to -what was called the Editor’s Table—the Editor’s Note Book. I began to -write articles, even went off on trips to gather information on subjects -which seemed to me to be fitting. - -The first and most ambitious of these undertakings was an investigation -made in the Patent Office in Washington of the amount of inventing the -records showed women to have done. I had been disturbed for some time by -what seemed to me the calculated belittling of the past achievements of -women by many active in the campaign for suffrage. They agreed with -their opponents that women had shown little or no creative power. That, -they argued, was because man had purposely and jealously excluded her -from his field of action. The argument was intended, of course, to -arouse women’s indignation, stir them to action. It seemed to me rather -to throw doubt on her creative capacity. Power to create breaks all -barriers. Women had demonstrated this, I believed, again and again while -carrying on what I as an observer of society was coming to regard as the -most delicate, complex, and essential of all creative tasks—the making -of a home. There was the field of invention. At the moment it was being -said in print and on the platform that, in all the history of the Patent -Office, women had taken out only some three hundred patents. - -I had seen so much of woman’s ingenuity on the farm and in the kitchen -that I questioned the figures; and so I went to see, feeling very -important if scared at my rashness in daring to penetrate a Government -department and interview its head. I was able to put my finger at once -on over two thousand patents, enough to convince me that, man-made world -or not, if a woman had a good idea and the gumption to seek a patent she -had the same chance as a man to get one. This was confirmed by -correspondence with two or three women who at the time were taking out -patents regularly. - -These dashes into journalism, timid and factual as were the results, -gave my position more and more body, began slowly to arouse my -rudimentary capacity for self-expression. At the same time my position -was enriched by a novel feature of our undertaking, one that any editor -of a monthly journal can appreciate. We published but ten issues, -suspending in July and August in order to get out on the grounds at -Chautauqua an eight-page newspaper—the Chautauqua Assembly _Daily -Herald_. This meant moving our Meadville staff bodily to the Lake late -in June. - -I was soon contributing two columns of editorials a day to the _Herald_, -comments on the daily doings of the Assembly, and making many -stimulating acquaintances in doing it. Among them I valued particularly -Dr. Herbert B. Adams and Dr. Richard T. Ely of Johns Hopkins University, -men who were stirring youth and shocking the elders by liberal -interpretations of history and economics. We felt rather proud of -ourselves at Chautauqua that we were liberal enough to engage Dr. Adams -and Dr. Ely as regular lecturers and teachers, and that our constituency -accepted them, if with occasional misgivings. - -It was not only the faculty of Johns Hopkins which was adding to my -friends. One who remains today among those I most value came from its -student body—Dr. John H. Finley. Dr. Finley gave several summers to the -Assembly _Herald_, reading its copy and its proofs among other things. -It was he who read my two columns and, no doubt, kept me out of much -trouble; but once there did slip by him a misquotation over which he -still chuckles when we talk of Chautauqua days. I made it a practice to -head my first column with a digest of the day’s happenings—a line to an -event and, as a starter for the paragraph, a quotation. I had been -rather pleased one day to select a line from James Thomson: - -[Illustration: - - _Office staff of The Chautauquan, 1888: Miss Tarbell at left, sitting_ -] - - The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews. - -A copy of the paper was always thrown on the verandah of my upstairs -room around five o’clock in the morning, and I hopped out of bed to see -what had happened to my column. That morning something dire had -happened, for my quotation ran: - - The _weak_-eyed _Worm_ appears, mother of dews. - -Eminence came from across the water annually and gave color and -importance, so we thought, to our doings. A foreign visitor with whom I -had a pleasant acquaintance running over some years was Dr. J. P. -Mahaffy of the University of Dublin. Dr. Mahaffy had contributed a -series of delightful articles to the required readings in _The -Chautauquan_—“Gossip About Greece”—and in the summer of 1889 he came -over for two or three courses of lectures at the Assembly. A -distinguished figure, he was, and such a contrast in his tweeds, his -free movements, his spirited wide-ranging talk to most of us. - -My acquaintance grew out of our mutual interest in the flora of any spot -where we happened to be. One day as I came in from a botanizing -expedition outside the grounds carrying stocks of the lovely field -lilies common in the region, Dr. Mahaffy seized my arm: “You care for -flowers and plants? I thought American women had no interest in them.” A -libel I quickly hooted. In defense of my sisterhood I went diligently to -work to show him our summer flora. But he cared for nothing as much as -our summer lilies, begged me after the flowering was over to send him -bulbs, which I proudly did. In exchange I received from his Dublin -garden seeds of a white poppy which, he wrote me, he had originally -gathered in the shadow of the statue of Memnon in Egypt. Those poppies -have always gone with me; they flourished in my mother’s garden in -Titusville—now they flourish in my Connecticut garden. - -My life was busy, varied, unfolding pleasantly in many ways, but it also -after six years was increasingly unsatisfactory, so unsatisfactory that -I was secretly, very secretly, meditating a change. - -I was scared by what _The Chautauquan_ seemed to be doing to the plan I -had worked out for the development of my mind. I had grown up with a -stout determination to follow one course of study to the end, to develop -a specialty. The work I was doing demanded a scattering of mind which I -began to fear would unfit me for ever thinking anything through. I -realized that an editor of value must have made up his mind about more -things than had I, feel himself ready to fight for those things if -necessary. I had no program in which _The Chautauquan_ was interested. -Moreover, I did not want to be an editor. - -But to break with _The Chautauquan_ meant sacrificing security. I had -always had a vision of myself settled somewhere in a secure corner, -simple, not too large. I never had wanted things; I always had a dislike -of impedimenta, but I wanted something cheerful and warm and enduring. -There I could work over that which interested me, day in and day out, -with no alarm for my keep. Now _The Chautauquan_ was a secure berth; so -far as I could figure, it would last through my time at least. To give -it up meant complete economic insecurity. I probably should not have -been willing to sacrifice what I think I had honestly earned if there -had not been growing upon me a conviction of the sterility of security. -All about me were people who at least believed themselves materially -secure. They lived comfortably within their means, they were busy -keeping things as they were, preserving what they had. They were the -most respectable people in town, but secretly I was beginning to suspect -their respectability. - -One day, listening to a fine elderly Scotch Presbyterian minister who -had in his congregation a large group of these stable, secure, best -citizens, I was startled when he leaned over his pulpit and, shaking his -fist at us, shouted, “You’re dyin’ of respectability.” Was that what was -happening to me? I saw with increasing clearness that I could not go -beyond a certain point on _The Chautauquan_, mentally, socially, -spiritually. If I remained, it was to accept a variety of limitations, -and my whole nature was against the acceptance of limitations. It was -contrary to the nature of things as I saw them; to be happy, I must go -on with fresh attempts, fresh adventuring. The thing that frightened me -earlier in my youth came to the top now: that thing that made me -determine I would never marry because it meant giving up freedom, was a -trap. It was clear enough that I was trapped—comfortably, most -pleasantly, most securely, but trapped. - -As time went on I realized that this security to which people so clung -could not always be counted on. They might think so, but had I not seen -beautiful homes sold under the hammer in Titusville, homes of those whom -the town had looked on as impregnable financially? In my years on _The -Chautauquan_ in Meadville I had been a shocked observer of one of the -many dramatic political failures of the eighties, the defeat of the -Republican candidate for Governor of Pennsylvania at a critical moment—a -Meadville banker, Wallace Delamater. I was too much of a mugwump to -sympathize with the Republican platform, but I liked Wallace Delamater. -I believed him, as I think the records show, to be a tool of a past -master of machine politics—Matthew Quay. Taken up by Quay, the resources -of the Delamater bank and of allied banks in Meadville at the call of -his party, he made a campaign which was called brilliant. There was no -doubt of the result in Meadville. - -I went to bed early, the night of the election, expecting to be aroused -by the ringing of bells, the blowing of whistles, for there was to be a -celebration. When I awakened with a start it was broad daylight. Had I -slept through the celebration? A sense of doom hung over me; I dressed -hurriedly, went down to get the paper. Wallace Delamater was defeated. -Promptly the Delamater bank closed and, one after another, four banks of -the town followed. There was a heavy run on the one remaining, the one -where I had my little deposit. The panic in the town was desperate; -everything was going. I don’t think I have ever been more ashamed of -anything in my life connected with money than I was when I took my bank -book and went to my bank to ask for my deposit. It was all the money I -had in the world—times were bad. But I have always continued to be a -little ashamed that I yielded to the panic, the more because my bank -didn’t fail! - -No, the security men flattered themselves they had achieved was never -certain. Moreover, my security was costing more in certain precious -things than I was willing to pay. Take the matter of making something -professionally sound, useful, justifiable, out of myself, which is the -only one of these “precious things” that I am talking about! I could do -no more towards it where I was. To begin with, I at last knew what I -wanted to do. It was no longer to seek truth with a microscope. My early -absorption in rocks and plants had veered to as intense an interest in -human beings. I was feeling the same passion to understand men and -women, the same eagerness to collect and to classify information about -them. I find the proofs of this slow and unconscious change of -allegiance in an accumulation of tattered notebooks tucked away for -years, forgotten and only brought out after I had set myself this -curious task of tracing the road I have traveled through my eighty -years, trying to find out why I did this thing and not that, getting -acquainted with my own working life. - -I seem to have begun to enter observations on human beings soon after I -had settled down to learn how to put a magazine together in an orderly -fashion. I applied the same method that I had used for so many years in -collecting and classifying natural objects which excited my curiosity. -Take leaves, on which I was always keen. I started out in high school to -collect them from all the flora in my territory, classifying them by -shapes, veins, stalks, color. Rarely do I take up a family book of those -early years that there do not fall out from between the pages leaves of -one thing or another that I had pressed to help me carry on my scheme of -classification. I suspect that I did not get much beyond a glib naming -of parts. - -Something analogous happened when I recognized that men and women were -as well worth notes as leaves, that there was a science of society as -well as of botany. - -What had happened was undoubtedly that the tumults, the challenges of my -day had finally penetrated my aloofness, and that I was feeling more and -more the need of taking a part in them. The decade I spent in Poland and -on _The Chautauquan_ had a background not so unlike that of the present -decade. At its beginning we were only fifteen years from a civil war -which had left behind not only a vast devastated region with the problem -of its reconstruction, but the problem of a newly freed people. It had -left bitterness which in intensity and endurance no war but a civil war -ever leaves. We had had our inflation, a devastating boom followed by -seven years of depression, outbreaks of all the various forms of radical -philosophy the world then knew. Youth talks glibly of communism today as -if it had just appeared in the country; but Marxian Communists -transferred the headquarters of the International to New York City in -the seventies. More conspicuous than the Communists were the Anarchists. -Every city in the United States had its little group, preaching and -every now and then practicing direct action. Indeed, they were a factor -in all the violent labor disturbances of the period. - -In 1879 prosperity had come back with a whoop, and, as she usually does -after a long absence, had quickly exhausted herself by fantastic -economic excesses. By the time I undertook to annotate the Chautauqua -Literary and Scientific Circle’s readings the country had begun to -suffer again from its wanton speculation and reckless overbuilding of -railroads. Factories and mines and mills shut down; and when work -stopped disorder began, particularly on the railroads of the Southwest, -the awful massacre of Chinese in Wyoming—more awful, the Haymarket riot -in Chicago followed as it was by the execution of four men, all -counselors of violence to be sure, but no one of them found guilty -either of making or of throwing the bomb. - -The eighties dripped with blood, and men struggled to get at causes, to -find corrections, to humanize and socialize the country; for then as now -there were those who dreamed of a good world although at times it seemed -to them to be going mad. - -_The Chautauquan_ interested itself in all of this turbulent and -confused life. Indeed, it rapidly became my particular editorial -concern. We noted and discussed practically every item of the social -program which has been so steadily developing in the last fifty years, -the items which have crystallized into the Square Deal, the New Freedom, -the New Deal. - -The present argument for high wages, we made in the eighties. We called -it “the new economic coefficient in our industrial life.” “It is the -well-paid workman,” said _The Chautauquan_, “who is a relatively large -consumer. We are built upon a foundation of which this well-paid workman -is an important part.” - -As for hours and conditions, we were ardent supporters of the eight-hour -day, organized labor’s chief aim in the eighties, and we were for -contracts between labor and capital, each being held responsible for his -side of the bargain. We were for education, arbitration, legislation, -the program of the Knights of Labor rather than the program of force -which the growing American Federation of Labor was adopting. We -discussed interminably the growing problem of the slums, were -particularly strong for cooperative housing, laundries and bakeshops; we -supported the popular Town and Country Club, seeking to keep a healthy -balance between the two; we were advocates of temperance but shied at -prohibition—largely, I think, because it had become a political issue, -and we did not like to see our idealists going into politics, as Bellamy -and Henry George and the leaders of many causes were doing. - -That is, in the decade of the eighties we were discussing and thinking -about the same fundamentals that we are today. - -My realization of the stress of the period began at home. Titusville and -all the Oil Region of Pennsylvania were struggling to loosen the hold of -the mighty monopoly which, since its first attack on the business in -1872, had grown in power and extent until it owned and controlled over -90 per cent of the oil industry outside of the production of the raw -crude. The region was divided into two hostile camps—the Independent -Producers and Refiners, and the Standard Oil Company. Their maneuvers -and strategy kept town and country in a constant state of excitement, of -suspicion, of hope, and of despair. - -There was a steady weakening of independent ranks both by the men worn -out or ruined by the struggle, and those who saw peace and security for -themselves only in settling and gave up the fight. - -In those days I looked with more contempt on the man who had gone over -to the Standard than on the one who had been in jail. I felt pity for -the latter man, but none for the deserters from the ranks of the -fighting independents. Those were the days when the freeing of -transportation, the privilege which had more to do with the making of -the monopoly than anything else, more even than the great ability of its -management, was the aim of all reformers. For years the Independents had -worked for an interstate commerce law which would make rate -discrimination a crime. To me such a law had come to have a kind of -sanctity. It was the new freedom, and when it was passed in 1887 I felt -an uplift such as nothing in public life, unless I except Mr. -Cleveland’s tariff message of the year before, had ever given me. - -But it was not the economic feature of the struggle in the Oil Region -which deeply disturbed or interested me. It was what it was doing to -people themselves, to the people I knew, to my father and mother and -their friends. It was the divided town, the suspicion and greed and -bitterness and defeats and surrenders. Here was a product meant to be a -blessing to men—so I believed; and it was proving a curse to the very -ones who had discovered it, developed it. - -I began to fill pages with notes of things seen and heard, and finally I -decided I should write a novel about it. Very secretly indeed, I went at -it, assembling a cast, outlining a plot, writing two or three chapters. -Poor stuff. Luckily I soon found out I was beyond my depth and gave it -up. - -From my notebooks I judge that I abandoned my novel the more readily -because I had conceived what I called “a more fundamental research”! -This was nothing less than a Science of Society to be illustrated by my -own observations on men and women. Looking over it now, I see that the -framework came from reading the voluminous discussions of the nature of -society then flooding the public. I took my framework where I found it, -but I filled it in with observations, gathered on all sides, of people I -knew, heard about, particularly read about in the newspaper. - -But this ambitious work soon met the same fate as the novel. It broke -off at the end of the third chapter because I had concluded I could not -construct society as it was until I knew more about woman. I suspected -she had played a larger part in shaping society than she realized or -perhaps was willing to admit. I was questioning the argument that this -is entirely a man-made world. I had found too many woman-made parts in -it to accept the characterization at its face value. My science of -society would not be honest, I concluded, if the only part woman was -allowed to play in it was that of doormat, toy, and tool. I was -troubled, too, by the argument that women must be given suffrage if -society was to be improved. Man had made a mess of the world, I was -told; woman must take his tools and straighten things up. I did not feel -the confidence of my courageous friends. “Why should we expect them to -do better with the vote than men have done?” I asked. “Because they are -women,” I was told. But they were human beings, like men, and they were -human beings with no experience of the tools they wanted to use; and I -had enough sense of the past to believe that experience counted, and -that it would be wise for all men and women to consult it when they -tried new ventures. - -There had been women in public life in the past. What had they done? I -had to satisfy myself before I went further with my science of society -or joined the suffragists. It was humiliating not to be able to make up -my mind quickly about the matter, as most of the women I knew did. What -was the matter with me, I asked myself, that I could not be quickly -sure? Why must I persist in the slow, tiresome practice of knowing more -about things before I had an opinion? Suppose everybody did that. What -chance for intuition, vision, emotion, action? - -My notebooks show that I began my plodding by making out a list of women -who seemed to offer food for reflection. The group that excited me most -were the women of the French Revolution. I made little studies of -several, wrote little pieces about them, and these little pieces I -submitted to the editor of _The Chautauquan_; he published several of -them—a study of Madame de Staël, of Marie Antoinette, of Madame Roland. -But soon I became heartily ashamed of my sketches, written as they were -from so meager an equipment. I felt this particularly about Madame -Roland. I made up my mind that I was going to know more about this -woman, that she probably would teach me what sort of contribution might -be expected from a woman in public life. - -That meant research. How was I to carry it on? Whatever studying I did -depended on my ability to support myself while doing it; whatever -studying I did while on _The Chautauquan_ must be turned into something -available for the magazine. My time and strength belonged to it. -Obviously, I could not do sufficient research and continue my position; -it was as impossible as it had been to act as preceptress of the Poland -Union Seminary and at the same time carry on my study with the -microscope. Where was I to carry on this research? There was but one -place—Paris. And how was I to finance myself in Paris—a strange country -and a strange tongue—long enough to write a book? I did not consider the -possibility of getting a regular job: I did not want one. I wanted -freedom, and I had an idea that there was no freedom in belonging to -things, no freedom in security. It took time to convince myself that I -dared go on my own. But finally I succeeded. - -Coming to a decision has a loosening, tonic effect on a mind which has -been floundering in uncertainty. Liberated, it rushes gaily, hopefully, -to the charting of a new course. I had no sooner resolved to strike out -on my own than my mind was bubbling with plans. I forgot that I was -thirty-three years old and, according to the code of my time and my -society, too old for new ventures; I forgot that outside of my very -limited experience on _The Chautauquan_ I knew nothing of the writing -and publishing world, had literally no acquaintance among editors; I -forgot that I was afraid of people, believed them all so much greater -and more important than they often turned out to be that it cost me -nervous chills to venture with a request into a stranger’s presence. - -Dismissing all these real handicaps, I plunged gaily into planning for a -career in journalism, self-directed, free-lance journalism. Surely I -could find subjects enough in Paris to write about, subjects that would -interest American newspapers. We were in the thick of a great agitation -over the condition and the conduct of American cities. _The Chautauquan_ -had touched it occasionally. How did Paris keep house? I planned a -syndicate of my own which would answer all questions. Out of my -newspaper work might not articles grow for magazines? I thought so, and -books, beginning of course with my study of Madame Roland. So long as I -told nobody about my plans, they worked beautifully, carried me upward -and onward into a new and happier, more profitable, more satisfying -world. But when I announced my decision, laid out what I proposed to do, -all the glow and confidence went out of me, all the weaknesses in my -venture came again to the top. There were friends who said none too -politely: “Remember you are past thirty. Women don’t make new places for -themselves after thirty.” There were friends who resented my decision as -a reflection on themselves. A woman whose friendship I valued said -bluntly: “You are one of us. Aren’t we good enough for you?” My act was -treason in her eyes. The whole force of the respectable circles to which -I belonged, that respectable circle which knew as I did not the value of -security won, the slender chance of replacing it if lost or abandoned, -was against me and so out of friendliness. - -When I told my editor-in-chief I was leaving, going to Paris to study, -he was shocked. “How will you support yourself?” he asked, really -anxious, knowing that I must depend on my own efforts. - -“By writing,” I said. - -“You’re not a writer,” he said. “You’ll starve.” - -He had touched the weakest point in my venture: I was not a writer, and -I knew it. I knew I never should be one in the high sense which I then -and still more now give to that word. I had neither the endowment nor -the passion nor the ambition to be a writer. I was rather a student, -wanting to understand things quite regardless of how I could use that -understanding if I reached it. There was much selfishness in my wanting -to know for the sake of knowing, much of a dead scholar in me; and that -dead scholar has always hung, more or less a weight, about my neck. - -But if I was not a writer I had certain qualifications for the practice -of the modest kind of journalism on which I had decided. I counted no -little on my habit of planning in advance what I was going to do, and I -had a strong conviction that a plan of my own was worth more than any -plan which was made for me. Again, if I could not write, I did have a -certain sense of what mattered in a subject and a strong conviction that -it was my sense of what mattered, and not somebody else’s, that would -give my work freshness and strength if it was to have any. - -Then there was my habit of steady, painstaking work—that ought to count -for something. And perhaps I could learn to write. If I were to do so, -could I do better than soak myself in French prose? I had read French -steadily from my school days; I had done not a little translating of -articles from the big reviews for _The Chautauquan_. If I could live -with the language, might I not master something of what seemed to me its -essential qualities, those which gave it both body and charm? These -qualities were the soundness of structure, the way it held together, and -the beautiful clarity of expression. At least I could try for them. - -But when I tried to explain all this to my critical friends they -continued frankly skeptical, indignant. It was my father and mother who -backed me up, though I think they were both puzzled and fearful. “I -don’t know what you can do, Ida,” my father said, “that’s for you. If -you think you can do it, try it.” But in the end it took all the grit I -had to go ahead. - -Breaking up established relations is not easy. You begin by pulling up -deeply rooted things, rooted in your heart; you abandon once cherished -purposes. When I left _The Chautauquan_ I was no longer the eager and -confident young woman who ten years before had started out for herself -in Poland, Ohio; I was ten years older, and I was keenly conscious that -I had in those ten years accumulated a fairly complete collection of -shattered idols. That I could forget them as quickly and as completely -as I did, I owe to the Paris of the nineties. I had scarcely passed her -gates before I had fallen under her spell. At once I was experiencing -all the amazing rejuvenation that comes from falling in love, whatever -the object. It was not to be “See Paris and die,” as more than one -friend had jeered. I knew with certainty it was to be “See Paris and -live.” - - - - - 6 - I FALL IN LOVE - - -Falling in love with Paris at first sight—a _coup de feu_, it was—in no -way dimmed the energy and the care with which on the day of my arrival I -began to put into operation the cautious and laborious Plan for -self-support I had brought along. It rather intensified it. As I must -begin at the bottom to build up contacts with strangers on the other -side of the ocean, and as there was but $150 in my pocket, there was no -time to waste. - -In the ten years I had been trying to support myself I had learned that -the art of spending money is quite as important in a sound financial -program as the art of earning it. I had been going on the theory, as I -still am—practice is another story—that what I earned must cover my -expenses and leave a surplus for emergencies and expansion. I had -applied my principles to my small salary on _The Chautauquan_—never over -$100 a month—well enough to get myself to Paris and have this little -reserve to care for myself while I was proving or disproving that I -could convince a few American editors whom I had never seen that my -goods were worth buying. - -The first step, obviously, in carrying out my program was cheap living. -Luckily for me, two of my associates on _The Chautauquan_, excited by my -undertaking, had decided to join me. One, Josephine Henderson, was a -friend of Titusville days and like myself a graduate of Allegheny -College. Jo, as we called her, was a handsome woman with a humorous look -on life—healthy for me. I have never had a friend who judged my balloons -more shrewdly or pricked them so painlessly. With us was a beautiful -girl, Mary Henry, the daughter of one of the militant W.C.T.U. workers -of that day, a neighbor and a friend as well as a co-worker of the great -temperance leader Frances Willard. At the steamer a friend of Mary’s -appeared, announcing that she, too, was going along. This meant four of -us to share rent and food. - -Back in Titusville I had picked on the Latin Quarter as at once the -cheapest and the most practical place in Paris for one to live who must -go on the cheap. Then, too, the University was in the Latin Quarter, and -we were all planning to take lectures. I was even flirting with the idea -that I might find time to take a degree. - -So on arrival, putting our bags in the little room of the cheap hotel on -the Right Bank to which we had gone, we headed at once for the Latin -Quarter. I had picked on the neighborhood where I wanted to settle, near -the Musée de Cluny. Not that I knew a thing about the Musée or what was -in it; simply Cluny was one of the words that had always pulled me. This -magic was largely responsible for our settling in the Rue du Sommerard -almost next door to the spot in the city which save one was to have the -greatest fascination as well as the deepest consolation for me. - -But finding these quarters was no easy task. My friends gulped as I did -at the stuffiness, the dinginess, the primitive sanitation, the obvious -fleas, and the suspicion of other unmentionable pests in the places at -which we looked. But settle I would, and so with groans they consented -finally to the taking of two tiny bedrooms, a salon, along with the use -of a kitchenette in one of the four apartments controlled by a Madame -Bonnet. Our selection was not as unwise as it looked at the moment. -Indeed, as it turned out, Madame Bonnet remained my landlady throughout -the coming three years. - -As quickly as we had found our lodging we established relations with the -little shops in the neighborhood where one could for a few sous buy all -the makings of a meal. You bought exactly what you needed and no more—a -single egg, one roll or croissant, a gill of milk, two cups apiece of -café au lait, never having a drop left in the pot. Brought up as we had -all been at loaded tables, the close calculation shocked us at first as -something mean, stingy. “Why, the very scraps from a meal at home would -feed us here.” And that was true—more shame to our bringing up. But we -learned to buy as our thrifty neighbors did and to like it, and we -learned how to order at the cheap and orderly little restaurants of the -Quarter so as to get a sufficient meal of really excellent food for a -franc (then nineteen cents or, as we carelessly reckoned it, twenty-one -hundred centimes to a franc). Only on grand occasions did we allow -ourselves two francs. - -The pleasantest and most profitable part of the experience was the -acquaintances we made with the women who kept the little shops, the -little restaurants. As soon as they were convinced of our financial -responsibility and our social seriousness, they became friendly—a -friendliness not based on the few sous we were spending so carefully but -on interest and curiosity. We were new types to them; but, once -convinced we were what we pretended to be, they treated us with a -deference quite different from the noisy greetings they gave the people -of the neighborhood or their rather contemptuous familiarity with the -occasional cocotte who strayed in. That is, we were very soon placed by -the shopkeepers of the vicinity. It was my first lesson in the skill, -almost artistry with which all classes of the French people classify -those with whom they are thrown in contact, notably foreigners. Later I -was to observe this in the more highly developed classes where I -established professional relationship. - -I was a stranger seeking information—an American journalist, a student, -so I told them. But what kind of person was I? What was there in me they -could tie to, depend upon? - -Obviously I was not rich. If I had been, there would have been quickly -gathered around me a group to offer entertainment as well as treasures -to buy; but it was clear I had little money, so that was out of the -question. There are other things by which the French label you, a woman -particularly—charm, beauty, chic, _l’esprit_, seriousness, capacity to -work, intelligence, _bonté_. Those with whom I had dealings for any -length of time hit perfectly on my chief asset. I was a worker. “A -_femme travailleuse_,” they said to one another, and if they passed me -to an acquaintance that was the recommendation. No people believe more -than the French in the value and dignity in hard work. I was treated -with respect because of my working quality. It was not saying that I -should not have gone farther and faster if I had been a beauty, if I had -had what they call charm and the fine secret of using it, but they were -willing to take me for what I had. Being a worker, the chances were I -was serious. I might or might not prove intelligent, but here they gave -me the benefit of the doubt and waited for a final answer. That which -they were slowest in making up their minds about was goodness—_bonté_. -They were not willing to accept anything but natural unconscious -goodness, and it takes time to make sure about that. - -While we were finding our way about, I was at work. If I did not have -the documents to prove it I would not believe today that just a week -after arriving, and in spite of the excitement and fatigue of settling, -I had written and mailed two newspaper articles. - -Enamored as I was of the city, no work could have been more satisfying -than that I had laid out for myself. My little self-directed syndicate -concerned itself with the practical everyday life of the city. One is -always keen to know all the common things about the thing or person one -loves. How did Paris keep herself so clean? What did she eat and drink, -and where did she get it? How much did it cost her? Where did she go for -fun? How did she manage it that even her very poor seemed to know how to -amuse themselves, that her beggars were a recognized institution? There -were a multitude of things I thirsted to know about her. And if I could -get my bread and butter in finding out, what luck! What luck! - -At once I became an omnivorous reader of the newspapers, and I found to -my joy that many of them felt as I did about the Parisian scene. They -carried paragraphs as captivating as those that our _New Yorker_ -unearths for its fascinating editorial department on the city to which -it belongs. Another discovery which surprised me was that my best source -for illustration was the illustrated catalogues of the French Salons of -recent years. I wanted pictures of markets, of rivers, of beggars, of -marriages, of all the things that people were doing as they went about -their business. And what rejoiced me was that many French artists seemed -to love the streets and what went on there in much the same way that I -did. They loved to see Paris at her daily toil, meeting her daily -problems, and every year they turned out pictures showing her at it. - -Later I was to discover that this daily life of the Parisians of -different classes has always been material for able artists. The best -illustrations I found for my Madame Roland in her youth were those of -Chardin in the Louvre. - -My manner of living, the contacts and circumstances attending the -gathering of my material for my newspaper articles brought me for the -first time in my life into daily relations with that greatest segment of -every country’s population—those whom we call the poor, and of whom if -we are well-to-do or if we are rich we are so curiously unconscious. I -had belonged all my conscious life to the well-to-do, those who spent a -dollar without seriously weighing it. Society had seemed to me to be -chiefly made up of such people. Of course there were the rich, but they -were so few in number as to be negligible—at least they had never -counted in my life; nor had the poor counted as a permanent class. I had -the American notion that the chief economic duty of the poor was to -become well-to-do. The laborer, the clerk, the man who worked for others -should save his money, put it into the business, or start out for -himself, no matter how hard, how meager the return. Dignity and success -lay in being your own master, owning your own home—I am sure my father -would rather have grubbed corn meal and bacon from a piece of stony land -which was his own than have had all the luxuries on a salary. One of his -complaints against the great oil trust was that it was turning the men -of the Oil Region into hired men—mighty prosperous hired men, some of -them, but nevertheless taking orders, even orders as to what to say, for -whom to vote. - -To his way of thinking this was failure for an American. I suspect his -philosophy working in me was at least partially responsible for my -revolt against the kind of security I had achieved on _The Chautauquan_. -I was a hired girl. - -But in the society where I found myself in Paris there was no such -contempt for the fixed job. On the contrary, it was something for which -you were responsible, to which you owed an obligation. Serious workers -in Paris seemed to me to give to the job the same kind of loyalty that -serious men and women in America gave to the businesses they owned. You -respected yourself and were respected in proportion to your fidelity to -it. You might be advanced, but more probably not. Opportunity did not -grow on every bush as at home, and if it came a Frenchman’s way he -weighed it—at home you seized it, trusting to luck. Here luck seemed to -me to have little or no standing in a business enterprise, big as it -counted in the lotteries in which everybody took part. To my surprise I -found these people, working so busily and constantly, were not restless -like the Americans; nor were they generally envious. I had a feeling -that my concierge, who never had been across the Seine to the Right -Bank, who lived in a room almost filled by her huge bed and its great -feather puffs, who must have looked long at a sou before she spent it, -would not have changed places with anybody in Paris. Were not the -lodgers on whom she kept so strict a watch kind, generous, and regular -with fees? Had she not friends in the street? Might she not win a slice -of a fortune one day from the fraction of a lottery ticket which she -annually found a way to buy? And who had so magnificent a cat? The pride -of the House. What more could she ask? - -Certainly there was more interest in the tasks, less restlessness, less -envy, than in the same class in America. Was it my father’s philosophy -which made the difference? Was it your duty if you were poor to struggle -to be well-to-do, and if well-to-do struggle to be rich? It meant you -were always trying to be somebody else. If it was your duty to be -discontented, could you escape envy? Was it not necessary, if you were -to keep yourself up to the effort, to feed yourself on envy as in war -men must be fed on hate if they are to kill with vigor and gusto? - -It was too much to believe that the content, the fidelity to the job -were universal. Nevertheless, it was sufficient to cement the laborious -poor into a powerful and recognized class, a class with traditions, -customs, recognized relations to other classes, having its own manner of -homes, amusements, worship; a class self-respecting, jealous of its -prerogatives, and able in need to protect itself. - -But the multitude of hard-working and fairly satisfied men and women -were not all the poor with whom I came close. There were those who could -find no work; there were many of them, for the long world depression of -the nineties was on its way. The winter of ’91 and ’92 was a cruel one, -and the museums, libraries, lecture rooms, churches where I went about -my daily duties were swarmed with poor souls trying to deceive the -guardians into thinking that they had come to study pictures, read -books, listen to lectures, to confess their sins or listen to mass. The -guardians only saw them when they became a crowd or attempted to camp -for the day. Most pathetic to me were their efforts to make furtive -toilets, taking a comb from a pocket to smooth tangled hair, scissors to -cut the fringe from a frayed cuff. - -There were soup kitchens to keep them from starving, though many a one -starved or froze or ended his misery in the Seine that winter. At one of -these kitchens I officiated for a brief time. It was run by the McAll -Mission in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I was not there as a Samaritan -but as a reporter looking for copy. What could I do for them but tell -Americans what a few Americans were doing in Paris to ease the vast -misery? It might bring a few sous for soup. I believe it did. - -But they pulled less strongly on my sympathy than a class of the poor -which I found to be in our Quarter—men and women no longer young, past -the employing age, who lived alone on tiny incomes, sometimes the fruit -of their own past thrift, sometimes an inheritance, again the gift of a -friend. I watched and speculated about how they did it, the more -seriously because I asked myself if the day might be coming when I -should belong to this class. If I ever did, I hoped I could carry it off -with as much dignity as the one called the Countess on our street. She -lived _sous les toits_ in a high house opposite me, a tall, erect, -white-haired woman in a gown and cape of faded and patched silk which -still showed its quality as did its wearer. More than once I watched her -stop late at night at the garbage can on the sidewalk opposite, turning -over its contents. Many of the tradespeople seemed to feel that she -honored them when she came in to buy an occasional egg or apple. She was -so gracious, so completely _grande dame_. One day I heard the woman from -whom I bought my café au lait say: “Will not Madame honor me by trying -my coffee? It is still hot.” She was pouring out a cup as she said it, -and the Countess with a benignant smile said, “If that will give you -pleasure, my good Marie.” She needed it. Marie knew that, but Marie was -more than paid by that smile. “It is a great honor,” she told me lest, -being a foreigner, I did not understand the Countess, “to have so great -a lady come into one’s shop.” There it was again, another standard than -money, the standard of class, breeding, cultivation, the grand manner. - -The more I saw of the gallant poor of Paris, the more convinced I was if -they could get on so could I, learning to live on what I could make. And -I was going to make something. My doubt about that was set at rest some -six weeks after my arrival when I received a check for my first -syndicate article—$5.00. It was quickly followed by checks from two more -of the six papers to which I had submitted my syndicate proposition—50 -per cent was not a bad percentage and they were good papers, the -Pittsburgh _Dispatch_, the Cincinnati _Times-Star_ and the Chicago -_Tribune_. These three papers remained faithful to me until the election -of 1892 compelled them to give all their space to politics, so they -explained. I believed them, for they had all written me kind letters -about my stuff and the _Times-Star_, unsolicited, raised my pay to -$7.50! - -Then the unbelievable happened. In December, a little less than three -months after my arrival in Paris, _Scribner’s Magazine_ accepted a -story—a grand Christmas present indeed, that news. Fiction was not in -the Plan, but one of the first pieces of work that I did after arriving -in Paris was a story born of a delightful relationship with an old -French dyer of Titusville, Monsieur Claude. As soon as I had finally -determined that I would burn all bridges and go to Paris for study, I -had set about my preparation in thorough fashion. There was the -language. I had read it fluently for years—but speak it? No. Could I -master enough in the few months I had before sailing to find my way -about? If so, I must have some one to talk with. The best the town -afforded was Monsieur Claude and his mouselike wife. They were flattered -by my request. Three times a week I went, and we talked and studied -until they both were sure I could make myself understood in common -matters. In this delightful association I discovered that the passion of -Monsieur Claude, the longing of his heart, was to see France before he -died. He had insisted that I learn and almost daily repeat Béranger’s -“France Adorée.” Once in Paris, I understood him, wrote his story, sent -it—a trial balloon—to _Scribner’s Magazine_. - -The selection was made on a principle which young writers too rarely -consider when they attempt to place their wares, and that is -understanding of the tastes and prejudices and hobbies of periodicals. -Useless in 1890 to send a story on “France Adorée” to a magazine which -was interested purely and simply in realistic literature; but the -inexperienced writer frequently does not realize that. Naturally I had -learned in my work on _The Chautauquan_ something of the pet interests -of the leading publishing houses. I knew that _Scribner’s_ enjoyed -French cultivation, French character, French history. I hoped my -sentimental title “France Adorée” would not antagonize the editor of -_Scribner’s Magazine_. - -But I had expected nothing from it, being in that state of mind where I -had ceased to expect, only to accept. So that when I received a friendly -letter from Mr. Burlingame, the editor of the magazine, saying that he -liked the story, that he accepted it, I felt as one must who suddenly -draws a fortune in the sweepstakes. - -In due time a check for $100 arrived. What excitement in our little -salon when I showed my companions that check! “Now,” declared our -beautiful Mary, “we can move to the Champs Elysées.” And she would have -done it, for she was one of those who always see spring in a single -sparrow. We stayed where we were, I requiring a whole flock of sparrows -to convince me that it was spring. - -The influence of the story on my fortunes was all out of proportion to -its value. Most important was the courage it gave me. If I, a stranger, -could do something that a great editor of a great magazine thought good -enough to accept, why, after all, I might work it out. That which moved -me most deeply, gave me joy that made me weep, was that now I should -have something to show to my family. I had felt a deserter. Times were -hard in the Titusville household in these early nineties. My father’s -and brother’s experiences in the oil business—of which I want to speak -later—were more than discouraging; they were alarming. My sister was ill -and in the hospital; my mother’s letters were saturated with anxiety. -And here was I—the eldest child in the family, a woman of years and of -some experience, who had been given an education, whose social -philosophy demanded that she do her part in working out family -problems—here was I across the ocean writing picayune pieces at a fourth -of a cent a word while they struggled there. I felt guilty, and the only -way I had kept myself up to what I had undertaken was the hope that I -could eventually make a substantial return. If any one of the family -felt that I should have been at home there never was a hint of it. From -them I had unwavering sympathy and encouragement. - -But if in three months’ time I could do what I had done, and I made the -most of it in my letters home, why, then they would see some hope for -the future. Not only would the story help them to believe in me, it -would give something more imposing to show to inquiring friends than the -newspaper articles which had been their only exhibit. - -When the story appeared in the following spring the reverberations in my -Paris circle were encouraging and useful. I even heard of it from “the -other side,” as we called the Right Bank, for Theodore Stanton (at that -time the head of the Associated Press in Paris) came with Mrs. Stanton -to call on me and tell me he liked the story. - -The most important fruit was that Mr. Burlingame looked me up when he -made his annual spring visit to Europe. Here was my chance to tell him -about Madame Roland, to ask if he thought his house would be interested -in such a biography if it turned out to be a good piece of work. “The -suggestion would have to be considered in New York,” he replied. But he -promised me it would be considered. And it was, for not long afterwards -he wrote me that the house was interested in my project, certainly -wanted to see the manuscript. - -This was enough to settle finally a struggle that had tormented me for -many weeks. I had come to Paris determined to fit myself for magazine -work along historical and biographical lines; but once close to the -world of the scholar, surrounded by men and a few women who lived stern, -self-denying lives in order to master a field however small I was seized -with an ambition to be a scholar. It was a throwback to my old passion -for the microscope. I would specialize in the French Revolution—I would -become a professor. - -But Mr. Burlingame’s answer to my inquiry as to whether the Scribner -company would be friendly to a biographical study of my lady settled the -matter; which shows, I take it, how shallow my scholarly ambitions -really were. - -The Scribner connection was not the only one putting heart into me. -Among my early trial balloons was one marked for McClure’s Syndicate, -New York City. It carried an article of two thousand words with a catchy -title—“The King of Paris”—cribbed from a French newspaper. It was the -story of Jean Alphand and his services to the city. The balloon reached -its destination. The article was promptly accepted with a promise of $10 -when it was published, also a suggestion that they would be glad to -consider other subjects if I had them to offer—which I did. Indeed, I -gave them no time to forget me; not that they took all I hustled across -the Atlantic, but they took enough to make me feel that this might be a -stable and prosperous market for short and timely articles. When -suggestions finally began to come from them I felt the ground firmer on -my feet. One of these suggestions led me into an especially attractive -new field, and in the long run had important bearing on my major -interest, Madame Roland. It was that I try a series of sketches of -French women writers. There was a respectable group of them, and I asked -nothing better than to look them up. - -I began with a woman who at that time was introducing leading -contemporary English and American writers to the French through the -_Revue des deux Mondes_—Madame Blanc, her pen name Théodore Bentzon, a -person of rare distinction and of gallant soul. She had been a lady in -waiting at Napoleon III’s court, had made an unfortunate marriage, was -now living on a small income and what she could earn by writing. In her -salon there was a portrait taken in her young womanhood which charmed -me, but when I spoke of it she shook her head as if she did not want to -remember it. “Une femme qui n’existe plus,” she said. - -Hard worker as Madame Blanc was, she found time to start me on my rounds -among the French women writers. I doubt if there was an American writer -of our day who would have had both the kindness of heart and the -sureness of herself to take so much trouble for an unknown woman. She -started me off, and I turned out ten or a dozen little pieces before I -was through. With one of my subjects I had an amusing flirtation—I think -I may call it a flirtation. This was Madame Dieulafoy who with her -husband had done eminent work in archaeology, and who had a roomful of -exhibits in the Louvre to her credit—a very great person indeed. Madame -Dieulafoy was the only woman I had ever seen at that time who wore men’s -clothes. It had been found necessary to put her into trousers for -excavating work, and she liked them so well and Monsieur Dieulafoy loved -her so in them that they had obtained permission from the French -Government for her to wear them in Paris. From more than one source I -heard of the sensation she created among servants when she came to call. -They abandoned their duties to peep from dark places at the woman in -men’s clothes. - -Madame Dieulafoy and I grew friendly over the history of the exploits of -women in the world, and it took no time at all for me to decide to write -the history of women from Eve up, as if I had not already enough on my -hands. She applauded my idea, gave me many suggestions, but it never -went any further than my few visits, which as I say were more or less -flirtations. She was such a pretty little man, so immaculate (the best -tailors in Paris did her, I was told), that I could not keep admiring -eyes off her. She used her eyes, too, and loved to pat me on the knee, -partly I suppose because I always blushed when she did it. It was an -amusing acquaintance and a profitable one to me, for she was as -interested in my plans for articles as if I had been one of her own. - -Another woman who interested me greatly was Judith Gautier. My interest -was stirred by my indignation that her name had been left off the list -of living women distinguished in French literature sent to the Chicago -Exposition of 1893. There was much speculation among my friends as to -how it happened. My own conclusion was that it was because of her long -and impassioned devotion to the music of Richard Wagner. - -The first Wagner opera to be given in Paris was “Tannhäuser.” This was -in the early sixties, when Judith Gautier was about fourteen years old. -She went to the opera with her father—Théophile Gautier—and was -enthusiastic although the house received it coldly. As they were walking -home a little fellow with hollow cheeks, eagle nose, and very bright -eyes joined them. He rejoiced with cheerful violence over the failure of -the opera. The girl, angered, forgot her manners and blurted out, “It is -clear, sir, that you know you have heard a masterpiece, and that you are -talking of a rival.” - -“Do you know who that was, saucebox?” her delighted father asked as they -passed on. - -“No, who?” - -“Hector Berlioz.” - -It was the beginning of a lifelong devotion. Wagner was to her not only -the master musician but a species of divinity. In 1882 she published a -volume on him—valuable for its reminiscences. - -Early in the winter of 1892 “Lohengrin” was announced for the season of -Grand Opera. I was amazed at the loud and bitter protests. Among the few -lovers of Wagner who had courage to come to the defense of the master -was Judith Gautier. She was abused for it. As this was my first -realization that political hatred ever influences the judgment in -matters of art, I took the incident very much to heart. I could -understand why people might dislike Wagnerian music, but that the -soldiers should be called out to protect the Opera House when one of his -greatest works was to be given shocked me. You could then so hate an -enemy that beauty herself was outraged! - -It was easy for me to conclude that Judith Gautier’s name had been left -off the list of writing women sent to the Chicago Exposition because the -committee wanted to punish her for defending the works of a great artist -in whom she profoundly believed. - -The opening up of opportunities so much more quickly than I had dared -dream spurred me to longer and harder hours at work. There were few -mornings that I was not at my desk at eight o’clock; there were few -nights that I went to bed before midnight, and there was real drudgery -in making legible copy after my article was written. It was all done by -longhand—careful and painstaking handwriting, it was. I was to find -later that Mr. McClure’s partner in the Syndicate, Mr. J. S. Phillips, -trying to estimate the possibilities in this correspondent bombarding -them with articles and suggestions, set me down from my handwriting as a -middle-aged New England schoolteacher. - -But if life was hard and life was meager, and if down at the bottom of -my heart it was continuously in question to which class of the poor I -would finally belong, life to my surprise was taking on a varied pattern -very different from the drab existence of hard work and self-denial that -I had planned and was prepared to endure to the end. It began at the Rue -du Sommerard, where at the outset we stumbled on what turned out to be -the most colorful, unusual, and frequently perplexing association that -had ever come the way of any one of us. - -When we took our rooms from Madame Bonnet she had told us that one room -in the apartment was reserved for an Egyptian Prince who came only for -the week ends. He was _bien comme il faut_, _très riche_, _très_ -everything desirable. He would not disturb us, we might never see him. -Upon inquiry we discovered that all Madame Bonnet’s rooms save those we -were taking were occupied by Egyptian students of law or medicine or -diplomacy. The Prince, himself, a cousin of the Khedive, was in the -military school at Saint-Cyr. He kept a room at Madame Bonnet’s to spend -an occasional holiday or Sunday with his compatriots, all of his age and -all of the upper classes. - -We all shared the American flutter over titles, and when we caught a -first glimpse of the Prince and his friends we were still more excited. -They were quite the most elegant-looking male specimens so far as -manners and clothes went that any one of us had ever seen. Here was more -in the way of flavor than we had bargained for. We had come to study the -French and had dropped into an Egyptian colony. - -We soon discovered that they were as curious about us as we were about -them, for hardly were we settled when Madame Bonnet came to say that the -_messieurs_ were all in her salon. Wouldn’t we come in and make their -acquaintance? Of course we went. They wanted us to dance. Now it was -Sunday, and we had all been brought up under the Methodist discipline. -Sunday was a day of rest and worship and no play, no amusement of any -kind. In my household at least I was supposed to play only hymns on the -piano as we were supposed to read only religious books. My mother and I -compromised at last on Gottschalk’s “Last Hope”; she, being moved by the -story of its composition, thought that it must be religious, but -“Martha” and “Poet and Peasant,” my two other show pieces, were -forbidden. - -Indeed, when I was forty years old my father, catching me reading a -volume of a certain Congressional trust investigation on a Sunday -afternoon, reproved me in his gentle way. “You shouldn’t read that on -Sunday, Ida.” I quickly exchanged it for “Pilgrim’s Progress,” which is -not without suggestion for a student of the trust. - -My young companions were particularly shocked at the Egyptians’ -invitation to dance. I think it had never occurred to them that all -people did not keep Sunday. “No,” we said a little severely, “we don’t -dance on Sunday.” I had the satisfaction of hearing them whisper soberly -to one another, “_très religieuses_.” It was just as well, I thought, -they should have that idea to start with; better than starting with the -degree of intimacy they might see in our dancing in their landlady’s -salon on a first meeting. - -But we had what was for us an exciting evening, and when we left and -they all begged “Come again” we promised that we would. - -It was the beginning of a weekly party. Madame Bonnet gave the Egyptians -their dinners. We agreed to take dinners once a week with her. We -couldn’t afford more, and besides we wanted to be on the safe side in -our relations. There must be no question in their minds about our entire -respectability—respectability as we understood it. What interested me -particularly was that at once they wanted to understand our conventions, -social and religious and political. Nothing disturbed them more, I -found, than a feeling that perhaps they had not quite understood, that -unintentionally they had infringed on our customs. Once convinced of -this, we could go with entire freedom to our weekly Egyptian evenings. -As I recall them they were happy evenings much like children’s parties -at home, for the Egyptians loved games, tricks, charades, play of any -sort. They laughed and shouted and, if something went wrong, flew into a -rage like children. - -The meat of the connection was the talk which sometimes ran far into the -night. All of these young men were in training for some kind of -professional or official position. Two or three of them had taken from -three to four years at German gymnasia or English universities. All of -them spoke three or four languages. The Prince’s English was perfect, -and no one of us could ever hope to approach the French of the group, -learned for the most part in Switzerland as children. They had much more -curiosity and real information about the social customs of other -countries than we had. They were eager to know all about our ways, -particularly the life of women, their relation to men before and after -marriage. - -There were would-be reformers of Egyptian marriage customs among them; -especially did they resent the convention which prevented them looking -at the face of the bride before the marriage ceremony. One of the group -had made a vow never to marry as long as that custom existed and was -urging his compatriots to join him. Nearly all of them insisted that -they would never marry more than one woman. They asked with a frankness -startling to our ears about the way monogamy worked in the United -States. They were curious to know the position of the mistress, and when -we were shocked and insisted that a good man never had a mistress they -were frankly incredulous. It would never work out, they insisted. One -wife they understood; but one wife and no mistress seemed entirely -impractical. - -Politics interested them profoundly. Particularly did they hate -England—how deeply and bitterly I did not realize until in January of -’92 news of the death of the Khedive, Tewfik Pasha son of Ismail Pasha, -great-grandson of Mehemet Ali, came to the Rue du Sommerard. Madame -Bonnet came in at once to tell us how sorrowful our friends were and to -ask that we dine with them that night. We found them very grave. “He was -a good man,” they insisted, “our friend.” What was going to happen now? -I took it they feared changes in government which might make their own -futures uncertain. They were uneasy, frightened and wanted us to -understand the reason behind their anxiety. - -After dinner a large number of their compatriots filed into the room. We -were begged to stay. They evidently wanted us to understand better their -suspicion of what England might do in this crisis. The longer the talk, -the more bitter they grew. - -“Down with England!” they began to cry. - -Indignation and enthusiasm are qualities as contagious as disease. -Before I realized it, I shared their anger and was drinking repeatedly -in _l’eau sucrée_—good Mohammedans that our Egyptians were, they never -touched wine—drinking repeatedly to loud and angry roars of “A bas -l’Angleterre!” - -The Egyptians were not only a picturesque and enlivening feature in our -life: they had a social value which they never suspected. We used them -rather shamelessly to impress wandering Americans who looked with badly -concealed scorn on the Latin Quarter and particularly on our narrow and -stuffy rooms. “A Prince was our neighbor,” we said loftily, and to prove -it we could show an autographed photograph which the Prince on his own -notion had given me. I kept it on the mantel in the little salon. When -we felt particular need of asserting ourselves we told of our weekly -dinners and they lost nothing of their gaiety and interest in our -telling. There was so much more flavor in them, we always assured those -who tried to high-hat us, than ordinary sightseeing offered! - -I have always felt rather proud of the way we handled ourselves in that -year, keeping the entire respect of our Egyptians. It was not always so -easy. It fell into my awkward hands to handle one rather violent love -affair. A pretty and vivacious young girl had joined our party at the -request of her brother: “Will you look after her?” The Egyptians were -delighted with her, and she treated them as she might a group of -American boys, could see no reason why she should not go out with them. -Only our combined disapproval, our insistence that if she did she soon -would be classed in the Quarter as little better than the gay little -girls who swarmed about, and with whom we occasionally out of the corner -of our eyes saw our Egyptians: she must not run that risk. But while -that was managed the inevitable stir of youth could not be managed, and -it was not long before I had one of the nicest of the boys begging me on -his knees to let him pay his addresses to my little friend, insisting -that he would marry her, never take another wife. He wept and pleaded, -but I held my ground until finally the young girl who loved his suit but -not the boy was safely on the ocean. - -A long time afterwards I had proof that we did look after ourselves. -When a couple of our party were going to Italy one of these young men -gave them a letter of introduction to an Egyptian friend in Milan. The -letter was not presented, and not opened until two or three years later, -when my friend showed me the postscript. It read: “Surtout soyez -convenable avec ces dames.” - -After the Egyptians came our French professor, a woman of forty, buxom, -competent, gay-hearted, an able teacher. I have never known man or woman -more shrewd in gauging character or more expert in turning the qualities -she found to her own advantage. If she respected or admired them she -took no more than she gave—frequently, as in my case, much less. But if -she found a pupil lazy or dishonest or stingy or rich and irresponsible, -she took mercilessly. “Such people deserve nothing—nothing,” she -declared once when I protested. - -She respected me because I worked, but she always told me frankly that -although I read French easily and wrote it _pas mal_ I should always -speak it with the “detestable” English accent. “No ear—too old.” -However, I could be made more fluent, my vocabulary enlarged, my grammar -perfected. And to that end she bent all her efforts, establishing -several useful exchange relations. The chief of these was her most -intimate friend, Monsieur X, a man who I suppose had been for many years -her lover. - -Monsieur X had no superior intelligence; but he was industrious and _bon -enfant_, and partly at least through the help of Madame A had come to -hold an excellent official position. She kept him busy improving his -chances. At the moment she took me on she had him translating a big -volume on the English system of handling the unemployed and the -helplessly poor, an acute problem for France in the early nineties. As -she already had pried out of me full information of all I was trying to -do, she saw at once the possibility of a trade. If I would help him in -translating, he would secure reports and information on subjects in -which I was interested. It seemed a good thing for me at any rate, and -the arrangement was made. - -I continued to help with the book until it was published. It was well -received, even _couronné_ by the Academy of Science. To my astonishment -I found then that Madame A’s interest in this book and its success was -that it would help her in making a more profitable marriage for Monsieur -X. They had settled on a wife—that, I knew—but, as she told me, his -position was so much improved by the success of his book that he was -worth a much larger dot. Therefore, she set out with his help, I -suppose, to find another wife. They succeeded, and the affair was -arranged. - -I was deeply disturbed by the matter. I believed, as I still do, that -the only safe basis for a happy marriage is a compound of physical -harmony, capacity for companionship combined with understanding and -acceptance of each other’s ideals. I could see little chance where it -was a matter chiefly of balanced income. But Madame A had no sympathy -with my idealistic attitude towards marriage. - -Of course it left her high and dry. The little dinners which the three -of us had shared almost every week became dinners _à deux_. The first -night I was torn with sympathy. - -“Will you never see him again?” I asked. - -“Of course, not now, later perhaps. These things arrange themselves, -mademoiselle.” - -But I noticed she ordered a double cognac that night. - -Madame A rendered one very great service to our group, one which we -could never repay. We had been but a short time in Paris before we -realized that one of our duties was to be helping out American girls and -women who had come to Europe to study a little, sight-see a little, -travel a little, expecting easily to form congenial relations with the -people of the country, and who for one reason or another had never been -able to do this. They were disappointed and unhappy. The four of us -standing together made a nucleus they envied. We made it a rule to do -our best to help them out; but at least in one case it involved us in -serious trouble. - -Among those who had attached themselves to us was a woman of some forty -or more years with a curiously repellent personality. I have never known -a person to produce a more melancholy effect on strangers. I have seen -our little salon empty itself if she dropped in on our evening at home. -Even Madame Bonnet’s little black dog Riquet, who had adopted us, would -slink around the edge of the room and beg to be let out if she came in. -What was the matter? We could not imagine. More than once she threw -herself into my arms and sobbed that she was unhappy, in great trouble, -of which she could not speak. - -Miss C had been some three months in the house when we came home from a -week-end trip to be met by an outraged Madame Bonnet. Miss C, she told -us, had been arrested, arrested for stealing at the Bon Marché and the -Louvre. She was in Saint-Lazaire. There was a note for me. I must do -something. Think of the disgrace to her establishment! - -The note told me only where she was, that she had engaged a lawyer, -asked me to see him. I did, and found him of the type which I suppose -hangs around all prisons into which great cities dump women of the -street and petty criminals. His only interest was in a possible -retainer. How much would I pay him for taking the case? Nothing, I -assured him, until I had talked to the American authorities. I went to -the consulate, where an irate and worried official swore loudly at the -faculty of American women for getting into trouble in France. - -“Here I am,” he said, “saddled with a girl who is going to have a baby -and who swears she’ll kill herself if I don’t arrange for her to have it -so her family will never know. - -“I was afraid she would do it too, and then there would be another nasty -scandal to hush up, so I got the man here and told him he must put up -the money to see her through. - -“He laughed at me; but I pulled this revolver out of the drawer” -(suiting the action to the word) “and told him I thought I ought to -shoot him, but that if I didn’t I’d send for the girl’s brother and see -that he did. Well, he settled for ten thousand francs. But that does not -let me off. What am I going to do with the baby? And now here you are -with one of the nastiest kind of cases for a French court. They can’t -stand foreigners stealing from them.” - -“But what am I to do?” I wailed. - -“She’ll have to stand a public trial. You must impress the judges. Find -out if she’s got friends. Get cablegrams. Show she has relatives willing -to help her. Read her letters. See if they don’t show what is behind -this, and when the trial comes have all the pretty girls and -prosperous-looking men you know present. They’ll look at you, and -they’ll think twice. Put on a campaign, woman.” - -And so I started out to put on a campaign. I began by reading her -letters. I did not go far before I had the story—a tragic one. Miss C -was well born, her family prosperous and important in her state, she a -graduate of a great university. She had been a successful teacher, was -to have been married to a man whom she had loved for years with passion -and depth. For reasons I never knew the engagement was broken. In an -attempt to forget, patch up her shattered hopes, she had come to Europe -for study and travel; but she couldn’t forget, and every week for months -she had written the man long letters and every week they had come back -to her unopened. - -Her despair became so black that, as she told me later, “I had to do -something.” And so, as when one bites on a sore tooth, she had begun to -steal. The proofs of it were all there in her room: a pathetic -collection of articles, not worth stealing, slipped mainly from bargain -counters. Among them there were at least seventy pairs of gloves of -every size and color—none of them any one of us would have worn. There -were some fifty pen knives; there were a pile of half-bolts of ribbon -and lace, innumerable spools of silk and cotton, packages of pins and -needles. All taken not because she wanted them, only to hurt herself in -another spot, take her mind from the original wound. - -Understanding her wretchedness, I could sympathize with her folly. I -began my campaign by telling Madame of our trouble. She detested Miss C, -thought her crazy, though she admitted she was a better pupil than any -one of us, but here was excitement, also an opportunity to serve us. -What the consul had not suggested, she did. - -There was a long wait. Our prisoner was transferred to the Conciergerie, -where I went to see her. A gruesome trip under the very windows from -which I knew Madame Roland had looked in the days before she mounted the -cart and took her last ride along the quay to the guillotine. - -When the trial came the sympathizing claque was a grand success. At -Madame A’s suggestion we dressed for it in the best we had, bought new -flowers for our hats and fresh gloves, brought over two or three -handsome young women from the Champs Elysées Quarter. As for Madame A -herself, she made a toilette which even a judge would see and hear. - -I had suggested that Monsieur X, being an important person, might -impress the judge. She was horrified. “Drag a member of the Government -into such a stupid affair! No, you Americans must do it. I’ll bring the -rich American.” - -And she did. The rich American was a wealthy idler who for several -winters had taken lessons from her, largely, I think, because he found -her so pungent and amusing. He treated her royally as to fees and kept -her in flowers and candy. He looked his part of important man of -affairs. No one could have added more to our display, for one could see -even the judges eyeing enviously the elegance of his clothes. - -Petty larceny cases were at that time, and I suppose still are, taken -into a courtroom perhaps forty by twenty, with seats for friends and the -public. On a mounted platform at the end sat three judges in their -robes. A dossier of each case lay before them; they had for our friend a -rather impressive collection of documents, cablegrams from her family, -proofs that her father was or had been a man of importance in public -affairs, her college diploma, her check book and a letter of credit -showing her to have ample funds. - -When all was ready seven prisoners were brought in, six men half -degenerate petty thieves and our poor pale tired friend between them. -Nothing more incongruous could have been seen than this well dressed -woman of evident breeding flanked by these hopeless derelicts. - -After looking over the papers in her dossier the judges looked at her -and then at us, now paler than she and praying for mercy with eyes and -clasped hands. They were perplexed and annoyed. Was there an -international angle to the case? - -“What are you doing in Paris?” asked one of them harshly. - -“Studying,” Miss C answered. - -“You take a queer way to do it,” he said tartly. “Why did you do this?” -he asked more gently. - -With a weary shake of her head she said, “Je ne sais pas.” - -It was Madame A who won the case, for it was to her the judges turned as -one who, they knew at a glimpse, talked their language. She sailed down -the aisle to take her stand before them, and I never have seen any one, -man or woman, to whom one could so aptly apply the old figure, “like a -full-rigged ship.” They let her talk. She told how _comme il faut_ we -all were—as they could see. We were important, serious, rich. Yes, rich. -Then she said candidly: “This woman is crazy. Send her home to her -friends.” - -She had solved their problem, told them their duty, and they followed -her advice, adding a fine of five hundred francs and an order that she -leave France in a week after her dismissal, and never return. - -Madame A had saved Miss C, but she wanted no thanks from her, wouldn’t -see her; nor would Madame Bonnet let her come into the house save to -gather up her things. She had been a fool and got caught. To steal the -_riens_ as she had! It was a disgrace and respectable people like them -could not afford to have her cross their doorways. - -Luckily for us, our association with American women was not confined to -problem cases. There was a disturbing number of them compelling me to -ask myself again and again if this break for freedom, this revolt -against security in which I myself was taking part was not a fatal -adventure bound to injure the family, the one institution in which I -believed more than any other, bound to produce a terrible crop of -wretchedness and abnormality. Had not even the few successes I saw about -me been paid for by a hardening of heart, a suppression of natural human -joyousness that was uglier even than the case of my poor Miss C? - -But I was saved from too much perplexity over what freedom might be -doing to my compatriots by a gradual drifting into rather close -companionship with a number of Americans like ourselves taking lectures -at the Sorbonne, and the Collège de France. It was a great piece of luck -for us since these Americans were all students of more experience and -attainment than any one of us. There was Dr. John Vincent of the History -Department of Johns Hopkins University, and along with him his wife who -spent hours of every day making beautiful copies of canvases in the -Luxembourg. There were Fred Parker Emery of the English Department of -Massachusetts Institute of Technology and his wife. There was a younger -man, Charles D. Hazen, a Hopkins graduate—a man who was to make a -distinguished career for himself in French history, and now Professor -Emeritus of History at Columbia, the author of many valuable books. - -Serious work did not dull our new friends’ curiosity about French life -in general nor prevent a humorous detached view of things. We soon were -dining together every week in restaurants of the Quarter into which we -had never ventured before. Here for one franc, fifty (thirty cents) we -got a decent dinner—_vin compris_, as well as a gay company of students -and their girls. They were so merry, so natural in their gaiety that -none of us were anything but amused over their little ways. It was in -one of these restaurants that for the first time in my life I saw a girl -take out a compact, straighten her hat—her head had been on her -cavalier’s shoulder and it was out of plumb—straighten her hat and -powder her nose. That the day would come when the manners and customs of -the Latin Quarter of the nineties would be the manners and customs of -American girls in practically every rank of life would have been -unthinkable to me then. - -Our new friends added greatly to the pleasure of the weekly sightseeing -excursions which had been one of the features of The Plan. “Every week -end, go somewhere”—I had laid down. So every Saturday we were taking a -_bateau mouche_ or train or tram journey costing only a few of our -precious sous—to Saint-Denis, the September fête at Saint-Cloud, -Versailles. If the weather was bad we went to the museums, the churches, -the monuments. Our new friends liked the idea. When spring came our -promenades took on a wider range. There were week-end trips to -Fontainebleau and to one after another of the great cathedral and -château towns—Chartres, Beauvais, Rheims, Pierrefonds, Compiègne. - -Week ends in company as genial, unaffected and intelligent as that of -our new friends proved were a rare experience. When the time came for a -final break-up of the crowd in August of 1892—my first companions had -already gone back to America—those left of us decided to take a farewell -vacation together. The difficulty was to settle on a place. Here was -something not on my schedule. We considered Etaples, Beuzeval-Houlgate, -Belle-Île and finally at the last moment took tickets to -Mont-Saint-Michel—a glorious spot; but after watching the tide come in -for two successive days, after climbing to the top and descending to the -bottom of the château, sitting out sunsets on the wall and eating -omelettes at Madame Poulard’s until we were fed to the full we pushed on -to Saint-Malo and exhausted it as quickly as we had Mont-Saint-Michel. -As we listened bored to the orchestra in the square a poster on a wall -suddenly caught our collective eyes. It told us to go to the Island of -Jersey. With one accord we said “Let’s,” packed our bags and caught the -steamer all within an hour. At Jersey we walked into lodgings: rooms, -plenty of them; a salon looking on the sea; such sea fish and vegetables -and fruit as only that island offers. We thought it was costing a -fortune, but when the bill came—house, housekeeper, maid, and food such -as we had not had for a year—it totaled just eighty cents apiece for a -day. - -That vacation put a gay finish on my first year in Paris. I began the -second in deep depression, for several good reasons. First, I had -exhausted my reserve. I think I came back from my vacation with twenty -francs in my pocket. All my American associates were gone or going soon. -I had a new address, for Madame Bonnet had moved from the neighborhood -of the Musée Cluny to the more somber neighborhood of the Panthéon and, -hardest of all, I knew now that instead of one year more I must have at -least two to finish my undertaking. The homesickness and hunger for my -family had never been appeased. I had lived on their letters. If they -did not come regularly I scolded and wailed; I begged for details of -their daily life. My mother was an intimate letter writer, delightfully -frank about her neighbors and about the family. She told who was at -church, fretted because father spent so much time with his precious -Sunday school class of girls, described every new frock, told what they -had for Sunday dinner, announced the first green corn in the garden, the -blossoming of her pet flowers—snowdrops and primulas and iris in the -spring, roses in the summer, anemones in the fall, cactus in the winter. -Occasionally she would apologize for her homely details, particularly -after I had written a long guidebookish epistle home describing some -ancient monument I had been visiting. How I must have bored them -sometimes! But home details—“I live off them,” I told her. “You can’t -tell me too much about your daily doings.” - -This feeling about my family made me a sensitive receiving plate and -accounts, I suppose, for the only proof I personally have ever had of -the possibilities in telepathy. This came the first Sunday of June, -1892. I had hardly taken my coffee when I fell prey to a most -unaccountable alarm. What it was about, I did not know. I could not work -and finally went to the street. For hours I walked, not able to throw -off the black thing that enveloped me. It was late in the afternoon when -I returned to find a compatriot with a letter of introduction waiting. -As he was leaving the apartment after his call I picked up my daily copy -of _Le Temps_ and as I always did turned first to the news from _les -Etats Unis_. It was to read that the city of Titusville and its neighbor -Oil City had been utterly destroyed by flood and fire. The only -buildings left in my home town were said to be the railroad station and -a foundry. A hundred and fifty persons had been drowned or burned to -death—the inhabitants had taken to the hills. - -At that moment my caller came back for his umbrella. I seized him -roughly: “Read, read. What shall I do?” - -He was a sensible man. “Steady, steady,” he said. “Put on your hat, and -we’ll go out and get other papers.” We were soon back with the last -editions of all the English and French journals. They all gave space to -the disaster, each more distressing and unsatisfactory than the one -before. - -This explains my black day, I told myself. The family is dead—our home -gone. It was useless to cable, for the newspapers all spoke of broken -communications. But the next morning as I was dressing, Madame Bonnet -came in with a cablegram. Hardly daring to open it I backed into the -corner of the room to feel the support behind me of the walls while my -friend Mrs. Vincent, still with me, watched with white face. The -telegram was from my brother, and it had just one word. “Safe.” - -When finally a letter came, I found I had justification for my day of -horror. For many hours there had been but little doubt in the minds of -my father and brother that the family would have to take to the hills. -But they were safe, our home was standing. The experience left me more -nervous than ever about them, and now that my friends were gone it took -all the resolution I could summon to keep my foolish alarms under -control. - -Although I was beginning my second year with no money in the bank I had -friendly relations with two publishing firms that seemed to see a -possible something in my work. There was _Scribner’s Magazine_, a -relation of which I was justly proud; not only had they encouraged me -about my book, but they had asked me to let them consider magazine -subjects that interested me and that I was doing. But, while it was the -relation on which I hoped to build serious work in the future, at the -moment I must share it with something of quicker return; and that seemed -to be the McClure Syndicate. I felt surer of this after my first meeting -with its founder, S. S. McClure. That meeting had been just before my -vacation in the summer of 1892; Mr. McClure had dropped into Paris in -the meteoric fashion I found was usual with him, and came by appointment -to see me at my new address in the Rue Malebranche. This crooked and -steep passage off the Rue Saint-Jacques was unknown to half the -_cochers_ of Paris, but Mr. McClure found it and arrived bareheaded, -watch in hand, breathless from running up my four flights—eighty steps. - -“I’ve just ten minutes,” he announced; “must leave for Switzerland -tonight to see Tyndall.” - -A slender figure, S. S. McClure, a shock of tumbled sandy hair, blue -eyes which glowed and sparkled. He was close to my own age, a vibrant, -eager, indomitable personality that electrified even the experienced and -the cynical. His utter simplicity, outrightness, his enthusiasm and -confidence captivated me. He was so new and unexpected that practical -questions such as, “Would you be interested in articles on ...” and “How -much will you pay?” dropped out of mind. Before I knew it I was -listening to the story of his struggle up. How as a peddler he had -earned money for college—who could have let him go without buying?—his -vast schemes of learning undertaken when a freshman at Knox College, one -of which was to study every word in the English dictionary, its start, -its development, its present stage, its possible future, his beautiful -romance with Hattie, his wife, the story of the Syndicate and of -John—always John this, John that, and last a magazine to be—soon. And -here I was to come in. While he talked I was managing somehow to tell -him the story of my life and hopes and to fit things together. - -What was to have been ten minutes stretched to two hours or more. “I -must go,” he suddenly cried. “Could you lend me forty dollars? It is too -late to get money over town, and I must catch the train for Geneva.” - -“Certainly,” I said. I had forty dollars there in my desk, the sum set -aside for my farewell vacation. It never occurred to me to do anything -but give it to him. - -“How queer,” he said, “that you should have that much money in the -house!” - -“Isn’t it?” I replied. “It never happened before.” But I didn’t mention -the vacation. - -I had some bad moments after he was gone. “Will-of-the-wisp,” I said, “a -fascinating will-of-the-wisp. I’ll never see that money. He’ll simply -never think of it again. I’ll have to give up that vacation. Serves me -right.” - -I did see the money promptly, for Mr. McClure did not forget as I -expected him to do, but wired his London office that night to send me a -check. - -What the new magazine would want from me, I gathered in my long and -exciting interview with Mr. McClure, was articles on the achievements of -the great French and English scientists. Not history, not literature, -not politics, but science, discoveries, inventions, and adventures. - -Here I was back to my college days. I found my natural enthusiasm for -the physical world and its meanings which Professor Tingley had directed -was not dead, only sleeping. I found that, little as I knew of all these -things, I still had something of a vocabulary and knew enough to find my -way about by hard work. There was Pasteur; there was Janssen, who was -building an observatory on Mont Blanc; there was Bertillon, the inventor -of the system of criminal identification then attracting the attention -of the world. It took all my courage to talk with these gentlemen, but I -was soon to find they were the simplest and friendliest of people. For -two years I kept on hand popular scientific articles whose success -depended on interviews with distinguished specialists, and in that time -I met with only one rebuff; but that was a very contemptuous one. It was -not from a man but from a gifted American woman who was doing valuable -special work in one of the great French scientific institutions. The -effect of scholarship on a woman, I told myself. She doesn’t ripen, she -hardens. I know better now. It happens, but by no means to all women. -Take Dr. Florence Sabin, a great human being as well as a great -specialist. - -The contacts I made on this work left me precious memories. There was my -acquaintance with Madame and Monsieur Pasteur. One of the first articles -Mr. McClure asked for was on the Institute, then but eight years old. Of -course that meant an interview with Pasteur if it could be managed. It -turned out to be easy enough. - -The Pasteurs lived in a spacious apartment in the Institute: big rooms -with heavy furniture, heavy curtains, dark soft rugs of the period. It -was not until I was actually in the library where Madame Pasteur led me -that I realized how sadly Pasteur was crippled by the paralysis of his -left side which he had suffered twenty-five years earlier after three -years of incessant and exhausting labor on the diseases of the silkworm. -He moved with difficulty, he hesitated painfully over words; but his -eyes were bright, curious, interested. - -After a few more or less stumbling explanations on my part we fell to -talking naturally. They made it so easy. Mr. McClure was insistent at -that moment on what were called human documents, series of portraits of -eminent people from babyhood to 1893. I must have a Pasteur series. -Monsieur and Madame were delighted with the idea. The old albums were -brought out, and the three of us bent over them exactly as we did now -and then at home when the question of W. W. T. at one, S. A. T. at two, -I. M. T. at three came up. Again and again they stopped to say: “Tiens! -Voilà Pierre, comment il est drôle!” “Marie, comme elle est jolie!” - -When the album was closed and we had talked long of his early life I -made an effort to get some idea of what he was thinking of now, but he -said: “No science. If you want that, go see Monsieur Roux.” And so -reluctantly I went down the stairs that led from the apartment, the -kindly old faces watching me, for Monsieur and Madame Pasteur had done -me the honor to see me off, and Monsieur kept repeating as I went down, -“Look out, the stairs are dark.” - -When finally the article came out, in the second issue of _McClure’s -Magazine_, September, 1893, I took a copy to him. He was as pleased as a -boy with the pictures. On a later visit he complained that one of his -colleagues had carried off the copy. Could I get him another? When I -took this to him it was with the request that he write a maxim for the -January, 1894, issue of the magazine. - -Mr. McClure had had the happy idea of asking from leaders of science, -industry, religion, literature a paragraph or two embodying their -convictions as to the outlook for the world’s future, their hopes for -it. There was need enough of encouragement. The world had been going -through as bad a year as often comes its way, a year of despair, -uncertainty, hopelessness. What was ahead? The replies which filled -eighteen pages of the magazine included letters and sentiments from -Huxley, Tyndall, Max Müller, Henry Stanley, Julia Ward Howe, Cardinal -Gibbons, and a score of others: noble collection. It was published under -the heading “The Edge of the Future.” It raised my interest in the -venture to a high pitch of enthusiasm. It was for me the spirit, the -credo of the new magazine. It meant something more than I had dreamed -possible in magazine journalism. - -For the “Edge of the Future” undertaking I was asked at a last moment to -collect all the sentiments I could from distinguished Frenchmen. -Pasteur, certainly, and he was easy. “Of course I will do it,” he said. -“Come back, and I’ll have it ready.” But when I went back I found him in -a flurry. He had written his _pensée_, and it was lost. - -“Never mind,” comforted Madame Pasteur. “She’ll come back when you have -it ready for her.” - -And so I did; but it was unfinished, and Madame Pasteur had to stand -over him, encouraging him with tender _très biens_ and little pats while -he wrote. He was peevish as a child; he didn’t like the looks of it, -tried again, and finally with a pathetic look said: “I’m afraid you -don’t want either. But if you do, take your choice.” And so I did. - -What he had written was: - -“_In the matter of doing good, obligation ceases only when power -fails._” - -Before the time limit was up I had autographed sentiments from Alphonse -Daudet, Zola, Alexandre Dumas, François Coppée and Jules Simon, as veil -as a collection of impressions still clear. There was Zola. - -I carried away from my visit with him an impression of a man agitated, -confused, sulky, an impression emphasized by the amazing conglomeration -of furnishings of all ages and all countries which cluttered the entry, -stairway, and big salon of his house. I had to wind my way between suits -of armor, sedan chairs, Chinese lacquered tables and seats, carved and -painted wood to reach him standing at the end of the room. The whole -house was like that, as is shown in a series of sketches McClure -published in one of the early numbers. He talked long and violently -about his enemies, defended his realism, hinted that he was a latter-day -Balzac, also a great collector spending his leisure in Paris at art -sales, which accounted for my difficulty in finding him in his own -salon. The sentiment he gave me was a reflection of his talk and of the -point of view of his school. - -“War,” he wrote, “is the very life, the law of the world. How pitiful is -man when he introduces ideas of justice and of peace, when implacable -nature is only a continual battle field.” - -Dumas _fils_ was the only serene person in the group and was very -courteous, the quietest Frenchman I ever met. - -Jules Simon touched me deeply by what he wrote: - - “Faire le bien - Récolter l’ingratitude - Se confier à Dieu.” - - - - - 7 - A FIRST BOOK—ON NOTHING CERTAIN A YEAR - - -Now that _McClure’s_ was really started, I felt that on what I could do -for them and the two or three articles in which I had interested -_Scribner’s_ I could live, and that I might drop everything else and -devote the bulk of my time to my real business—a study of the life of -Madame Roland. She had never been out of my mind. Soon after my arrival -I had found to my joy that my daily walks to and from the National -Library, where I was spending most of my time, could be laid through the -very Quarter in which her father had carried on his trade of goldsmith -and past the house in which she had been born, the church where she had -taken her first communion, the prison where she had spent her last days, -along the route she followed to the guillotine. - -“What luck, what luck,” I used to say, “that I should be taking the very -walks she took!” It was amazing how little things had changed. The house -where Madame Roland was born still stands at the western point of the -Ile de la Cité looking down on the statue of Henry IV and the busy -Seine, and to the right the Pont-Neuf, in her day the heart of Paris and -still to me one of its most fascinating spots. - -As she slowly came to life something more important began to take shape, -something which had been little more than a set of dates and events in -my mind. I began to see the Revolution already well on its way when she -was born; I saw it rising around her, sucking her in, using her when she -thought it had gone far enough and should check its excesses, throwing -her over without her head while true to type it went the whole way, -finally falling exhausted into the hands of a dictator equipped with -guns. - -The physical scars of all this long train of violence could be seen on -my daily walks or studied in the Musée Carnavalet where Paris has -gathered documents and relics of what she has destroyed as well as of -what she has achieved. But besides the scars of Madame Roland’s time -were other scars dating from the centuries, scars of revolutionary -outbreaks of the same type hardly to be distinguished from those of the -period I was trying to visualize; and the more you knew of these -explosions, the more they seemed to fit together. You could not bound -Madame Roland’s Revolution as I had supposed. What I had called the -French Revolution was only an unusually violent episode in the lifelong -struggle of Paris to preserve herself as a free individual, the slave of -no man or group of men. Revolution had always been her last resort in -making herself what she was, in forcing kings to do her bidding, -tolerating them when they fed her well, beautified her, protected her, -but throwing them over when they asked too much money for the job they -did. - -The marks were all over the city. How could I understand Madame Roland -until I understood the elemental force which for centuries had been -sweeping Paris in big or little gusts? Did these who sought to loosen -the force suppose that they created it or could control it, once -loosened? Had Madame Roland, confident as she had been of her ability to -act as Providence, frank as she was in saying that no role but that of -Providence was suited to her powers, been anything more than a -revolutionary tool and victim? - -It had always been at work and still was. I must find out about it, and -it looked at the moment as if I were going to have a good opportunity to -watch a revolutionary revival—of what proportions no man could tell. - -The Panama affair had disgusted all self-respecting Frenchmen. “Is the -Republic to be a failure?” they were asking. Nothing so gives heart to -the leaders of lost causes, disappointed political groups, advocates of -panaceas and particularly to the radical-minded, as a rousing political -scandal. Panama stirred all the parties of France to action—Bourbons and -Bonapartists, extreme conservatives, socialists of all the many -varieties, and particularly the anarchists. - -There were four groups of the latter, no one of which would have -anything to do with any of the others. It was the Independents who now -went into action. Members of this group worked alone, letting not even -their fellows know what they had in mind. A branch of the order existed -in the United States, and it was one of them, Alexander Berkman, who -attempted this same year, 1892, to assassinate Henry Frick in -Pittsburgh. The Independent who acted first in Paris was Jules Ravachol -by name, a man some thirty-three years old, a dyer by trade, with a -courageous but not a criminal face. So I thought when, a little later, I -secured his photograph and measurements from the Criminal Identification -Bureau for _McClure’s Magazine_. - -Ravachol began by blowing up various houses. It was like a tocsin. All -over France similar outrages followed, and they continued at intervals -for two or more years—the crowning one a bomb thrown in the Chamber of -Deputies in December of 1893 by a notorious anarchist known as Auguste -Vaillant. Several Deputies and eighty or more spectators in the gallery -were wounded seriously. It was a ghastly affair. - -The outbreaks and the rumors of outbreaks as well as the actual -destruction had a bad effect on the nerves of many of the French. There -was Alphonse Daudet. - -Madame Daudet had offered to get me a _pensée_ for the collection I was -making for _McClure’s Magazine_, and arranged for me to call for the -copy. After we had tea she took me to the library to see how “Alphonse -was getting on.” It was my first glimpse of him: a little man, with a -shock of straight black hair which stood out rather ferociously at the -moment, evidently from running his fingers through it. His face was -pale, his eyes astonishingly black and bright. He had lost two or three -teeth, and the remaining ones were not very good. He was terribly -excited. He had not finished his _pensée_, he said, because he had just -had a visit from an anarchist. The servant had let in a man who had -demanded twenty francs to buy a wagonload of dynamite to blow up the -Hôtel de Ville. He grew more and more excited as he talked. - -“I really expected the man to kill me,” he said, “and I got out this -revolver which I always keep in the drawer.” And he pulled it out to -show it to me. “A pretty affair,” he said, “if while you two were -visiting in there a tragedy had gone on in here.” - -I so shared the general nervousness that, more than once when I saw a -man on the omnibus carrying a package, I feared a bomb and abruptly -descended; yet along with all my nervousness I was always nosing around, -hoping to see a bomb go off. It seemed to me that was my journalistic -duty, but I never saw anything more than the ruins they had caused. I -did see a pretty good revolution, one that had all the earmarks that I -had been finding in my attempted study of Revolution. It was in July of -1893. This time it was youth in revolt, the youth of the Latin Quarter -and the Beaux Arts. From start to finish the revolt went on practically -under my windows. - -The Annual Ball of the Beaux Arts in the winter of 1893 had scandalized -Paris. As I remember, the exhibit which outraged was a lady who -promenaded with no other covering than a mosquito net. The protest -finally reached the Chamber of Deputies, where a member—Berenger—took it -up in a serious way and proposed a restrictive law which angered the -students. It was, they said, an interference with their right to amuse -themselves. Immediately long and picturesque _monômes_—single lines of -men, one hand on the shoulder of the man in front, the other grasping a -hand of the one behind—threaded their way up and down the boulevards, -particularly in the vicinity of the Luxembourg, chanting at the top of -their voices, “Conspuez Berenger!” “Conspuez Loze [Chief of Police]!” -“Down with the puritans!” - -The demonstration began on a Saturday, and that night a great crowd -centered in a café in my neighborhood. The place was packed inside and -out with youths noisier and noisier as the hours went on. Finally the -crowd became so unruly that a squadron of police charged them. There was -a great hubbub and in the mêlée somebody hurled one of the heavy white -match boxes which were used on all the tables in the Latin Quarter -restaurants—a dangerous missile. It hit an innocent spectator who had -come to see the fun—a young man of twenty-two or twenty-three from the -other side of the river—and killed him. The students were wild with -rage, and all that night and all next day they tore up and down the -streets, pulling up trees, knocking over kiosks, breaking windows. - -The shopkeepers of Paris, having the experience of centuries of -revolutionary outbreaks behind them, knew when to retire; and before -Monday night the heavy wooden shutters with which they protect their -fronts were all up, their doors closed, and the Quarter was alive with -soldiers and mounted police. The center of the disturbance that day, -however, was not the Latin Quarter but the streets around the Chamber of -Deputies, where a great band of angry students kept up a tumult. There -were funny incidents. A big group of deputies came out to look over the -demonstration, and on the instant the air rang with the jingling of -hundreds of big copper sous pitched on the pavements to cries of -“Panama, Panama.” - -The Dahomans were pets of Paris in those days, a picturesque addition to -the population. Handsomer creatures never were seen. It happened a -carriageful, naked to the waist, attempted to pass through the crowd. At -once the students set up the cry, “Berenger, Berenger, bring ’em a -figleaf, bring ’em a figleaf.” - -By Tuesday the Latin Quarter had begun to look sinister. The inevitable -had happened. - -A popular disturbance never remains long in the full control of those -who start it. Advocates of all sorts of systems and causes join it, -seize it, if one of them can produce a real leader. A students’ revolt -can easily become an anarchist raid, with looting and arson on the side -by professional lawbreakers, who always come out of their hiding places -when anarchy breaks out. As the to-be-expected invasion of the Latin -Quarter from without began, destruction increased. Omnibuses were seized -and, at strategic points, piled up as barricades. - -But the rioters never succeeded in making a stand. Steadily and quietly, -night and day, platoons of mounted police moved up and down the -boulevards and into the Quarter. I tried at first to go on my usual -round, hoping to learn something of revolutionary technique, but after I -had been caught in a crowd the cavalry was driving from the Place de la -Sorbonne, had heard bullets whistling over my head, been forced to take -refuge in the portal of the church, I was content to stay at home. -However, there was excitement enough there. - -Our street was narrow and steep. When the cavalry charged, it would fill -up with the rioters. The movement was amazingly quiet—no shouting, no -shots, the only noise the clatter of the horses’ feet as they drove the -mass ahead. - -This invasion of our street produced panic among the foreigners in the -house. There were a couple of middle-aged American women on the floor -below me out seeing the world; but they had not bargained for a -Revolution, and during the three or four days our Revolution was going -on they shut themselves night and day in their room. - -The Egyptians were in a worse panic. They whispered horrible stories of -what happened in revolutions, and one night when fires had been set in -our neighborhood and the firemen were out, they were sure we were all -going to be burned alive. “Here we are, fourth floor,” cried one of -them, “too high up to get out. We’ll all be dead by morning.” - -A week was as long as the students could hold out in the torrid weather. -There were too many cavalry, too many soldiers, too alert a police -force, and also there were the apaches, the anarchists. It was no longer -their revolution. They gave up; and by the end of the week kiosks were -replaced, trees replanted, windows and doors opened, and we were all -going on in our normal way. - -Over, all quiet, nevertheless it was a pretty fine little revolution -while it lasted. Was it not like Ravachol and Vaillant, a symptom, the -kind of symptom by which the rise of the revolutionary fever always -announces itself? Were there those who would nourish these symptoms as -carefully as Madame Roland and her friends had nourished them in her -day? If so, you would get your explosion. And for what good, I was -asking myself. - -Madame Roland had lost her head because she was not content with a first -Revolution which had given the country a Constitution. She wanted to get -the King and Queen and the highborn of all varieties out of the way. She -wanted a Republic. She lost her head to those who were not satisfied -with getting King and Queen out of the way, who wanted her and her -followers out of the way as soon as they began to cry for order. Her -Republic had collapsed under Napoleon Bonaparte. There had come a return -to the Bourbon, then a Republic, then a return to a Bonaparte and again -her Republic. But was this corrupt and vulgar Republic I was hearing -about any better than the corrupt and scandalous court she hated and -helped overthrow? Was the affair of the diamond necklace any worse than -the affair of Panama? Was the Bastille a more ghastly prison than the -spot where they were now sending political prisoners—the Devil’s Island -of the Tropics? - -I did not have the consolation of a fixed political formula to pull me -out of my muddle. It is very easy to put everything in its place when -you have that and are armed with its faith and its phrases. But here was -I with a heroine on my hands whose formula and methods and motives I was -beginning to question as I was questioning the formula, the methods and -motives of France of the moment. - -What kept me at my task, prevented me from throwing up Madame Roland and -going on a blind research for the nature and roots of revolution, was -the brilliant and friendly intellectual circle into which my quest of -Madame Roland had led me. - -Among the names I had been advised to include in my series on the -writing women of Paris was that of A. Mary F. Robinson, an Englishwoman -of the pre-Raphaelite school, a poetess of delicacy and distinction who -had married one of the eminent scholars of France, James Darmesteter, a -Hebrew and a cripple. One had only to look into his face to know that -here was a great soul. And what interested me so was that this something -in his face, his remarkable head, wiped out all sense of incongruity -between the mating of this slender and exquisite woman with this man of -alien race and crippled body. I never felt for a moment an incongruity. - -When Monsieur Darmesteter learned I was after Madame Roland he was -immediately helpful. “You must know Léon Marillier of the Ecole des -Hautes Etudes. He is a great-great-grandson of Madame Roland. He has -papers which have never been given to the public. I will write you a -letter.” Which he did, a letter which brought me an invitation to -dinner. - -This dinner was the gate to a whole new social and intellectual world. -Here was a French academic household of the best sort, simple, -hard-working, gay. Léon Marillier was an excellent and respected -scholar. Jeanne, his wife, a sister of the Breton poet, Anatole Le Braz, -was not only a skillful household manager but, like the wives of many -French scholars, her husband’s amanuensis, copy and proof reader, and -general adviser. She had particular charm among Parisians, for she was a -Bretonne who loved her _pays_ and kept its distinguishing marks without -being provincial. Here I found, too, eager to go over the papers which -Léon Marillier spread out after dinner for my inspection, one who was to -prove a most helpful and delightful friend, Charles Borgeaud the eminent -Swiss scholar, a friend of my friends the Vincents now back at Johns -Hopkins. - -But this was not the end of it. There was a closer connection, Léon -Marillier’s mother, the great-granddaughter of Madame Roland, and they -quickly passed me on to her. - -Here again I was invited to dinner, and here I discovered a circle -different from anything I had ever known, a household of brilliant men -presided over by Madame Marillier, a most gracious woman, of fine -intelligence, freed and mellowed by a tragic life, as I was to learn. -More than any woman I have ever known, Madame Marillier came to stand in -my mind and heart as the personification of that quality which the -French hold so high—_bonté_. - -The leader of the group of men was a Sorbonne professor of -history—Charles Seignobos. He was a learned man who carried his learning -not as an accomplishment but as a social utility. Seignobos was a not -too dogmatic socialist and materialist, a good pianist, a marvelous -talker, a lovable and pungent personality. Around him there gathered -every Wednesday evening for dinner at Madame Marillier’s table a number -of young men—all serious students, liberal minds, hard workers. After -dinner six or eight more habitués of the house were sure to drop in for -coffee and for talk. - -Among these regular habitués was Lucien Herr, who at that moment was -seeking to convert to socialism the two men who in the years since have -done most to make the doctrine an impregnable factor in political life -in France—Jean Jaurès and Léon Blum, the recent premier of France. Herr -at that time was the librarian at the Ecole Normale, as well as managing -editor of the _Revue de Paris_. In both positions he met many young -would-be scholars and writers. When one of them seemed to him to have -the makings of a liberal thinker he worked over him as a missionary -works to save a soul. He was so working in the early nineties over Jean -Jaurès and Léon Blum. - -Occasionally Lucien Herr brought to the Seignobos circle one of those -whom he was seeking to convert. If Jaurès and Blum were ever among them -they made no particular impression on me, much as I dislike to think so. -They were simply a couple of Lucien’s young men. - -Although Herr believed the socialistic state he sought would and could -come by a peaceful evolution, the thing I remember best about him was an -exhibit of indifference to bloodshed which shocked me to the core. The -night that Vaillant threw the bomb in the Chamber of Deputies the group -was dining with Madame Marillier; Lucien was late, not an unusual -happening. We were halfway through when he came in, pale, exalted. We -all turned in our seats as he standing told us how he had been in the -Chamber when the bomb was thrown, of the explosion in mid-air, of the -wounded all about him. He had no word of the suffering, only of the -political bearings of the deed. - -“But the wounded, Lucien,” broke in Seignobos, who could not endure the -thought of pain. - -“Cela ne me fait rien,” said Lucien. - -His opposition to bloodshed was intellectual, not emotional like that of -Seignobos. - -On the face of it nobody could have been less at home in such a group -than I, a tongue-tied alien, all eyes and ears, contributing nothing but -my presence; yet it came about before many weeks that “Mademoiselle -Mees,” as Seignobos called me, had a place at the weekly dinners. -Undoubtedly the friendship that sprang up quickly between Madame -Marillier and me, as well as the fact that I asked nothing but to -listen, explained it. I could afford to listen; I had never heard such -talk. There was nothing on earth that was foreign or forbidden. Opinions -were free as the air, but they had to fight for their lives. There was a -complete absence of pretense, and sophistry was thrown as soon as it -came to its feet. That it was a friendly circle, its acceptance of me -was proof enough. - -Friendliness began at the door when I arrived Wednesday evening. It was -always Seignobos who came rushing to meet me, seized my hand, helped me -off with my wraps, danced about me asking eager boyish questions about -what I had been doing since I was there last. The talk begun, I was -forgotten unless by chance he suddenly recalled me. Then he would jump -up, run over, demand, “What do you think of that?” Half the time I was -thinking less about what they were saying than about their exciting -personalities. They seemed to be vividly related to life, but much of -their talk was based on something that was not life—abstract literature, -learning, speculation. I realized this when they talked of America. -Seignobos saw it only as he had read about it in books. It seemed to him -not to be producing that intellectual élite on which he felt the -salvation of society depended—a group capable of doing the thinking and -planning for a world of lesser men. It was the lesser men who were -coming to the top in America. Confronted with superiority from America, -he refused to believe it native. One summer I presented to him a friend -of mine, a woman of exquisite mind and manner. “She is not American?” he -said. “They do not produce that kind in America. Where was she -born—where was she educated?” - -“In Kansas,” I said. He bounded out of his chair like a ball. “It -couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. Kansas is only a half-settled state. One -has only to look to see this is a rare type that you have brought here. -She never came out of Kansas.” - -I never saw him more outraged than one day when pressure was brought to -bear on him to accept a position in the University of Chicago at a -handsome salary. Jumping up, he raced around the room. “Chicago! What -can a man of intelligence find there? You can’t build an intellectual -center on money and organization. It is a growth. Five hundred years -from now Chicago may be fit for scholars, but not now.” - -He mistrusted the intelligence of the United States, but less than that -of England. Americans were not stupid: Englishmen were. He wanted none -of them in his circle. I met this prejudice head-on when I asked -permission to introduce to him a brilliant young English friend, H. -Wickham Steed. - -I had never known a young man who was surer of what he wanted to do in -life or who was preparing for it in a more thorough and logical fashion -than Steed. His ambition was to become a foreign correspondent of the -London _Times_. He knew that for this it was necessary for him to be -familiar with the languages, the history, the men, the politics of the -leading countries of the Continent. He began by taking some two years in -Germany. Now he was acquainting himself with the French language, -literature, politics, leaders. I found Steed especially interesting on a -subject of which I knew little, although we were having reverberations -in the United States. This was the philosophy of Karl Marx. Steed was -familiar with its then status in Germany, knew its leaders—Liebknecht -and Engels. He envied me my relations with the group at Madame -Marillier’s, envied me my Wednesday night dinner, as he might very well. - -“Could you not present me?” he asked. - -I knew how jealous they were of their circle, and knew, too, they -thought the English a stupid bigoted race and wanted none of it. But -Steed was certainly not stupid. Besides, he was young, and I had a -feeling that nothing would be better for him than contact with these -enlightened friends of mine. And so with some hesitation I told -Seignobos about him and asked him if I might bring him. - -“Never! The English are stupid.” - -“You are wrong about Steed,” I argued. “You ought to be willing to give -him the benefit of the doubt.” - -After some arguments I was allowed to present my protégé. As I expected, -they pounced on him mercilessly. It was fine to see the way he held his -own and a relief when, after an hour or more of baiting, Seignobos came -to my corner and in a tone of surprise and wonder said, “Mademoiselle -Mees, your Englishman is intelligent.” - -When they came to that conclusion they took Steed in, and from that time -on he was welcome. All through the years of his brilliant career as a -correspondent and later through the war as foreign editor of the London -_Times_, the association with Seignobos continued. In his recollections, -“Through Thirty Years,” Steed tells of his introduction to the circle—“a -sort of entrance examination” which convinced his examiners he was less -stupid than he ought to have been. - -This then was the group in which my interest in Madame Roland had landed -me. As the weeks went on, the intimacy grew greater. Whatever occurred -to them that might help me in my work, they suggested. It was through -their introduction that I was given every opportunity in the manuscript -room of the National Library to work over the large collection of Roland -manuscripts which had just been catalogued. Indeed, I was the first -person to work on them in the Library. - -Delightful as well as important to my enterprise was the invitation -Madame gave me in the spring of 1893 to go with her for a fortnight to -Le Clos, a country estate which had been in the Roland family for at -least a hundred years before the Revolution. After the death of Monsieur -and Madame Roland in 1793 Le Clos had passed to their daughter. It now -belonged to Madame Marillier, who managed it, giving special care to its -chief yield, grapes—made into wine on the place. - -Le Clos lay in the Beaujolais, some thirty miles north of the city of -Lyons and close to a hamlet called Theizé. Here Madame Roland had spent -some four years while her husband served as inspector of manufactures at -Lyons. The château was little changed, so Madame Marillier told me. The -activities were what they had been a hundred years ago. It was a rare -chance to see my heroine in a different role, busy with other duties -than those of student, tuft-hunter, political diplomat, Providence to a -Nation. I needed to see her in a more natural and helpful environment, -for I was beginning to mistrust her. - -The journey to Le Clos with Madame Marillier, taken in May, was an -adventure for both of us. How much she had jeopardized her position in -her own family by traveling with a foreigner and a Protestant, I did not -realize until the day we spent sightseeing at Dijon. She left me for an -hour to visit an important and ancient aunt. “I should not dare take you -with me,” she said, “my aunt would cast me out if she knew I was -traveling with a heretic.” - -To reach Le Clos we left the railroad at Villefranche and climbed in a -horse-cart for an hour and more, steadily up hills, across valleys, a -high broad country, striped by many colored ribbonlike farms, dotted by -stout buildings of dull yellow, the stone of the country, sprinkled with -splendid trees, vineyards and orchards. Theizé, the hamlet we sought, -lay high. We drove between its walls, turned into a lane, and stopped -before a big gate in a yellow wall. Behind it lay Le Clos, a little -white château of Louis XIV’s time with corner towers and red-tiled -roofs, a court on one side, a garden on the other. From this garden one -looked out over a magnificent panorama of hills, mountains, valleys, -stretching to the Swiss Alps in the east. On clear evenings the snowcaps -were visible and now and then the round crown of Mount Blanc glowed on -the sky line like an immense opal. - -Within the château there had been little outward change from Madame -Roland’s time. There was the same great dark kitchen, with its stone -floor, its huge fireplace (although now a stove helped out), the same -shining copper vessels on the walls. There was the same brick floor in -the billiard room with its ancient table, its guns and caps of -successive generations of soldiers on the walls. The brightest place -within the house was the salon, done in yellow plush, family portraits -on the walls, a piano, books. - -I had an apartment to myself looking out on the garden and beyond to the -mountains: a bedroom, toilet and workroom, severe as a nun’s cell with -its uncovered floor, its unadorned walls, but containing every necessary -comfort and a wealth of books—five hundred or more in my workroom, -including several magnificent sets. Among them, Voltaire complete in -seventy volumes. They nearly all bore eighteenth century dates, and some -of them the name of Roland himself. Indeed, the home was rich in books -of value. In Madame Marillier’s library there were two thousand or more; -but these were only “what was left.” From the collection she had -inherited she had given Léon Marillier complete early sets of Voltaire, -Rousseau, Diderot; she had made a collection of scientific books for -Louis Lapique, one of the members of her Paris household, and another of -historical books for Charles Seignobos, and still there were all these -hundreds, many of which I had the right to believe Madame Roland herself -had handled. We ransacked them for marginal notes and hunted through the -drawers of old desks and bureaus for papers, finding not a few small -bits which were grist for my mill. - -Books were about all the original possessions of Le Clos that the -Revolutionists of the seventeen-nineties had not made away with. The -château itself had not suffered seriously, though there were still some -slight scars; but, books aside, it had been completely stripped of -furnishings. Even today, so Madame Marillier told me, it was not unusual -when inquiry was made about the origin of some interesting old piece in -a Beaujolais farmhouse to be told, “Oh, that came from Le Clos a hundred -years ago.” - -The Revolution stripped Le Clos of its possessions and all but ended the -family. But it did not succeed in convincing all the Beaujolais of its -beneficence. There was not a little outspoken antirevolutionary feeling -still abroad. The Marseillaise was never played in Theizé, I was told. -The curé and the municipal council would not permit it, nor would they -allow the 14th of July to be celebrated. While I was at Le Clos there -was a sharp dispute in a neighboring hamlet on the playing of the -“Marseillaise.” The bandmaster refused to lead when it was asked. It was -put up to the band who voted yes. Thereupon the master laid down his -baton and went off in a huff. Madame Roland’s Revolution was not ended. - -But I did not think much of such dark matters at Le Clos. They did not -belong to the years I had come there to relive. Those were only gay, -happy, useful years. I knew from her letters before me she could and did -fill the role of a local Providence, adjusting her activities and -reforms to what her constituency understood and was willing to accept. -She filled her time as I saw my friend Madame Marillier filling hers, -busy from morning until night with the affairs of the estate, visiting -the people, prescribing remedies for man and beast, vegetables and -vines, arranging a marriage for this pair, making an invalid more -comfortable, taking care of some peasant’s wayward son, climbing up the -steep hillside to early mass to set a good example, discharging -naturally and intelligently that responsibility to the family, the -estate, the dependent countryside, which the Frenchwoman seems to accept -as her contribution to the state. It makes her something steady, wise, -superior, a strong factor in the economic, social, and religious -stability of France. - -I had never seen anything which seemed to me more useful than what -Madame Marillier was doing, and I had opportunity to judge, for -everywhere she went she took me with her. Her invariable card of -introduction to these natural-born skeptics of the value of all persons -not born and raised in France was, “Mademoiselle comes from the same -country as your vines.” That was enough for them. Their vines had been -devastated by repeated visitations of the phylloxera, and it was not -until the introduction of American roots that the vineyards had -recovered. They were looking well now. I was welcome at once; they -treated me as if I were the benefactor, yet I doubt if any of them knew -where America was. Most of them with whom I talked placed it somewhere -in Africa. Africa they did know, as a name at least, because many of -their sons went there for military service. One of the most surprising -things to me among the French, high and low, was their utter -indifference to the geography of the rest of the world. Why should they -bother about the rest of the world? There was only one land about which -they should know: that was France, and that they should know to the last -corner. Even many educated people I met did not distinguish North from -South America. In Madame Darmesteter’s drawing room I met cultivated -people who believed that all Americans carried weapons in their pockets, -and that Indians walked the streets of Chicago. When I protested that it -was against the law to carry a revolver, and that the only Indians in -Chicago were those that were imported as they imported the Dahomans, -they smiled incredulously. - -Many of them, I concluded, got their notions of what America was like -from the exhibits in a certain public hall on the Grand Boulevards. Here -you paid a sou or two to look through stereoscopes at amusing and -sometimes very improper pictures. Here the walls were decorated with -illustrated newspapers from different countries, and among them were -always copies of the _Police Gazette_. As a matter of fact it was in -this hall of the Grand Boulevard of Paris that I saw the first copy of -the _Police Gazette_ that I had seen since those days back in Rouseville -when my friend and I carefully studied the underworld in the sheets that -we could slip away from the bunkhouse of my father’s workmen. - -The visit to Le Clos with its grist of impressions, the conviction that -I had seen Madame Roland herself, in her happiest as well as her most -useful days, completed the study of source material for her life on -which I had been working as I found time through the twenty months I had -been in Paris. It rounded out the woman she was, softened the asperity -which I was beginning to feel for her; also it strengthened my suspicion -that while a woman frequently was a success as the Providence of a -countryside she did no better than a man when she attempted to fill that -function for a nation. - -Now I was ready to write my book. Of course while I was doing this I -must keep the wolf from the door, and it was not so easy in the year -1893 for a stray journalist in Paris to get out of the distracted -American market orders or pay for orders. The depression of the -nineties, now in its third year with five years more to go, was working -havoc everywhere. It was hard to get your money even if your debtors -consented you had earned it. I was depending at the moment largely upon -the new magazine, _McClure’s_. It had started in the summer of 1893, an -undertaking which only the young and innocent and the hopelessly -optimistic would ever have dared. It has always been a marvel to me that -Mr. McClure and Mr. Phillips were able to hold on through that dreadful -year; but they did, and with a resourcefulness, even gaiety, that nobody -but those who saw it can appreciate. - -I knew perfectly well that if the magazine lived I should get all the -money I earned, but in the summer of 1893 they did not have it. It came -to a serious pass with me, a point where I did not have a sou or anybody -to whom I could confide my predicament. Not for the world would I have -told my devoted Madame Marillier that there was no money in my purse; -not for the world would I have confided it to Madame A; and, as for the -Americans on the scene, I was bent on impressing them with the fact I -was really getting on. At all events it must not go back to Titusville -or Meadville, Pennsylvania, that this questionable venture of mine had -brought me so low. - -And so one warm summer day I took my sealskin coat, which really was a -very good one quite out of keeping with the rest of my wardrobe—by this -time close to scandalous—I took the coat and marched over town to the -Mont de Piété. They were polite to me; but I was a foreigner, that coat -might be stolen, probably was. What credentials did I have, whom could I -give as reference? There was nobody in the town that I was willing to -have know what I was doing. But did I have documents to prove my -identity? - -Yes, I said, I had; and I would bring them. So I left my coat and raced -back to the Left Bank for my credentials. And what were they? What did I -have? There were letters from my publishers; there was my -checkbook—exhausted but nevertheless a checkbook. Without thinking it -would be of any particular use I took my Allegheny College diploma. The -inspector passed lightly over the letters of editors, the stubs in my -checkbook, but the diploma impressed him; and so it was on my Allegheny -College diploma I made the loan which helped me over the bad months of -1893 while I was waiting for a check from a land in the grip of one of -the most serious money famines that it had ever known. - -Although there might be anxious moments over money I was freer to work -on my book than I had ever been. And work I did, as hard as I could, all -that terrifically hot summer. My friend Madame Marillier had gone to -Brittany. She begged me to come along; but I had used up all my vacation -money in my trip to Le Clos—a trip I had extended to Switzerland and to -a chain of French towns where there were beautiful things I wanted to -see, to Bourg, Mâcon, Cluny, Autun. There was nothing that I wanted to -do more except finish up and go home. - -But the finishing up was not so easy. I had undertaken the study of this -woman in order to clear up my mind about the quality of service that -women could give and had given in public life, particularly in times of -stress. I had hoped to come out with some definite conclusions, to be -able to say: “The woman at this point will be a steady, intuitive, -dependable force. She will never lend herself to purely emotional or -political approaches to great social problems; she knows too much of -human beings. Her business has always been handling human beings. -Building families has been her job in society. You can depend upon her -to tell you whom to trust, whom to follow, whom to discard. These -intuitions of hers about people are born of centuries of intimate -first-hand dealing with human beings from babyhood on—they are among the -world’s greatest values. And she will be no party to violence. She knows -that solutions are only worked out by patient cooperation, and that -cooperation must be kindly. She knows the danger of violence in the -group as she knows the danger of selfishness. She has been the world’s -greatest sufferer from these things, and she has suffered them in order -that she might protect that thing which is her business in the world, -the bearing and the rearing of children. She has a great inarticulate -wisdom born of her experience in the world. That is the thing women will -give.” - -That was what I had hoped to find Madame Roland giving; and I had found -a politician with a Providence complex. I had also found what I had been -trying to shove aside, as women do, new proof of that eternal and -necessary natural law that the woman backs up her man. Madame Roland had -been Royalist, Republican, Revolutionist, according to the man she -loved. She had served her man with unyielding conviction, would not -temper or cooperate, intolerant, inflexible. - -But what woman in America seeking the vote as a sure cure for injustice -and corruption would listen to such a message? That, of course, was no -affair of mine. My affair was clearing my own mind. So far I had only -succeeded in adding to its confusion, even in destroying faiths I had -held. There was the ancient faith that you could depend upon the woman -to oppose violence. This woman had been one of the steadiest influences -to violence, willing, even eager, to use this terrible revolutionary -force, so bewildering and terrifying to me, to accomplish her ends, -childishly believing herself and her friends strong enough to control it -when they needed it no longer. - -The heaviest blow to my self-confidence so far was my loss of faith in -revolution as a divine weapon. Not since I discovered the world not to -have been made in six days of twenty-four hours each, had I been so -intellectually and spiritually upset. I had held a revolution as a noble -and sacred instrument, destroying evil and leaving men free to be wise -and good and just. Now it seemed to me not something that men used, but -something that used men for its own mysterious end and left behind the -same relative proportion of good and evil as it started with. - -Never did I so realize my ignorance of life and men and society as in -the summer of 1894, when I packed up the manuscript of my life of Madame -Roland to take it back to America for its final revision in the peace of -my home. - -Of course, I told myself, I would go through with it. I would put down -what I had found as nearly as I could, even if I had not got what I came -for. And then came the question, Can I get what I came for? Is it to be -found—the real answer to my question about woman in society, the point -or position where she can best serve it? Can I find an answer to this -other question that has so disturbed me—the nature of revolution? -Apparently, I told myself, as I packed my bag finally to go back to -America, you have only begun; but at least you have a new starting -point. Cheer up, make a new plan. And I was making a new plan. I had -been making one for some time. It was laid down economically, -professionally, and socially with as much precision as the plan with -which I had come to Paris in 1891. It was a plan for my return to Paris. - -I would go home, get my book into shape, try to convince the Scribners -that it was worth their publishing. I would get a good long visit with -my family, the only thing I felt now to be worth while in life. I wanted -to be sure they were there, that the house was there, that my father’s -chair stood by the living-room center table under the drop gas reading -light, that the family Sunday dinner was what it had always been. I -wanted to hear my father ask the blessing at the table, to sit with my -sister and mother afternoons out on the shady side of the lawn. I wanted -all the home flowers I could gather—and it was queer what a big place -flowers took in my dreams of home. My mother was one of those women for -whom, they say, “anything will grow.” And she had had flowers, summer -and winter. One of the deprivations of not having money in Paris had -been that I could not buy flowers. I had to content myself with lounging -around the flower markets on the Square of Notre Dame. I lingered there -almost as much as I did over the bookstalls along the Seine. But at home -I could gather all I wanted. - -I would come back to France on different terms. My friendly publishers -would give me work. I had schemes for books and articles which I felt -sure would interest the Scribners, that history of women, for instance. -Then there was this lively, friendly, aggressive, delightful -_McClure’s_. There were plenty of things I could write for them. - -I would take an apartment in the Latin Quarter up high where I could -look over the roofs, see the sky. I would have a salon like Madame -Marillier’s. She would find me a _bonne à tout faire_, and I could have -people in to dinner—Madame Marillier, Seignobos, and perhaps Lucien Herr -and Louis Lapique and Charles Borgeaud would come. The summer would -bring over my precious American friends—the Vincents, Emerys, Hazens, -and my sister must join me. Life would be full and satisfying while I -cleared up my mind on women and revolution and continued my search for -God in the great cathedrals. - -It was with this baggage and a terrible thirst for a long drink of -family life that in June, 1894, I said “Au revoir” to my friends. I felt -so sure it was Au revoir. - -The first two months after I reached America I spent at home convincing -myself that my family in spite of the trials it had been suffering was -unchanged in its ways, its loyalties, and its philosophy. If life was -not as easy materially for my father and mother as their long years of -labor and self-denial gave them the right to hope, I found that they -were enjoying that most precious experience, the evidence of the -continuity of their lives. My brother and his fine wife with their -children, two girls and a boy, lived only a few doors away, and the -grandchildren were as much in one home as in the other. They gave, I -found, a continual fresh zest to the household and its doings. My father -again had the legitimate excuse for going to the circus which our -growing up had taken from him: “The children want to go.” My mother had -as strong a justification for family picnics and birthday celebrations -on which she tired herself out: “The children enjoy them so.” - -For me those children were a challenging experience. Three years had -made the youngsters keen observers, and I found them appraising me in -the fashion of natural unspoiled children. Launched on one of the long -narrative monologues to which I am addicted with intimates I would -suddenly be checked by the cool impersonal stare of nieces or nephew. -They did not know they were doing it, but I knew they were taking my -measure. They were not only an unending interest and joy to me but a -salutary correction, as they have continued to be to this day. - -But before I was really sure of my standing with them, though quite -reassured as to that with their elders, and just as I had put the -finishing touches to my Madame Roland, I was snatched away from -Titusville by a hurried letter from Mr. McClure. I must come at once to -New York and write a life of Napoleon Bonaparte. - - - - - 8 - THE NAPOLEON MOVEMENT OF THE NINETIES - - -When I reached New York I found that the situation behind the hasty call -to come on and write a life of Napoleon was pressing. The Napoleon -Movement, which I had been following in Paris for two years, had reached -the editorial desk of _McClure’s Magazine_ in the form of a permission -to reproduce a large and choice collection of Napoleon portraits, the -property of a distinguished citizen of Washington, D.C.—Gardiner Green -Hubbard. Mr. Hubbard was popularly known as the father-in-law of -Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone. He was as well the -father-in-law of the telephone since it was largely through his faith in -the invention before it was recognized as a practical utility, and his -shrewd and indefatigable work in securing patents, in enlisting -supporters, and in fighting rival claimants, that the telephone had been -developed and secured for Mr. Bell and his family. - -Mr. Hubbard had long been a Napoleon collector. The revival of interest -in the man in the early nineties had made him feel that his collection -ought to be reproduced for the public. But he insisted a suitable -text—that is, one he liked—must go with the pictures. Mr. McClure had -secured something well written from an able Englishman, Robert Sherard, -a great-grandson of Wordsworth; but it was so contemptuously -anti-Napoleon that Mr. Hubbard would not allow his pictures to go with -it. And here it was August, and Mr. McClure with the headlong speed in -which he conducted affairs had announced the first installment for -November. - -I was both amazed and amused by the idea that a popular American -magazine would think of such an undertaking. Why? I asked myself. I had -seen the Napoleon Movement start and grow in Paris in 1892 and 1893. I -had read everything that came along in the way of fresh reminiscences, -of brilliant journalism, particularly that of _Figaro_, and I had tucked -away in my clippings a full set of the Caran d’Ache cartoons which so -captivated Paris; but I looked on the Movement as political, an effort -of the Bonapartists to revive the popular admiration for the country’s -most spectacular figure. If the revulsion against the Panama brand of -republicanism could be kept alive, fed, might there not be a turning to -Bonaparte? Just as the anarchists took advantage of the situation by -hurling bombs, so the Bonapartists turned to blazoning France with the -stories of the glory that had been hers under the Little Corporal. It is -an amazing record of achievement, and one had to be a poor Frenchman, or -poor human being for that matter, not to feel his blood stir at its -magnificence. - -But write a life of Napoleon Bonaparte? It was laughable. And yet how -could I refuse to try? - -In passing through New York in June I had given Mr. McClure the right to -call upon me, promising to join his staff after my vacation. He would -give me forty dollars a week—more money than I had ever expected to -earn. With care I could save enough to carry me back to Paris, and at -the same time I could learn more of the needs of the McClure -organization. - -The forty dollars a week was a powerful argument. Moreover, I had been -talking largely about devoting myself to French Revolutionary history. -If this wasn’t that, what was? But there was something else. This man -had pulled France out of the slough where she lay when Madame Roland -lost her head. I had a terrific need of seeing the thing through, France -on her feet. Napoleon had for a time set her there and brought back -decency, order, common sense. - -I would try, I told Mr. McClure, at his expense, but I should have to go -back at once to Paris. Where else could I get sufficient material? That -idea of getting to Paris encouraged me to try, but first we all agreed I -must go to Washington and talk with Mr. Hubbard, look over the -collection. Promptly an invitation came from Mrs. Hubbard to come at -once to their summer home out Chevy Chase way on Woodley Lane not far -from the Rock Creek Zoo. President and Mrs. Cleveland had their summer -home on the Lane, and the Maclean place, where Admiral Dewey was to go -when he returned the conquering hero from the Philippines, was across -the way. Twin Oaks, as the Hubbard place was called from two big oaks -just in front of the house, was the finest country estate in the -Washington district, as well as the most beautiful home into which I had -ever been admitted. Mrs. Hubbard herself was a woman of rare taste and -cultivation, a really great lady, and what she was showed from end to -end of that lovely sunny house. Maids, butler, gardener, all took on -something of her dignity and gentleness. - -Mr. Hubbard was a man of some seventy years then, wiry, energetic, -putting in every moment of his time serving his friends and family and -in worshiping Mrs. Hubbard. I think he tried her preference for quiet -and dignity and for people of her own kind. It must have made her a -little uneasy to have a strange woman with a meager wardrobe and a -preoccupied mind drop into her carefree, gaily bedecked society; but she -took it all in the best nature and with unvarying kindness and -understanding. I liked her particularly for the way she accepted Mr. -McClure in the days to come. He would burst unexpectedly into the house -at any moment which suited his convenience, his bag loaded with proofs -of the Napoleon prints, and almost before he had made his greeting the -bag was open and the proofs spread helter-skelter over the carpet. Being -very much on my good behavior I was a little horrified myself, and then -I did so want them to like and appreciate Mr. McClure. When I tried to -apologize for the dishevelment he wrought Mrs. Hubbard laughed. “That -eagerness of his is beautiful,” she said, “I am accustomed to geniuses.” -And so she was, as I was to find. - -It did not take me long to discover that there was plenty of material in -Washington for the Napoleon sketch. Mr. Hubbard had the latest books and -pamphlets. It was easy to arrange that I have proofs from Paris of two -or three volumes of reminiscences that had been announced. In the State -Department I found the full Napoleonic correspondence published by the -order of the French Government. Files of all the leading French -newspapers of the period were in one library or another. In the -Congressional Library there was a remarkable collection of books -gathered by Andrew D. White when he was minister to Germany from 1879 to -1881, the bulk of them in German, French, and English. An item of this -collection not to be duplicated was some fifty volumes of pamphlets in -several different languages made in Germany during the Revolution and -covering the Napoleonic era. They were for the most part the hasty -agitated outbreaks of _vox populi_—protests, arguments, prophecies, -curious personal adventures—but among them were rare bits. Taken as a -whole they reflected the contemporary state of mind of the people of -Europe as did nothing I had ever seen. - -Convinced of the adequacy of material, I reluctantly gave up Paris and -settled down to work in the Congressional Library. It was not so easy to -find a writing table there in the early nineties, and it took some -persuasion to convince the ruler of the place, Ainsworth Spofford, that -I was worth the effort, that is that I was there to use his books day in -and day out until my task was done. Certain of that, he tucked me in, -though stacks of books rising from floor to ceiling had to be moved to -find room. - -I wonder if students in the United States know how much they owe to this -man. He gave his life to making a library first to serve Congress, for -he held the firm conviction that Congressmen generally needed educating, -and that books handy in which he could find materials for their -committee work and their speeches would contribute to the process. He -made it his first business to provide them as near on the instant as -possible with what he thought they needed. In return for this service he -used every opportunity to wheedle, shame, beg money from them, money for -books, equipment, an increased staff, and always for better -accommodations; for Mr. Spofford had a great vision of a national -library, educating not only Congress but the people. To realize that -vision he had become what he was when I knew him, a devoted, -domineering, crabbed czar of his realm. He worked incessantly, doing -everything, knowing everything. He paid little attention to the -irritated criticisms of those who saw only the inconveniences and dust -and overcrowding of the old rooms, and who charged him with inefficiency -and tyranny. His mind was on the arrangement and administration of the -marble pile already under way across the square. This was what he had -been working for—a worthy place for books. His sharp, irritated, “There, -maybe you can find something in that,” banging a dusty volume on my -table, has often sounded in my ears as in later years I worked at the -commodious desks of the library he had dreamed, and which to my mind is -a monument to him more than to any other man—naturally enough since he -was the only man I ever knew who had anything to do with its existence. - -Six weeks, and I had my first installment ready. I had done it with my -tongue in my cheek. Impudence, it seemed to me, to write biography on -the gallop. I had kept myself to it by repeating in moments of disgust: -“Well, a cat may look at a king. I’ll sketch it in, and they can take or -leave it.” But Mr. Hubbard liked what I had done, and that meant Mr. -McClure hurried it to the printers while I in hot haste went ahead with -my sketching. - -I expected nothing for myself from it more than the forty dollars a -week, and the inner satisfaction of following the thrilling drama from -the terror of ’93 down to St. Helena. That satisfied me. But to my -surprise I did get the last thing in the world I had expected, the -approval of a few people who knew the field. John C. Ropes wrote me he -liked the treatment: “Come and lunch with me when you are in Boston and -see my Napoleon collection.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Of course I -went. - -Charles Bonaparte, the grandson of Jerome Bonaparte, and Mrs. Bonaparte -invited Mr. Hubbard and me to lunch with them in Baltimore to see their -collection. Curious the little things one remembers of long-ago -experiences! Out of that visit I recall only that Mrs. Bonaparte told me -that in the garret when she came into the house where Jerome and his -American wife, Elizabeth Patterson, had lived, there were literally -barrels of string, short lengths neatly rolled, accumulated by the -sister-in-law of Napoleon. Why remember that when the home was full of -treasures on my subject? Probably because I have never been able to -throw away a string without a pang. - -Something better worth remembering was the startling resemblance to -Napoleon in a certain pose of Charles Bonaparte. As he stood talking -unconsciously, hands behind his back, slightly stooped, he was the -counterpart of Raffet’s Napoleon, the most natural of them all. - -A bit of consolation for my hasty work came from the last source I would -have expected: William Milligan Sloane, the author of an elaborate -study, the outcome of years of research, recently published by the -_Century Magazine_. That was the way biography should be written, I told -myself: years of research, of note-taking, of simmering and saturation. -Then you had a ripened result. I said something of this once to Mr. -Sloane. - -“I am not so sure,” he replied, “that all the time you want to take, all -the opportunity to indulge your curiosity and run here and there on -bypaths, to amuse yourself, to speculate and doubt, contribute to the -soundness or value of a biography. I have often wished that I had had, -as you did, the prod of necessity behind me, the obligation to get it -out at a fixed time, to put it through, no time to idle, to weigh, only -to set down. You got something that way—a living sketch.” - -I couldn’t have listened to more consoling comment. There must have been -something in his characterization of “living,” for now, over forty years -since it first appeared in book form, I still receive annually a small -royalty check for my “pot-boiling” Napoleon! - -What really startled me about that sketch was the way it settled things -for me, knocked over my former determinations, and went about shaping my -outward life in spite of me. It weakened my resolve never again to tie -myself to a position, to keep myself entirely footloose; it shoved Paris -into the future and substituted Washington. It was certainly not alone a -return to the security of a monthly wage, with the possibility that the -wage would soon grow, that turned my plans topsy-turvy, though that had -its influence. Chiefly it was the sense of vitality, of adventure, of -excitement, that I was getting from being admitted on terms of equality -and good comradeship into the McClure crowd. - -The “Napoleon” had given the magazine, now in its second year, the -circulation boost it needed. My part in it was not exaggerated by the -office or by me. We all agreed that it was the pictures that had done -it, but the text had framed the pictures, helped bring out their value, -and it had been done at a critical moment. - -The success of the “Napoleon” sketch did me a good turn with the -Scribners, who had had my manuscript of “Madame Roland” for some time. -They were hesitating about publishing it. There was no popular appeal. I -was entirely unknown, but the “Napoleon” work gave me sufficient backing -to persuade them. At least that was the explanation the literary head of -the concern, William C. Brownell, gave me. Thus my first book was my -second to appear. My reward for writing it came from my interest in -doing it, what I learned about how to go at a serious biographical -study, certainly not in royalties. My first check was for forty-eight -cents. I had used up my share of the small sales in corrections of the -proofs and gift copies. - -I must stay with them, declared Mr. McClure. And the more I saw of Mr. -McClure and his colleagues, the more I wanted to stay. Of my first -impression of S. S. McClure in Paris I have spoken. Closer views -emphasized and enlarged that impression. He was as eager as a dog on the -hunt—never satisfied, never quiet. Creative editing, he insisted, was -not to be done by sitting at a desk in a comfortable office. It was only -done in the field following scents, hunts. An omnivorous reader of -newspapers, magazines, books, he came to his office primed with ideas, -possibilities, and there was always a chance that among them was a -stroke of genius. He hated nothing so much in the office as settled -routine, wanted to feel stir from the door to the inner sanctum. And he -had great power to stir excitement by his suggestions, his endless -searching after something new, alive, startling, and particularly by his -reporting. - -He stood in awe of no man, but dashed back and forth over the country, -back and forth to Europe interviewing the great and mighty. He brought -back from his forays contracts with Stevenson, Conan Doyle, Anthony -Hope, Kipling. It was something to find yourself between the covers of a -book printing a Jungle story. They all came out in _McClure’s_ in those -years and were followed by “Captains Courageous” and “Stalky” as well as -many of the greatest of the short stories and poems—“The Ship That Found -Herself,” “The Destroyers,” the “Recessional”—things that left you -breathless and gave to a number the touch of genius for which the office -searched and sweated. - -Mr. McClure was always peering over the Edge of the Future. It was this -search for what was on the way that brought to _McClure’s_ the first -article in an American magazine on radium, the X-ray, Marconi’s -wireless, Lilienthal’s and Octave Chanute’s gliders, Langley’s -steam-driven air-runner and in time the first article on the Wrights’ -flying machine. - -In my field of biography and history the Edge of the Future meant to Mr. -McClure the “unpublished” or the so poorly published that its -reappearance was equal to a first appearance. The success of a feature -spurred him to effort to get more of it, things which would sharpen and -perpetuate the interest. He was ready to look into any suggestion, -however unlikely it might seem to the cautious-minded. He was never -afraid of being fooled, only of missing something. - -His quick taking of a hint, his warm reception of new ideas, new facts, -had its drawbacks. If they were dramatic and stirring Mr. McClure was -impatient of investigation. He wanted the fun of seeing his finds -quickly in print. At one point in the publication of the Napoleon he -caused me real anxiety by his apparent determination to print a story -for which I could find no authority. - -Among the contributors to the Syndicate at that time was a picturesque -European with a title and an apparently endless flow of gossip. He -pretended to have been a member of the Court of Napoleon III and in the -confidence of the Emperor. This relation accounted for his having been -invited to join a strange secret party made up by the Emperor, who was -worried over a rumor that the body of Napoleon I did not lie under the -dome of the Invalides. It was not known who did lie there or what had -become of Napoleon. To reassure himself the Emperor decided to go with a -few chosen friends and open the tomb. They gathered in the dead of -night. The tomb was opened. There lay Napoleon, unchanged. The Emperor’s -mind was at rest. He swore the group to secrecy, but took affidavits to -be used in case of political necessity. The fall of the Empire seems to -have made the gentleman feel that his oath was no longer binding, and -that he could cash in on his adventure. - -I did not believe the story, but when I expressed my doubt all I could -get out of Mr. McClure was a severe, “What a pity you do not know -something about Napoleon!” No new idea to me, since it was the first -thing I was thinking every morning when I went to work. What I did not -know, as I worried over the possible publication of what I believed a -fake, was that in spite of his quick and enthusiastic acceptance of a -good story, S. S. McClure cared above all for the soundness, the -truthfulness of the magazine. Good stories—yes. But they must hold -water, stand the scrutiny of those who knew. Moreover, he knew what I -did not as yet, that he could go the limit in his enthusiasms since he -had at his side a partner on whom he counted more, I think, than he then -realized to balance his excitements. - -This happened now. The story was in type, scheduled. Mr. McClure was -going to Europe. “While you’re over there, Sam,” said his partner -quietly, “you better verify that Napoleon story. We’ll hold it until we -hear from you.” - -A few weeks later came a laconic postal card. “Don’t publish the story -of the opening of Napoleon’s tomb. It wasn’t opened.” - -I never heard the matter referred to after that. By the time he returned -he had forgotten what to me was a near tragedy, to him a joyful bit of -editorial adventure. - -I came later to feel that this quick kindling of the imagination, this -untiring curiosity, this determination to run down every clue until you -had it there on the table, its worth or worthlessness in full view, was -one of Mr. McClure’s greatest assets; but it was an asset that would -have landed him frequently in hot water if it had not been for the -partner who had saved him from the Napoleon hoax, John S. Phillips—J. S. -P. as he was known in the office. - -Living in Washington as I had been doing, I had seen little of Mr. -Phillips, only heard of him, for his name was the one oftenest on Mr. -McClure’s tongue. His calm and tactful handling of the “General,” as the -office called Mr. McClure, in the ticklish Napoleon story delighted me. - -“Here’s a man,” I told myself, “who has a nose for humbugs as well as -one who knows the power of patience when dealing with the impatient.” - -[Illustration: - - _At her desk in the McClure’s office, 1898_ -] - -As time went on and I spent more and more of it in New York, finally -settling there at the end of the decade, I had better opportunities to -watch Mr. Phillips in action. I was not long in learning that he was the -focus of every essential factor in the making of the magazine: -circulation, finance, editing. Into the pigeonhole of his old-fashioned -roll-top desk went daily reports of bank balances, subscriptions -received, advertising contracts to be signed, books sold. I doubt if he -ever went home at night without having a digest of those reports in his -head. He knew their relation to the difficult problem of putting the -undertaking on its feet. - -It was largely Mr. Phillips’ love of fine printing and his habit of -keeping track of the advances in printing processes that led _McClure’s_ -late in the nineties to set up its own plant. It included all of the new -miraculous self-feeding machines, automatic presses, folders, binders, -stitchers. - -It was the first magazine plant of the kind in the country and had many -visitors. Among them was Mark Twain. Mr. Phillips tells an amusing story -of his visit. As they stood watching the press perform, a sheet went -awry on the bed. The press at once stopped and rang a bell calling for -the pressman, who immediately came and helped the big automat out of its -plight. - -“My God, man!” cried Mark Twain, “That thing ought to vote.” - -It did more than cast votes for _McClure’s_. It saved the money which -finally balanced the budget—and then some. - -To those of us on the inside it was always a marvel that John Phillips -found time to be an editor, as well as a focusing center for everything -that went on. At the bottom of his constant editorial supervision was, I -think, a passion for the profession. He was unmistakably the most -intellectual, as well as the best intellectually trained, person in the -office. After graduating at Knox College in Illinois he had taken a -degree at Harvard and later spent two years studying literature and -philosophy in the University of Leipzig. When he came to the magazine he -put all his training into the professional problem. - -He was an invaluable aid to the group of staff writers the magazine was -building up. He was no easy editor. He never wheedled, never flattered, -but rigidly tried to get out of you what he conceived to be your best, -taking it for granted that you wanted to make the most of your piece and -it was his business to help you. I never had an editor who so quickly -and unerringly spotted weaknesses, particularly in construction. He had -a fine feeling, too, for the right word, took the trouble to search for -it, often bringing in a penciled memo of suggestions long after you had -decided to let it go as it was. He knew the supreme value of -naturalness, detested fake style. “A kind of disease,” I have heard him -say, quoting somebody. - -It always disturbed a few of us that nobody outside of the office knew -what an important part in the making of _McClure’s_ John Phillips -played. He had that rare virtue—the willingness and ability to keep out -of the picture if thereby he could make sure the picture was not spoiled -in the making. - -The one member of the staff besides Mr. McClure whom I knew, when I -began to find myself so to speak absorbed, was already by virtue of his -unusual gift for comradeship a friend as well as a species of boss—that -was Auguste F. Jaccaci, a brilliant artist and art editor as well as one -of the most versatile and iridescent personalities I have ever known. I -first met Jac, as he was called by everybody, in Paris, when as an -advance agent of the new magazine he was sounding out possibilities for -writers and illustrators. He took me out to dinner and paid the -_addition_. We talked until late, then he simply put me on my omnibus -and let me go back to the Latin Quarter alone. Here was established the -_modus operandi_ for our frequent visiting in the future, in Paris, in -New York, in Washington—with one revision. After that first dinner I -paid my share of the check, save on special occasions when Jac, a -knowing epicure, selected the dinner and treated me. - -It was he who showed me the first copy of _McClure’s_, that of August, -1893, showed it to me at five-thirty in the morning, at a café across -the square from the Gare Saint-Lazare where he had ordered me by -cablegram from London to meet him. For nobody in the world excepting a -member of my family should I have been willing at that hour to cross -Paris. But I couldn’t afford to show a lack of interest. Moreover, I -must confess that this preposterous order flattered me a little. It was -taking me man to man, I said to myself. And so I was there. He had to -bully the garçon to get a table out on the sidewalk and make us coffee. - -All this was a good basis for a comradeship which lasted to his death. -It lives in my memory as something quite apart in my relations with men. -Jac had a certain superior appreciation and wisdom never quite put into -words, but which you felt. I for my part was always straining to -understand, never quite reaching it. Part of his charm was his -confidence in his own superiority and his anxiety lest we didn’t quite -realize it. And then there were his rages. They came and went like -terrible summer thundershowers. He would roar down the corridor of the -office while I sat and watched him enthralled. Those rages, whether -directed at me or somebody else, never made any other impression on me -than that of some unusual natural phenomenon. - -Here then were the leaders in the crowd to which I had been admitted by -virtue of a hasty sketch of Napoleon Bonaparte done on order. - -Thank God I had sense enough to realize that here were three rare -personalities, and that to miss such associations would be sheer -stupidity. Also to know that I was an unusually lucky woman to be -accepted. - -Then there was the magazine they were making. There was something -youthful, gay, natural about it which captivated me. Often, too, it -achieved a most precious thing. Mr. Phillips called it a “lift.” To be -youthful, gay, natural with a “lift”—that was an achievement. - -And then I found the place so warmly and often ridiculously human. Mr. -McClure was incapable of standing up before a hard-luck story, with the -result that he brought into that overcrowded office a string of -derelicts ranging from autocratic scrub ladies to indigent -editors—brought them in and left them for J. S. P. to place. But J. S. -P. was not far behind in his sympathy for those who were down and out. I -watched him more than once rescue an author who perhaps out of sheer -discouragement had taken to drink and landed in jail. Mr. Phillips saw -that he was bailed out, his debts paid, work given him. I never ceased -to wonder that these two men loaded with work and responsibility should -seemingly consider it part of their daily job to rescue the wastrel and -the disheartened. - -There was reason enough for me to stay with _McClure’s_. - - - - - 9 - GOOD-BYE TO FRANCE - - -The Napoleon sketch had not been finished before Mr. McClure was urging -me into a new job—not writing this time, but editing, editing according -to his recipe. “Out with you—look, see, report.” Abraham Lincoln was the -subject. My heart fell. “If you once get into American history,” I told -myself, “you know well enough that will finish France. It will also -finish your determination to solve the woman question and determine the -nature of revolutions. They will go the way of the microscope and your -search for God. Are you to spend your life running, now here, now there, -never follow a path to its end?” Or was I taking my ambitions too -seriously? It seemed probable. However, I was to have five thousand a -year if I went along. There was no question in my mind but it was my -duty to earn that money. - -Lincoln was one of Mr. McClure’s steady enthusiasms. I once saw him, in -puzzled efforts to find the reason for the continued life of a certain -great American magazine, going through the file from the Civil War on, -solely to find out what attention had been given to Lincoln. “Not a -Lincoln article in this volume, nor in this,” he cried. “It is not a -great magazine, it has overlooked the most vital factor in our life -since the Civil War, the influence of the life and character of Abraham -Lincoln.” - -His insight told him that people never had had enough of Lincoln. -Moreover, he believed that there was to be had for the seeking a large -amount of “unpublished” reminiscences. It was on this conviction that he -started me off. - -He was right about “unpublished” material. Lincoln had been dead only -about thirty years, and hundreds of those who had known him in one -connection or another were still living. His secretaries Nicolay and Hay -had finished their great documentary life of their chief. They should -have personal material not in their volumes. There were members of his -Cabinet still living, members of Congress of his time, editors like -Joseph Medill of the Chicago _Tribune_, Horace White of the Chicago -_Tribune_ and later of the New York _Evening Post_, Colonel McClure of -the Philadelphia _Inquirer_. There were scores of men in Illinois towns -who had traveled the circuit with him, for whom he acted as counsel, -scores of people who had as a youth heard the Lincoln-Douglas Debates, -and had been stirred to say, “Lincoln’s got it right.” They had followed -him in his fight against the extension of slavery and later into the war -to save the Union. There was indeed no point of his short trail from -birth to death where living men and women had not known him as -colleagues, friends, opponents, critics. - -Also, there had never been a time from the day he had become a -Presidential candidate to the hour of his assassination that his life -had not been under scrutiny. Yet it had been difficult to find out much -about him. “There is not much of me,” he told a friend searching for -biographical material. But there had been enough always to touch deep -springs in American hearts and consciences. Men like William Dean -Howells and J. G. Holland, later to occupy high places in our literary -life, had written campaign lives of him. Hardly was he in his coffin -before his brilliant, if unstable, law partner William Herndon was -gathering from all sources reminiscences, estimates, documents on his -life up to the Presidency; and from his gathering Herndon made a story -of extraordinary vitality and color. Most important—always to remain -most important—was the collection of his Letters and Speeches and the -ten-volume “Abraham Lincoln: A History” by Nicolay and Hay. - -Why do more? What was there to be had? Mr. McClure insisted that there -was plenty if one searched. - -I went to talk it over with John Nicolay, who as well as his fine -daughter Helen was an honored member of the famous old Washington -Literary Society where I was a frequent guest. I told him what Mr. -McClure proposed. Did he not have something he could give me? He was -emphatic in saying there was nothing of importance to be had. The -collection of letters and speeches he and Mr. Hay had made was complete; -they had told all there was worth telling of Lincoln’s life. He would -advise me not to touch so hopeless an assignment. I think Mr. Nicolay -never quite forgave me for going ahead. Later when the results of my -search began to appear and gradually to shape themselves into a Life of -Lincoln he came to me one evening to protest. “You are invading my -field. You write a popular Life of Lincoln and you do just so much to -decrease the value of my property.” - -I was deeply distressed. He thought me a poacher. I told him I believed -he was mistaken. I pleaded that if I could write anything which people -would read I was making readers for him. To know a little of Lincoln was -for the serious a desire to know more. He and Mr. Hay had written -something that all students must have. I could never hope to make an -essential lasting contribution. But he went away unconvinced. - -Mr. Nicolay’s point of view, if not generous, was certainly honest. I -understand it better now than I did then. He had lived through the great -years of the Civil War always at Lincoln’s elbow. He had been the stern, -careful, humorless guardian of a man who carried his mail in his hat and -a laugh on his lips. His reverence for him was a religion. He had given -years of conscientious hard labor to the editing of the “Complete Works” -and the writing of the history, and now he was retired. Lincoln was his -whole life. We all come to rest our case on the work to which we have -given our best years, frequently come to live on that, so to speak. When -the time comes that our field is invaded by new workers, enlarged, -reshaped, made to yield new fruit, we suffer shock. We may put up a “No -trespassing” sign, but all to no use. - -Mr. Nicolay’s tragedy was in not having found a fresh field. How -different it was with his colleague John Hay, whose secretaryship with -Lincoln had been an episode in a diplomatic career of unusual -distinction and usefulness! In 1894 everybody recognized that he had a -greater future before him. His part in the Life of Lincoln had been but -one of many contributions to the literature of his day. His social -circle was the choicest, and he was rich. Hay had everything; Nicolay, -only Lincoln, and he looked on all who touched his field as invaders. - -Mr. Nicolay’s rebuff settled my plan of campaign. I would not begin at -the end of the story with the great and known, but at the start in -Kentucky with the humble and unknown; I would follow the trail -chronologically; I would see for myself what sort of people and places -those were that had known Lincoln, reconstruct the life of his day as -far as living men and women backed by published records furnished -reliable material. I would gather documents as I went, bits of color, -stories, recollections; I would search in courthouses and county -histories and newspapers; I would pick up pictures as I went, a picture -of everything that directly or indirectly touched on what I was after. I -would make sure if among these people who had known him there might not -be letters not in the “Complete Works”; and, if I were lucky, somewhere -on the trail I might turn up the important unpublished reminiscences -which Mr. McClure was so certain existed. It was a gamble, the greater -because I was so profoundly ignorant of American life and history. - -It was in February of 1895, the Napoleon work still unfinished, though -far enough ahead to give me a month for a preliminary survey, that I -started for the Lincoln country of Kentucky to begin work on this -program. It was characteristic of Mr. McClure, as he saw me off in the -deadly cold, to take sudden alarm for my comfort. “Have you warm _bed -socks_?” he asked anxiously. “We’ll send you some if not. It will be -awful in those Kentucky hotels.” It was—Louisville aside—awful in more -than one hotel and train in my first month of Lincoln hunting. - -The results were not exciting. They were too fragmentary: bits of -unrecorded recollections, a picture, a letter, a newspaper paragraph, a -court record which had passed notice. What was to be done with them? -Here was no smashing new contribution such as an article of unpublished -recollections from Mr. Nicolay might have been, but here were bits of -value if you were to enlarge and retouch the popular notion of the man -Lincoln. It was soon clear to Mr. McClure and Mr. Phillips that what I -was collecting must be dovetailed into the published records; and that, -they told me, was my business. Before I knew it I was writing a Life of -Lincoln, though the first three chapters carried the legend, “Edited by -Ida M. Tarbell.” The office seemed gradually to conclude that the editor -had become the author, though I think they were ahead of me in this -decision. - -We had a lucky break at the start which launched the undertaking even -better, I think, than the big article we were looking for. Among my -Washington acquaintances was a delightful Chicago woman, Mrs. Emily -Lyons. She belonged to the group of early settlers who were still at -this time in the thick of the exciting struggle to make the city the -richest, the finest physically and socially in the country. Their -energy, their daring, their confidence, their eagerness to learn, to -adapt, was one of the social phenomena of the day. Now Mrs. Lyons’ -husband was important in the wealth-producing class as she was in the -social. She knew practically everybody. When she learned that I was -interested in new material on Lincoln she said at once: “Come to -Chicago. I’ll see that you meet Robert Lincoln, and I’ll see that he -gives you something.” Too good to be true. But Mrs. Lyons kept her -promise when I reached Chicago on my first expedition, producing Mr. -Lincoln at once. - -“Now, Robert,” she ordered as she filled our cups, “I want you to give -her something worth while.” - -To be drinking tea with the son of Abraham Lincoln was so unbelievable -to me that I could scarcely take note of his reply. I searched his face -and manners for resemblances. There was nothing. He was all Todd, a big -plump man perhaps fifty years old, perfectly groomed, with that -freshness which makes men of his type look as if they were just out of -the barber’s chair, the admirable social poise of the man who has seen -the world’s greatest and has come to be sure of himself; and this in -spite of such buffeting as few men had had—the assassination of his -father when he was twenty-four, the humiliation of Mary Lincoln’s -half-crazed public exhibition of herself and her needs, the death of his -brother Tad, the heartbreaking necessity of having his mother committed -for medical care, and more recently the loss of his only son. Robert -Lincoln had had enough to crush him, but he was not crushed. At the -moment he looked and felt, I think, that he had arrived where he -belonged. The Republican party would have been happy, no doubt, to make -him its leader if he had shown political genius recalling that of his -father. They tried him out. Garfield and Arthur made him Attorney -General, Harrison named him minister to the Court of St. James’s, but -nothing happened. He was not political timber, but by this time big -business wanted him. It was his field. He was now president of the -Pullman Company. - -I devoured him with my eyes. He was very friendly. To Mrs. Lyons’ order -to do his best for me he laughingly replied, “Of course if you say so, -Emily.” But he went on to say he was afraid he had little that would -help me. Herndon had taken all his father’s papers from the law office. -I think he used the word “stolen,” but I am not sure; at least I knew he -_felt_ they were stolen. He had protested, but was never able to get -anything back. As for the Presidential period, all the correspondence -was packed away in Washington, but it had been fully used by Nicolay and -Hay. However, he had what he believed to be the earliest portrait made -of his father—a daguerreotype never published. I could have that. - -I held my breath. If it was true! I held my breath still longer when the -picture was finally in my hands for I realized that this was a Lincoln -which shattered the widely accepted tradition of his early shabbiness, -rudeness, ungainliness. It was another Lincoln, and one that took me by -storm. - -Of course we made it the frontispiece to our first installment, and the -office saw to it that those whose opinions were of value had fine prints -of it. It called out some remarkable letters. Woodrow Wilson wrote that -he found it “both striking and singular—a notable picture.” He was -impressed by “the expression of the dreaminess, the familiar face -without its sadness.” Charles Dudley Warner wrote that he found it “far -and away the most outstanding presentation of the man” he had ever seen. -“To my eyes it explains Mr. Lincoln far more than the most elaborate -engraving which has been produced.” A common enough comment was that it -“looks like Emerson.” Edward Everett Hale wrote us that he had shown the -picture to “two young people of intelligence who each asked if it was -not Waldo Emerson.” - -A valuable and considered comment came from John T. Morse, the author of -a Life of Abraham Lincoln, as well as editor of a series on leading -American statesmen: - - I have studied this portrait with very great interest [wrote Mr. - Morse]. All of the portraits with which we are familiar show us the - man as made; this shows us the man in the making. And I think every - one will admit that the making of Abraham Lincoln presents a more - singular, puzzling, interesting study than the making of any other - man in human history. I have shown it to several persons without - telling them who it was. Some say a poet; others a philosopher, a - thinker, like Emerson. These comments also are interesting, for - Lincoln had the raw material of both these characters very largely - in his composition though political and practical problems so - overlaid them that they show only faintly in his later portraits. - This picture, therefore, is valuable evidence as to his natural - traits. - -Robert Lincoln was almost as proud as I was of the character of the -comment. If he felt, as he well may have done, that he was taking a -chance in responding so generously to his friend Mrs. Lyons’ order, he -was rewarded by the attention the picture received from those whose -opinions he regarded highly. Always thereafter he was quick to see me -when I took a Lincoln problem to him, as I did when I had exhausted all -other sources. He was always frank and downright. One puzzle I brought -amused him no little. It was the recurring rumor that Abraham Lincoln -had written a letter to Queen Victoria early in the war begging her not -to recognize the Confederacy. He was said to have sent it direct. Now no -hint, however unlikely, no clue, however shadowy, was passed by in what -had become in the McClure office a veritable bureau of Lincoln research. -“Anything is possible,” was our watchword. I was carrying on a -widespread correspondence and continually dashing in one direction or -another on what turned out often to be wild-goose chases, but also not -infrequently brought in valuable game. Mr. McClure was especially -excited over this letter. The State Department pooh-poohed the idea; the -curator of documents in London was noncommittal. I interviewed people -who were in position to know what was going on, but learned nothing. -Finally I went to Chicago to see Robert Lincoln. His eye seemed harder -to me in his office than over Mrs. Lyons’ tea table, but he quickly put -me at ease. I was certain that my quest was going to seem ridiculous to -him; indeed, it had become a little so to me. But he didn’t throw it -aside. He picked it up and played with it. He had never heard of such a -letter and doubted if it had been written. - -“If father had done that,” he said with emphasis, “and Mr. -Adams”—Charles Francis Adams, then minister to Great Britain—“had -learned of it, he would have resigned. Father knew of course that all -communication between governments must be carried on by the credited -ambassadors.” - -And then he fell to talking laughingly of his own experiences at the -Court of St. James’s. He said he had received all sorts of things to be -presented to the Queen—patchwork quilts, patent medicines, books, sheet -music. “I suppose,” he said, “that lots of Americans fancy that their -ambassador smokes cigarettes awhile every morning after breakfast with -the Queen. They take it for granted he can drop in for tea any time and -present quilts. Of course such people see no reason why a President -cannot write a Queen direct.” And he laughed until the tears came. - -That interview put an end for the time being to the search for “the -letter to the Queen,” as the item had come to be called in the office. - -When the Life was finally complete Mr. Lincoln wrote me: “It seemed to -me at first that the field had been too many times gleaned to hope for -much from the work you were undertaking, and I must confess my -astonishment and pleasure upon the result of your untiring research. I -consider it an indispensable adjunct to the work of Nicolay and Hay.” - -Mr. Nicolay, however, never agreed. - -If Robert Lincoln was always friendly he threw me once into the greatest -panic I suffered in the course of my Lincoln work, though this was long -after the Life was published. I had gone to him to ask if he would -arrange for me to consult the collection of Presidential papers. -“Impossible,” he said. “They are in the safety vault of my bank. I won’t -allow anybody to see them. There is nothing of my father’s there, that -is of value—Nicolay and Hay have published everything; but there are -many letters _to_ him which if published now would pain, possibly -discredit able and useful men still living. Bitter things are written -when men are trying to guide a country through a war, particularly a -Civil War. I fear misuse of those papers so much that I am thinking of -destroying them. Besides, somebody is always worrying me about them, -just as you are, and I must be ungenerous. I think I will burn them.” - -I was scared; I feared he would do it, but Herbert Putnam, the head of -the Congressional Library, had already seen to that. He did not burn -them; the Library got them finally, but with the condition that they -were not to be opened until twenty-one years after Robert Lincoln’s -death. He died in 1926. The papers will not be available to students -until 1947, which probably lets me out! - -The early portrait set the key for the series and, as it turned out, a -much higher key than I had believed possible. I found that court records -did yield unpublished documents, that every now and then I ran on a man -or woman who said more or less casually, “Why, we have a letter of -Lincoln’s written to father in ——. Copy it if you wish.” Occasionally I -found a speech not in the “Complete Works.” By the time the work was put -into book form in 1899 I had an appendix of three hundred unpublished -speeches and letters. This did not mean that none of them had ever been -in print. Many of them had appeared in newspapers or historical -magazines. “Unpublished” meant uncollected. On the whole this collection -stood the scrutiny of experts very well, though I think I was swindled -in the case of at least one document, a forgery by a man recommended to -me by an honest scholar who had used the man frequently for years. - -Forgery was easy, so was pilfering of documents in those days, so little -attention did clerks give to their old papers, so glad were they to get -rid of them. There was frequently no objection to a student carrying off -anything that interested him. One of the most important documents in the -controversy over the legitimacy of Lincoln’s mother is now to be found -in the Barton collection which the University of Chicago bought. Mr. -Barton probably asked permission to take it home for examination, a -common enough practice in Illinois as well as in Kentucky, and forgot to -return it. Probably most of the legal documents in the private Lincoln -collections have been stolen. The original thief would have been -horrified to have that harsh word applied to him. He simply put it into -his pocket with or without permission, saying, “I’ll just take this -along.” - -But while I did get together some three hundred pieces I came nowhere -near turning up all the letters and speeches then at large. I was under -a time limit. Since I ended my search scores of items, some of value, -have been published in one or another collection. I shall be surprised -if, as time goes on, there does not turn up every now and then a genuine -letter, though now more than ever caution must be taken in accepting a -new piece. The forging of historical documents has become a lucrative -trade. - -From the beginning I did my best to reconstruct the physical -surroundings of Lincoln’s homes and activities. I was particularly -interested in the setting of the Lincoln-Douglas debates, which I -followed in their order; but it was not until I reached Galesburg, -Illinois, where on October 7, 1858, the fifth debate was staged, that I -found the stirring and picturesque material I sought in order to picture -the scene of a debate. I was delighted that it should have been the -fifth debate, which I have always considered the most important of the -series, for it was in that that Lincoln brought his argument down to -what to him was the crux of the whole matter, that is, that slavery was -wrong and must be kept back or it would spread over the whole country. - -The debate had taken place on the campus of Knox College on the east -front of its historic Old Main, one of the most beautiful college -buildings of that period in the Middle West. - -I had the luck to find in Galesburg a helper who not only -enthusiastically seconded my conviction that here was the place for the -illustration which we wanted, but set out heartily to help me find -material. This was John H. Finley, my old friend on the Chautauqua -Assembly _Daily Herald_. Dr. Finley was now president of the -college—“the youngest college president in the United States,” he was -popularly called, doing a piece of work which was winning him more and -more recognition. It was through him that I was able to find the -newspaper reports of the debate. It was through him that I was able to -meet people who could give me recollections of the day. - -The picture which resulted from our joint efforts was made by that -excellent artist William R. Leigh, who did many of the illustrations for -the series. It has had a continuing life, being reproduced again and -again on the occasion of the commemorative celebrations of the debate -which Dr. Finley inaugurated in 1896. It was at this celebration that -Robert Lincoln made his first and only public address about his father. - -The real fun of the Lincoln work, as well as some of the worth-while -results, came from setting myself little problems. I was curious, for -instance, to know more of Lincoln as a speaker. Whenever I found an -Illinois man who had been with him on the circuit or in public life I -would bombard him with questions. He would tell me how Lincoln looked, -what his voice was like, how he used stories. They all talked more about -the Lincoln and Douglas debates than any other exhibit, but frequently -would conclude by saying, “Well, those were good speeches, but they were -nothing like the Lost Speech. That was the greatest thing Lincoln ever -did.” Or a man would begin by saying, “Well, you can never know much -about him as a speaker, nobody can that never heard the Lost Speech.” - -It was, they said, a speech which so stirred his audience that the very -reporters forgot to take their notes. Knowing reporters, I was skeptical -about that, so I looked up some of them. They all told me that when -Lincoln finally ended his speech they found themselves standing on, -instead of sitting by their writing tables—and without a note! - -Still I believed that somebody must remember something about the -speech—enough at least to give an idea of the argument. Perhaps, I said -to myself, I may pick up some of the phrases—get some real notion of it; -so I went prowling about asking questions and finally learned that in -the state of Massachusetts was a man who was said to have taken notes—a -cool-headed man—a lawyer, not a reporter. His name was Henry C. Whitney. -He knew Lincoln well, had travelled the circuit with him, had published -a “Life on Circuit with Lincoln” with which I was familiar. - -Of course there was nothing to do but look up Mr. Whitney, and that I -did. To my great satisfaction I found he had a bunch of yellowed notes. -He had always intended to write them up, he said; but when he tried it -the result seemed so inadequate that he gave it up. - -After much persuasion Mr. Whitney did get out a version of the Speech. -When he turned it over to me I took it to the men in Illinois with whom -I had talked and asked them what they thought of it. There were those -who said, “It’s impossible to write out that Speech.” But there were -others who said, “Yes, Whitney has caught the spirit, he has the -argument, he even has many of the phrases, as of course he would have if -he made notes.” - -The most emphatic and enthusiastic statement came from a man of -importance—Joseph Medill, the editor of the Chicago _Tribune_. Mr. -Medill had been one of the reporters at Bloomington in 1856 when the -speech was made who found himself in the end on top of the table without -a note! He thought Mr. Whitney’s version was close to the original. -Indeed, he wrote to Mr. McClure a long and interesting letter giving his -recollections of the Convention. In that letter he said: - - Mr. Whitney has reproduced with remarkable accuracy what Mr. Lincoln - said, largely in his identical language and partly in synonymous - terms. The report is close enough in thought and word to recall the - wonderful speech delivered forty years ago with vivid freshness. - -Well, that seemed to us reason enough for publishing Mr. Whitney’s -report along with the story of how I had found it, what the people who -heard the speech in the first place said about it, both for and against. -And that we did. - -But out in Illinois there were a number of people who did not want to -give up the tradition. The Lost Speech was the greater to them because -it was lost. As long as it was lost you could make it bigger than any -speech any man ever made, and nobody could contradict you. And so you -will find those who claim that the Lost Speech is still lost. And of -course you can take it or you can leave it. - -More than once when I plumed myself on a “discovery” I encountered the -loyalty of men to their legends. There was the Herndon story of -Lincoln’s failing to appear at the first wedding arranged for him and -Mary Todd. I realized he rather lets his “historical imagination” loose -in his description, but I never had questioned his story until by chance -I mentioned it to one of the family, a woman who would have been there -if there had ever been such a wedding ready. She froze me with her -indignation. “Mr. Herndon made that story up out of whole cloth. No such -thing ever happened.” Amazed, I flew around to see what other men and -women of the circle said. They all denied it. A sister of Mary Lincoln -was particularly indignant because Mr. Herndon had put the bride in -white silk. “Mary Lincoln never had a white silk dress until she went to -Washington,” she sputtered. - -But in spite of all the documents and evidences I collected demolishing -the episode, I reaped only sour looks and dubious headshakes. I had -spoiled a good story or tried to. It still remains a good story. Every -now and then somebody tells it to me. A biographer who tries to break -down a belittling legend meets with far less sympathy than he who -strengthens or creates one. - -The most important piece of ghost writing I ever did came in the course -of the Lincoln work—Charles A. Dana’s “Recollections of the Civil War.” -Mr. Dana, at that time the active editor of the New York _Sun_, had had -an exceptional war experience dating from 1862 to 1865 as assistant to -Secretary Stanton. He had spent much time in the field; he had been with -Grant at Vicksburg, with Rosecrans and Thomas at Chattanooga, again with -Grant in the Peninsular Campaign. “The eyes of the government at the -front,” Mr. Lincoln called him. - -No man in the administration had had better opportunity of judging -Lincoln, particularly in relation to the conduct of the war, and none -was a better judge of character. - -Could I get the whole story as far as it concerned Lincoln? I hesitated -to ask it. The truth was, I was afraid of Mr. Dana. I knew him only on -the editorial page of the New York _Sun_. He was too clever, too -quick-witted, too malicious for me to get on with, I feared. They -laughed at me at the office when I voiced my qualms. Nobody was held -higher there than Charles A. Dana. He had been a customer of the McClure -Syndicate from the beginning, and they believed in his professional -integrity, admired his detestation and relentless pursuit of fakers, -honored and tried to imitate his editorial motto, “If you see it in THE -SUN it’s so.” - -“Why should you feel this way?” reproved Mr. Phillips. “Mr. Dana is a -gentleman.” - -“Nonsense! I’ll take care of it for you,” said Mr. McClure, and he -rushed to the _Sun_, office. He did fix it and more, for, returning, he -told me with glee that Mr. Dana was willing to give his whole war story, -that is if I would do the work and arrange some practical plan for the -interviews. The first step, of course, was to find what Dana material, -published and unpublished, was in the war records. The editing of the -records then under way was in charge of J. Leslie Perry. Mr. Perry did -not believe in women fussing with history, particularly with Civil War -history. War was man’s business. - -“How can you understand it?” he shouted at me. - -However, I insisted on my rights, and nobody could have been more -helpful when he considered a thing an obligation of his official -position. To the end Mr. Perry’s chief satisfaction came when he caught -me slipping. “That’s what comes from allowing a woman to write history,” -he would say jubilantly. - -Between us we brought together a grist of Dana’s dispatches and reports. -I crammed on the campaigns, and by appointment appeared at the end of -Mr. Dana’s day, about four o’clock in the afternoon, for my first -interview. - -His desk was stripped of everything that pertained to the newspaper, but -held a row of the latest books, not only in English but in three or four -other languages, as well as a copy of the _Cosmopolis_, an ambitious and -rather pretentious review in three or four languages issued for a short -time in the late nineties. - -Mr. Dana had already repented of his promise to Mr. McClure. “I am not -interested in what I did in the past,” he said irritably. “I am -interested only in the present; I am trying to keep up with the world of -today. I am studying Russian now—a very fascinating language. I don’t -want to bother with what I did in the Civil War. What do you propose?” - -What I proposed was that he let me come to him with a stenographer and a -set of prepared questions, say three times a week. He agreed, and for a -good many weeks of the winter of ’96 and ’97 I went regularly to the -_Sun_ office after the paper was put to press. By the summer of 1897 I -had my manuscript well in shape. Mr. Dana had never seen any of it. -“Send me the proofs, I’ll read them.” - -Publication was to begin in November of 1897. Mr. Dana went to London -for the summer. I sent the proof of the first chapter over with a good -many qualms, for it was all in the first person—“I” and “We.” It came -back with only a few verbal corrections—no comments. He was never to -read more of his Recollections. The number of the magazine which carried -the first chapter carried the notice of his death. - -We published the entire story, and later the articles were put into a -book, but with no credit to the ghost! - -Taking it all in all it was the most impersonal job I ever had. I do not -remember that Mr. Dana ever volunteered a word in all the many -interviews I had with him except on the subject in hand, and that in -answer to my questions. We never talked of the things which I knew he -loved—pictures, orchids, poetry. It was a businesslike operation from -start to finish. Probably it was his way of punishing me for being -afraid of him. - -Another and more important series which came out of the Lincoln work was -Carl Schurz’s “Reminiscences.” Here I acted not as a ghost but as an -editorial representative. Mr. Schurz had given me liberally for my story -from his rich Lincoln experiences—the most important unpublished item -being the part he played in helping Mr. Lincoln launch his plan for -compensated emancipation. - -As I reported these interviews the office became more and more convinced -that here was a great series of reminiscences—just the kind of thing -that Mr. McClure had hoped for when he first commissioned me to gather -Lincoln material. Could Mr. Schurz be persuaded to write his -reminiscences? When I broached the subject he almost immediately said: -“No, no, I refused Gilder [Richard Watson Gilder, editor of the -_Century_]. I cannot do it for anybody else.” - -But I felt so convinced that he ought to do it that I persisted in my -begging, and finally he began to yield. The handsome sum _McClure’s_ was -willing to pay had something to do with it, for Mr. Schurz was not a -rich man and here was a chance to leave to his family this extra money. -Once he had made up his mind to the task, he thoroughly enjoyed it; and -no one could have been more anxious to use material to suit the needs of -the magazine. Working with him was a joy. He was gay, companionable, -full of anecdotes, frank in comment. I remember him best at his summer -home at Lake George where it was necessary for me to go two or three -times to settle some editorial point. Here you would hear him in the -morning as he was getting ready for breakfast giving the Valkyrie cries, -singing motive after motive of the Wagnerian operas, in a clear youthful -voice. Sometimes he would spring up from the table where he was at work, -and seating himself at the piano would improvise dashingly until the -mood which had taken him from his desk passed; then back to his labor. - -The house stood in the upper corner of a park of fifty or sixty acres of -woodland—not over-cleared—and open by winding paths down the hillside to -the lake. Every turn, every rock had its name usually celebrating some -Wagnerian scene, and as you passed Mr. Schurz would roll out the -appropriate song. There never was a more lovable or youthful man of -seventy than Carl Schurz. - -The completion of the Life of Lincoln did not end my interest in the -man. He had come to mean more to me as a human being than anybody I had -studied. I never doubted his motives, and he never bored me. Still, -whenever I have the opportunity I pick him up. The greatest regret of my -professional life is that I shall not live to write another life of him. -There is so much of him I never touched. - - - - - 10 - REDISCOVERING MY COUNTRY - - -The four years I put in on “The Life of Abraham Lincoln” did more than -provide me with a continuing interest. They aroused my flagging sense -that I had a country, that its problems were my problems. This sense had -been strong in my years on _The Chautauquan_, but the period following -had dimmed it. Now I was beginning to ask myself why we had gone the way -we had since the Civil War. Was there not enough of suffering and of -nobility in that calamity to quiet the greed and ambitions of men, to -soften their hates, to arouse in them the will to follow Lincoln’s last -counsels—“With malice toward none; with charity for all ... let us ... -do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among -ourselves and with all nations.” But greed and hate and indifference to -the sufferings and rights of others had been rampant since the war. Did -war as a method of righting wrongs so loosen the controls which man in -times of peace establishes over himself that he is incapable of -exercising the charity, the peaceful adjustments for which Lincoln -called? Was there always after war an unescapable crop of corruption, of -thirst to punish and humiliate and exploit the conquered? Must men go -back where they had started, go back with controls weakened and burdened -with a load of new and unexpected problems? True, this war had ended -slavery as a recognized institution, given the black man legal freedom, -but how about opportunity, discipline for freedom? And then again was a -war necessary to destroy slavery? Was it not already doomed? Lincoln -thought so. Doomed because it was showing itself unsound economically as -well as because it outraged man’s sense of justice and humanity. And how -about the effect of this war on democracy? Were the problems it loosed -less threatening to democratic ideals than slavery had been? Were they -not possibly a more subtle form of slavery, more dangerous because less -obvious? - -A nice box of problems to tease me as I worked on Lincoln’s life and out -of the corner of the eye watched what was going on in the country. The -number of things in America I was beginning to want to find out about -was certainly dimming the things in France I had wanted to find out -about. Unquestionably these new interests were helping to wean me from -the plan on which I had settled. The process was painful. More than once -I told myself that the sacrifice of my ambitions, of my love for Paris, -for my friends there, was too much to ask of myself. I could never -replace those interests and associations; but I was replacing them and -suffering as I realized what was happening, revolting that nothing in my -life seemed to last, to be carried through. By nature I was faithful. To -give my time to new friends, neglect old ones in spite of never -forgetting them, as I never did, was disloyal. I was beginning to repeat -dolefully as well as more and more cynically, _“Tout lasse, tout casse, -tout passe.”_ - -Washington was helping in my weaning. The city as I knew it in the -1890’s is lost in the Washington of the 1930’s. The pivots on which it -swings, the Capitol, the White House, were there then to be sure. So was -the Washington Monument; but they stood by themselves, the near-by -flanking unpretentious, often squalid. Today they are almost lost in the -piles of marble heaped about them to accommodate the ambitions and -creations of the last frantic twenty years. The town has stretched -unbelievably to the northwest. Where once I knew wide lawns, wooded -tracts, pleasant walks, are now acres upon acres of apartment houses and -hotels. They have engulfed the delightful Woodley Lane where my friends -the Hubbards lived in summer, and they have changed no less the quarter -in which their fine town house stood—Connecticut Avenue where it merges -into Dupont Circle. Great houses were only just beginning then to find -their way into the Circle. George Westinghouse had built there, so had -Mrs. Leiter of Chicago. Old Washingtonians sniffed at their houses and -their ways, laughed at Mrs. Leiter’s “spinal staircase” as she was said -to call it, and professed disgust at Mrs. Westinghouse’s “reported” -white velvet tablecloths. They resented the invasion of rich women -attracted by the social possibilities of a diplomatic circle, of rich -men attracted by the field for lobbying furnished by a Congressional -circle. - -But of this side of Washington I saw nothing. My social life was shaped -largely by the continued kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard. I had become -almost one of the family, was freely invited to meet their friends. -Their circle was wide, including diplomats and statesmen and eminent -visitors, though its core was the large group of distinguished -scientists which made up the working forces of the Smithsonian -Institution, the Agriculture Department, the Geological Survey, the -Bureau of Mines, the Observatory. An important group they were, and -nobody in town appreciated them more or took more pains to show his -appreciation than Mr. Hubbard. Naturally the center of this group was -Alexander Graham Bell, married to the Hubbards’ daughter, Mabel. - -The Bells lived across the Avenue from the Hubbards, and I soon had the -good fortune to be welcomed there—a great privilege, for both Mr. and -Mrs. Bell were rare persons. Mrs. Bell’s story is well known, but it was -only in seeing her with her husband and daughters that one could realize -what a fine intellect and what an unspoiled and courageous character she -had. She had been deaf and dumb from infancy, and Mr. Hubbard had -determined to open life to her. Among the teachers of speech he brought -to her was a young man then at Boston University—Alexander Graham Bell. -Under his tutelage she made rapid strides, and the two young people -learned to love one another. At that time Mr. Bell was giving his nights -to trying to “make iron talk.” I once heard Mr. Hubbard say that when he -found Mr. Bell had made iron talk he told him he must develop his -telephone to a practical point or he could not have Mabel. Probably no -other argument would have persuaded Alexander Graham Bell, for he was -the type of inventor whose interest flags when he has solved his -problem. Let somebody else take care of the development. He would be off -on a new voyage of discovery. - -At the time I came into the circle Mr. Bell was, I think, the handsomest -and certainly the most striking figure in Washington. It was amusing to -hear people discussing who was the handsomest man in town. There were -various candidates—General Miles, General Greely, Colonel John Foster; -but while I conceded they all had their points no one of them had the -distinction of Alexander Graham Bell, and no one of them certainly had -the gay boyish appetite for what he found good in life. He was more like -Massa Henry Watterson in that than anybody else I have ever known, -though the activities and interests of the two were utterly different. - -Mr. Bell’s plan of living was modeled to suit himself. Often he slept -through the day when interruptions naturally came and the telephone most -often rang! If restless at night he played the piano. Mrs. Bell could -not hear, and the rest of the family, being young and devoted, were -never disturbed. He was up and began his day around four to six. Often -there were guests for dinner, for everybody of note the world over who -came to Washington wanted to meet him. On Wednesdays after dinner there -usually gathered a group of scientists and public men to talk things -over. Mr. Bell was something to see at these dinners and gatherings, the -finest social impresario I ever saw in action, so welcoming, -appreciative, eager, receptive. I thought then I had never seen anybody -so generous about what others were doing. He loved to draw out great -stories of adventure and discovery and would silence all talkers when -once such narrating was started. Partly this was because of Mrs. Bell, -his intense desire that she enjoy everything that was going on; and she -did, thanks to the intelligent devotion of her daughters, Elsie and -Marian, the first now the wife of Gilbert Grosvenor, one of the founders -and the present editor of the _National Geographic Magazine_, the second -the wife of David Fairchild, botanist and explorer, the organizer in the -Agriculture Department of the work now known as the Division of Foreign -Plant Exploration and Introduction—two men to whom the public owes big -debts for services. - -The most distinguished member of this Washington group of scientists -after Mr. Bell was Professor Samuel Pierpont Langley, the head of the -Smithsonian Institution, at that time agonizing over the problem of -flying. - -When I first met Dr. Langley in 1894 he was working on his air runner or -aerodrome, a machine which, as I gathered from the talk I heard and did -not too well understand, was to run on the air as an engine does on -rails. He finally came out with a machine weighing about twenty-five -pounds made up of a pair of rigid wings, twelve to fifteen feet across, -and an engine which weighed not over seven pounds. It had cost him four -years’ work to develop the engine to that lightness. But would it fly? -Could it be launched? Attempts were made from a houseboat down the -river. These experiments were carried on with the utmost secrecy, for -Dr. Langley was a taciturn man, proud, dignified, always awesome to me. -He knew that there was a public that thought him a little touched in the -head and wondered that the Government kept, as director of a great -national institution, a man who held the crazy notion that one day -people would fly, and who was willing to give his days and nights to -proving it. - -Dr. Bell took the most genuine and enthusiastic interest in Dr. -Langley’s experiments, was always present, I think, when an attempt to -launch the air runner was made. I recall his disappointment when it -fell, his rejoicing when it did finally fly. This was one day in May of -1896. I have heard him tell how suddenly the air runner rose to one -hundred feet and flew in a big circle. It did not fall but made a -perfect landing. Again it was launched and again it flew; and this time -it went over the land and over the treetops, came back to the river and -when its power was exhausted settled quietly on the water. - -Inside that little circle at Dr. Bell’s there was the consciousness of a -great discovery, a certain solemnity that again it had been proved that -labor, training, thought, patience, faith are not in vain. - -Mr. McClure was as excited as any one of the Washington group over the -news. He must immediately have an article from Dr. Langley himself, and -I was commissioned to get it. I think perhaps it was a little strain on -Dr. Langley’s good will to have a young woman come to him and say: “Now -we want the whole story of how you have done this thing, what it means; -but no scientific jargon, please. We want it told in language so simple -that I can understand it, for if I can understand it all the world can.” -Which, knowing me, he probably knew was true. He consented, and I had -the privilege of talking with him occasionally about the article, of -reading what he did and saying when necessary, “I don’t see quite what -this or that means,” of seeing him docilely make it clear enough for me -to understand. A year after the Langley contraption first flew we had in -_McClure’s Magazine_ the whole story. - -As a reward for my persistent effort to see that article come out to his -satisfaction, he gave me what I think he considered the greatest treat -he could give his friends. He took me to the Rock Creek Zoo after the -crowds had gone and, with the help of the director, Dr. Baker, made the -kangaroo jump and the hyena laugh. - -But the public interest in his air runner, the fresh honors that now -came to him did but little to wipe out the bitterness that ridicule had -stirred in Dr. Langley. “There was a time,” he said as he was going to -England to take a degree which Oxford University (I believe it was) was -giving him, “there was a time when I should have been glad of this. It -means little now.” Yet he had his moments of strong emotion. Rarely have -I been more moved than at a dinner at Mr. Hubbard’s soon after the -Greco-Turkish War began in 1897. A half-dozen men of seventy or -thereabouts were at the table, among them Senator Hoar of Massachusetts, -Major Powell, Edward Everett Hale, and Dr. Langley. They talked only of -Greece and her helplessness before the Turk. They recalled the wave of -sympathy which in their boyhood had swept over the country when the Turk -attacked Greece. It was to Greece, said Senator Hoar, that he first gave -money of his own, a long treasured twenty-five-cent piece. Dr. Hale and -Dr. Langley fell to quoting Byron. Their voices shook as they declaimed, - - “The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! - - · · · · · - - Earth! render back from out thy breast - A remnant of our Spartan dead! - Of the three hundred grant but three, - To make a new Thermopylae.” - -“It was Byron,” said Dr. Langley with an emotion of which I had thought -him incapable, “who first stirred in me an enthusiasm for man’s -struggles for freedom, with a desire to join those who fight for it.” He -thought Byron first opened England’s eyes to her duty to the oppressed -of the Continent of Europe and at the same time opened the eyes of the -Continent to the love of liberty, the sympathy with the helpless, in -English literature. Certainly here was a Dr. Langley I had never before -glimpsed. - -This was not all of Washington I was seeing. As in Paris I set aside -time for learning the city. How thin and young and awkward Washington -seemed compared with the exhaustless life and treasures of Paris! Here -was none of that wisdom of experience, that subtile cynicism, that pity -and patience with men which made Paris like a great human being to me. -Nor was there here the ripe charm of old palaces, quaint streets, hidden -corners. Everything was new, sprawling in the open. But if Washington -had little to offer but promise it had that in abundance, and it did not -know its own lacks. It was too full of pride in what it had done since -John Adams moved into the White House and Congress into the Capitol. And -then I had a problem to think about—the Washington Lincoln knew—and I -went about with him from White House to War Department, up to the -Congress, down to the Arsenal, into this and that hospital, up to the -Soldiers’ Home, over to Arlington. The pain and tragedy behind almost -every step he took in the town dignified its unfinished streets, gave a -meaning and a sanctity to its rawness. By such steps I told myself did -Paris come through the centuries to be what she is. - -But I did more than follow Lincoln about. I wanted to know the -Washington of thirty years after Lincoln, and so I went to the Capitol -when debates promised excitement, and I missed no great official show. -When McKinley’s inauguration came in 1896 I arranged to see it all. -Once, I told myself, will do forever for an inauguration—as it has done. -I began after breakfast and did not stop until the Inaugural Ball was -far on its way. A fine colorful sightseeing experience, leaving a series -of pictures which have never quite faded. Years later one of these -pictures brought me a curious bit of minor political history. I was -trying to persuade Richard Olney to write the story of the Venezuela -message for _McClure’s_ and remarked that the first time I met him was -at the McKinley Inaugural Ball. To my surprise he flushed. - -“Outgoing Cabinet members are not expected to attend the Inaugural Ball -of a new President,” he said. (I hadn’t known that, or of course I -should not have spoken.) “But there was a reason for my presence. -General Miles, then head of the Army, had come to me to say that there -were rumors of an attempt on McKinley’s life. ‘Suppose that both he and -Hobart should be assassinated before a new Cabinet is appointed,’ he -said. ‘You would be Acting President. You must go to the Ball, walk with -Mrs. McKinley, and stay until the end.’ I didn’t like the idea, but -General Miles insisted; so I went. But the new President walked with his -wife, and I had to hang around, conscious that more than one Republican -was saying, ‘What’s Olney doing here?’” - -What was behind General Miles’ precaution, I never knew. The lives of -presidents are always in danger, even in what we are pleased to call -normal times, there being always plenty of grievances, real and fancied, -to be squared. At the moment of the McKinley inauguration the despair -and bitterness of many radicals over the defeat of Bryan were outspoken. -The experience of the country with assassination in the thirty preceding -years had been alarming. A man in General Miles’ position charged with -the safety of the heads of the government must keep in mind all -possibilities. It would, of course, have been easy to assassinate the -President and Vice President at the Ball. Given clever and determined -conspirators, there would have been a chance to seize the government -while a new President was being elected. But with a determined man like -Olney on the ground, backed by a watchful and sufficient military guard -scattered through the great Patent Office where the Ball was held, a -temporary government could have been formed while the murderer was being -manacled. - -How General Miles would have enjoyed such a coup! In the first years of -McKinley’s administration I came to know him well, another one of the -friendly acquaintances made in carrying out the varied tasks that came -my way in my position as a contributing editor of _McClure’s Magazine_. -For several years popular interest in military affairs had been growing. -There were several reasons: doubt of the efficiency of our army, talk of -revolution, and particularly our strained relations with Spain. - -Interest was still further excited in 1896 by the outbreak of the -Greco-Turkish War, which, starting as a skirmish, soon grew until it -looked as if it might involve all southeastern Europe, perhaps England, -Russia. Obviously we should have an observer over there, and so in May -General Miles and a staff started for the field. He studied the military -organization of Turkey and of Greece, watched the armies lined up for -battle, saw the end of the war. From Greece he and his staff went to -London to represent the United States at Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. -Following that great show he had attended the autumn maneuvers of the -greatest of then existing armies, those of Russia, Germany, and France. - -Mr. McClure thought there was an important story in General Miles’ -observations, and I was commissioned to get it. But General Miles, -willing and glad as he was to tell of his European experiences—he had -never been abroad before—wanted to tell only of the sights he had seen, -sights which had nothing to do with armies, their equipment, and their -maneuvers. All that was shop for him. “They’ll think I didn’t see -anything but soldiers and guns,” he growled, “think I’m not interested -in history and art. People don’t know how wonderful Pompeii is, and I -would like to tell them. A lot of them never heard of Alexander’s -sarcophagus—finest thing I ever saw. There are countries that would pay -a million dollars to get it, and there’s the Parthenon and Moscow and -the Tower of London and the Louvre. There are the things I want to write -about.” And he was preparing to do it, as I saw by the stack of -Baedekers, the volumes of the Britannica, the pamphlets and travel books -on his desk. It took all my tact and patience to persuade the General -that, whatever his interest, ours was centered only on military Europe. - -In the course of this distasteful task I came to have a real liking for -General Miles. He was as kindly and courteous a gentleman as I have ever -known, and certainly the vainest. One of the real disappointments of his -European visit was that the American uniform was so severe. There were -hundreds of lesser ranks than himself on parade with three times the -gold braid he was allowed. When it came to the Queen’s Jubilee he -revolted and had special epaulets designed. I was at Headquarters the -day they arrived from London, and nothing would do but I must see them. -He ordered the box opened, disappeared into an inner office and came -back arrayed in all the glory the American Army allowed him. - -I was working on the Miles articles on February 16, 1898, when the -_Maine_ blew up in Havana harbor. As no message came canceling my -appointment with General Miles that morning I presented myself as usual -though with some misgiving, for it seemed as if the very air of -Washington stood still. At Headquarters there was a hush on everything, -but the routine went on as usual. As we worked an orderly would come in -with the latest report: “Two hundred fifty-three unaccounted for, two -officers missing, ship in six fathoms of water only her mast visible, -sir.” Then a second report: “All but four officers gone, sir, and there -are two hundred women up in the Navy Department.” (The Army and Navy -were in the same building in 1898.) - -The General made no comment, but every now and then blew his nose -violently, while his smart Chief of Staff, a gallant simple-minded -officer with a bullet hole in his cheek, kept saying to himself: “Ain’t -it a pity! By Jove, ain’t it a pity!” - -Through the two months between the blowing up of the _Maine_ and the -declaration of war I vacillated between hope that the President would -succeed in preventing a war and fear that the savage cries coming from -the Hill would be too much for him, as they were in the end. I honestly -believed then as I do now that he was doing his best, and this in spite -of the fact that my heart was hot with resentment for what I considered -his cowardly desertion of my Poland friends in 1893. - -McKinley was patient, collected, surprisingly determined. Everybody -indeed in the departments where the brunt must fall if war came seemed -steady to me, as I watched things in my frequent visits to General -Miles’ Headquarters. Everybody was at his post, everybody except -Theodore Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary of the Navy. He tore up and down -the wide marble halls of the War and Navy Building—“like a boy on roller -skates,” a disgusted observer growled. More than once he burst into -General Miles’ office with an excited question, an excited counsel. -Already he was busy preparing his Rough Riders for the war to be if he -had his way. Already he saw himself an important unit in an invading -army. - -I remember this because it shocked me more than anything else I was -noting. What chance had government in peace or war if men did not stay -on their jobs? Was not fidelity to the trust committed to you a first -obligation? And if Theodore Roosevelt felt—as he evidently did—that he -was needed in the Army, did not good manners if nothing else require -resignation? I was very severe on him in 1897, the more so because he -had bitterly disappointed me in 1884 when he had refused to go along -with the mugwumps in the revolt against Prohibitive Protection, refused -and gone along with my particular political abomination, Henry Cabot -Lodge. I had not been able to reconcile myself to him even when as a -Police Commissioner of New York City he made his hearty and effective -fight on the town’s corruption. - -The steadiness of General Miles and his staff in the weeks between the -blowing up of the _Maine_ and the breaking out of war with Spain raised -my respect for Army training as much as Roosevelt’s excited goings-on -antagonized me. At the same time my contempt for the outpouring of -Congress in a crisis was modified by almost daily association with one -of its oldest members, the Senator from Massachusetts, George Frisbie -Hoar. - -When I had decided in 1894 that sufficient materials were at hand in -Washington for the sketch _McClure’s_ wanted, to go with Gardiner -Hubbard’s Napoleon portraits, I went to live at a boarding house on I -Street between Ninth and Tenth recommended by Mrs. Hubbard, chiefly -because Senator and Mrs. Hoar lived there. The neighborhood had been not -so long before one of the desirable residential sections of the town, -but business and fashion were pushing well-to-do residents into -Connecticut and Massachusetts avenues, into Dupont Circle and beyond. -The fine old brownstone houses left behind were being used by trade and -occasionally by owners, whose incomes had been cut or destroyed, as -rooming or boarding houses. The head of the house into which I was -received was a Mrs. Patterson, the widow of a once distinguished -Washington physician. She and her daughter Elizabeth made of their home -one of the most comfortable and delightful living places into which I -had ever dropped. Such food! And best of all the Senator. - -At this time Senator Hoar was close to seventy years of age. He had been -in Congress for twenty-six consecutive years, seventeen of them in the -Senate, and everybody knew that as long as he lived Massachusetts -Republicans would insist on returning him. He embodied all the virtues -of the classic New Englander and few of the vices. His loyalty was -granite-ribbed; he revered the Constitution and all the institutions -born and reared under it. He was proud of the United States, but his -heart belonged to Massachusetts. In his mouth the name took on a beauty -and an emotion which never ceased to stir me—Westerner that I was. - -Combined with his patriotic loyalties was a passionate devotion to -classic literature—Greek, Roman, English. He knew yards of Homer and -Virgil, as well as of the greatest of the early English writers, and not -infrequently at our Sunday morning breakfasts he would repeat long -passages in his sonorous voice. This was the one hour in the week when -the Senator laid aside all formality and became our entertainer. He -never spoiled things by opinions on current events, but poured forth -daily whatever came into his mind. We were a good audience, willing to -sit until noon if he would talk. He claimed that it was Mrs. Patterson’s -codfish balls and coffee that put to flight all his cares and loosened -his tongue. That Patterson Sunday morning breakfast was enough to put -gaiety into any heart. Senator Hoar had already celebrated it in a -widely circulated letter to a Pennsylvania editor who attacked him for -never having done a stroke of useful work in his life and, what greatly -amused the Senator, living in Washington on “champagne and terrapin!”: - - My dear man [he wrote the irate critic], your terrapin is all in my - eye, very little in my mouth. The chief carnal luxury of my life is - in breakfasting every Sunday morning with an orthodox friend, a lady - who has a rare gift for making fish balls and coffee. You - unfortunate and benighted Pennsylvanians can never know the - exquisite flavor of the codfish, salted, made into balls and eaten - on a Sunday morning by a person whose theology is sound, and who - believes in all the five points of Calvinism. I am myself but an - unworthy heretic, but I am of Puritan stock, of the seventh - generation, and there is vouchsafed to me, also, some share of that - ecstasy and a dim glimpse of that beatific vision. Be assured, my - benighted Pennsylvania friend, that in that hour when the week - begins, all the terrapin of Philadelphia or Baltimore and all the - soft-shelled crabs of the Atlantic shore might pull at my trouser - legs and thrust themselves on my notice in vain. - -As we all knew, Senator Hoar had no money for “champagne and terrapin.” -He had sacrificed his law practice to public service, “getting a little -poorer year by year.” As a matter of fact he had no interest in making -money. I never saw him more irritated than after taking a difficult case -for which he was to get a fee of twenty-five thousand or thirty thousand -dollars. - -“Earning money is hateful to me,” he said. “Never in all my life before -have I undertaken a thing I did not want to do simply for money. Some -things I like to do, believe that I can do better than I could do -anything else. I never was such a donkey before. There are so many -things I long to do; one of them is to learn Italian well enough to read -Dante and Boccaccio and Ariosto in the original; and I want to commit -Homer to memory. I would like to have my head _packed with Greek_.” - -The Senator’s Sunday morning talks were rich with anecdotes of New -England types. He had his antipathies—Margaret Fuller Ossoli was one of -them. He used to tell the story of an old Concord doctor who was called -up in the night by a quavering voice outside his window asking, “Doctor, -how much camphire can a body drink without its killing ’em?” “Who drunk -it?” he asked. “Margaret Fuller.” “A peck,” snapped the doctor, shutting -his window with a bang. - -Dr. Mary Walker, who in her rather shabby man’s attire was a familiar -figure in those days, was a particular abomination. She made him -“creepy,” he said. Simply to mention her, I found, would dry up his -talk. But the mention of Jonathan Edwards’ name, although he -particularly detested him, always loosened his tongue. “He was an -inhuman cuss,” he said one morning. “There is a true story of his riding -through Northampton with a slave boy whom he had just bought tied to a -cord and trotting behind the horse. ‘Is thee doing as thee would be done -by?’ a woman of his faith called him, and Edwards said, ‘I’ll answer you -some other time.’” - -Senator Hoar rather enjoyed calling a man whose acts he disliked by hard -names. Indeed he very much enjoyed salty words generally, and one -morning ably defended them: “‘Dammit’ is a useful word. It eases one’s -feelings.” He also put up a strong argument for “whoppers.” “They are,” -he contended, “a valuable weapon with the impertinent and the imbecile.” -There was much boyish mischief in him. He greatly admired our wholesome -big-hearted Elizabeth, daughter of the house, her common sense and her -gaiety, and loved to pinch her plump arm. He did it in the presence of -us all and in spite of Mrs. Hoar’s reproaches. “Do you know, Elizabeth,” -he said one evening as he followed us up the stairs from the dining -room, “that it has taken nineteen hundred years of Christian -civilization to produce a man who does not pinch a girl’s pretty ankle -when she is going upstairs ahead of him?” - -In July, 1898, after Congress had adjourned Senator Hoar made up a party -for a trip through the Berkshire Hills and I had the good fortune to be -asked to join it. I had heard him talk much of his walking trips there -in Harvard days with his favorite classmate, Francis Child: “as great a -man at seventeen when he entered college,” he said, “as when he died—a -real genius.” From the moment our little caravan left his home at -Worcester the trip was like champagne to him. Trees, graveyards, -epitaphs, views, the homes of the honored in this day and past days kept -him busy. There was the Sheffield elm which we must stop to measure, the -grave of Mumbet with the inscription his favorite Catharine Sedgwick had -written for it; there was the best view of the Sleeping Napoleon on -Cedar Mountain—this for me. Then we must spend the night at a certain -inn on Mount Washington to give Elizabeth plenty of time to look up -family graves and records. Her father had been born on Mount Washington, -which was one of many reasons why the Senator admired her. He went with -her to look up the graves and, returning late, said, “If we had not -feared you would wait supper we would have stayed and been buried -there.” - -I have certainly never known anyone for whom life at seventy was more -joyous and full. He hated weakness, as well as everything that impaired -his dignity, his self-reliance. He was a true untouchable and would fall -into a rage if friend or stranger offered to assist him. “Unhand me,” he -thundered at a street car conductor who one day seized his arm to help -him up the steps, and his wrath lasted until he had told us about the -indignity at the dinner table. On this Berkshire trip a little accident -happened to him which caused an explosion of the same nature. We were at -an inn in the mountains, and after dinner had gone on to the lawn. The -Senator was sitting on a rustic bench which gave way, turned him on his -back, feet in the air. We all ran to assist him but were stopped in our -tracks by a stentorian voice which roared, “I decline to be assisted.” - -But this was the Senator on a vacation, the Senator of our Sunday -morning’s breakfast. Take him when public affairs were in a serious -tangle, and he was glum, unapproachable. He suffered deeply over the -trend to imperialism after the Spanish-American War. To save Cuba from -the maladministration of Spain, to watch over her until she had learned -to govern herself seemed to him a noble expression of Americanism, but -to annex lands on the other side of the globe for commercial purposes -only, as he believed, was to be false to all our ideals. He had the -early American conviction that minding one’s own business was even more -important abroad than at home. He wanted no entangling alliances, and in -those days following the treaty of Paris he feared as never before for -the country. Certainly there were far fewer Sunday morning breakfast -table talks. His greatest speech against the advancing imperialism was -made in April of 1900. At the head of the printed copy of his speech -distributed by the Senate he placed these sentences: - - No right under the Constitution to hold Subject States. To every - People belongs the right to establish its own government in its own - way. The United States can not with honor buy the title of a - dispossessed tyrant, or crush a Republic. - -I was learning something of what responsibility means for a man charged -with public service, of the clash of personalities, of ambitions, -judgments, ideals. And it was not long before I was saying to myself, as -I had not for years, You are a part of this democratic system they are -trying to make work. Is it not your business to use your profession to -serve it? But how? That was clearly now my problem. I could not run away -to a foreign land where I should be a mere spectator. Indeed, I was -beginning to suspect that one great attraction of France was that there -I had no responsibility as a citizen. I must give up Paris. Between -Lincoln and the Spanish-American War I realized I was taking on a -citizenship I had practically resigned. - -The war had done something to _McClure’s_ as well as to me. In all its -earlier years its ambition had been to be a wholesome, enlivening, -informing companion for readers, to give fiction, poetry, science of -wide popular appeal—an ambition which it must be admitted opened the -pages occasionally to the cheap, though it rarely excluded the fine. An -eager welcome was given new writers. Indeed it was always a great day in -the office when we thought a “real one” had reached us. While it -fostered new writers it held on to the best of the old. It had touched -public matters only as they became popular matters. Thus, when the -Spanish-American War came it was quickly recognized that it yielded more -interesting material than any other subject. There was a great war -number and there was a continuous flow of war articles. _McClure’s_ -suddenly was a part of active, public life. Having tasted blood, it -could no longer be content with being merely attractive, readable. It -was a citizen and wanted to do a citizen’s part. It had a staff -sympathetic with this new conception of the work. Mr. McClure had had in -mind from the start the building of a permanent staff of good craftsmen, -reporters on whom he could depend for a steady stream of contributions, -as well as of editorial ideas. He wanted them versatile, flexible, as -interested in the magazine as in themselves, capable of sinking -themselves in a collective effort. - -After I came in, the first to become such a permanent acquisition was -Ray Stannard Baker. An article on the capture of John Wilkes Booth by -Baker’s uncle, Colonel L. C. Baker, written from personal reminiscences -and documents, was submitted by Baker, then on the staff of the Chicago -_Record_. It was “the General’s” ideal of a _McClure’s_ article. Baker -was urged to write more, and each piece emphasized the first impression. -The year after his first appearance in the magazine, May, 1897, he -joined the staff and became a regular contributing editor. - -Baker was an admirable craftsman, as well as a capital team worker. He -had curiosity, appreciation, a respect for facts. You could not ruffle -or antagonize him. He took the sudden calls to go here when he was going -there, with equanimity; he enjoyed the unconventional intimacies of the -crowd, the gaiety and excitement of belonging to what was more and more -obviously a success. He was the least talkative of us all, observant -rather than garrulous, the best listener in the group, save Mr. -Phillips. He had a joyous laugh which was more revealing of his healthy -inner self than anything else about him. - -When I learned a few years later that Baker was the author of the wise, -homely, whimsical “Adventures in Contentment,” “The Friendly Road” and -other delightful essays under the nom de plume of David Grayson I said -at once, “How stupid of me not to have known it! Haven’t I always known -that Baker is a David Grayson?” Few practical philosophers, indeed, have -so lived their creed as Ray Stannard Baker, and none have had a more -general recognition from the multitude of people in the country who, -like him, believe in the fine art of simple living. It is a comforting -and beautiful thing to have had as a friend and co-worker over many -years so rare a person as Ray Stannard Baker. - -By good fortune _McClure’s_ in this period happened on a reader of real -genius—Viola Roseboro—the only “born reader” I have ever known. I found -her in the office after one of my frequent jaunts after material. It was -as a talker that I first learned to admire and love her. Her judgments -were unfettered, her emotions strong and warm, her expressions free, -glowing, stirring, and she loved to talk, though only when she felt -sympathy and understanding. She loved to share books, of which she read -many, particularly in the biographical field; she wanted none but the -best—no imitation, no mere fact-finding. Her eagerness to let no good -thing slip, her consciousness of the all too little time a human being -has in this world to explore its riches made her rigid in her choice. An -unsleeping eagerness to find talent and give it a chance, and -secondarily, she said, to enrich the magazine, made every day’s work -with the unsifted manuscripts an adventure. If she found exceptional -merit that was also suited to _McClure’s_ she might weep with -excitement. And she stood to it till faith grew in those less sure of -the untried. It was when _McClure’s_ was making a great hunt for a good -serial that I saw her one morning bringing into the editorial sanctum -Booth Tarkington’s “The Gentleman from Indiana,” tears celebrating the -discovery as she cried, “Here is a serial sent by God Almighty for -_McClure’s Magazine_!” - -This woman of unusual intelligence, loyalty and of truly Spartan courage -was a precious addition to the crowd. Ill health, threatened blindness, -have never lowered her enthusiasm, her ceaseless effort to find the -best, to give the best. She is still doing it. - -The most brilliant addition to the _McClure’s_ staff in my time was -Lincoln Steffens. He had made himself felt in the journalistic and -political life of New York City by a fresh form of reportorial attack. -Young, handsome, self-confident, with a good academic background and two -years of foreign life and observation, Steffens began his professional -career unencumbered by journalistic shibboleths and with an immense -curiosity as to what was going on about him. He was soon puzzled and -fascinated by the relations of police and politicians, politicians and -the law, law and city officials, city officials and business, business -and church, education, society, the press. Apparently groups from each -of these categories worked together, supporting one another, an -organization close, compact, loyal from fear or self-interest or both. -It was because of this organization, Steffens concluded, that graft and -vice and crime were established industries of the city. Attacks from -outraged virtue had slowed up the system at intervals ever since the -Civil War, but never permanently deranged it. A few rascals might be -exterminated, but they were soon replaced. The system had bred new -rascals, grown stronger and more cunning with time. He set out to trace -its pattern. Incredibly outspoken, taking rascality for granted, -apparently never shocked or angry or violent, never doubtful of himself, -only coolly determined to demonstrate to men and women of good will and -honest purpose what they were up against and warn them that the only way -they could hope to grapple with a close corporation devoted to what -there was in it was by an equally solid corporation devoted to decent -and honest government, business, law, education, religion. First as a -reporter and later as the city editor of the _Globe_, Steffens stirred -the town. - -It was entirely in harmony with the McClure method of staff building -that this able, fearless innocent should be marked for absorption. He -was persuaded to take the editing of the magazine, now in its tenth year -and steadily growing in popularity and influence. He was to be the great -executive—the editorial head that would shift some of the burden from -the shoulders of Mr. McClure and Mr. Phillips. But the machine was -running smoothly even if with little outward excitement. Steffens made a -brave effort to adjust himself to the established order, to learn the -situation. Naturally he took Mr. McClure’s meteoric goings and comings, -his passionate and often despairing efforts to make his staff “see” what -he did, his cries that the magazine was stale, dying, more seriously -than those of us who had been longer together. He seems to have been -bewildered by what went on in the excited staff meetings held whenever -Mr. McClure came in from a foraging expedition. I had come to look on -Mr. McClure’s returns as the most genuinely creative moments of our -magazine life. He was an extraordinary reporter; his sense of the -meaning, the meat of a man or event, his vivid imagination, his -necessity of discharging on the group at once, before they were cold, -his observations, intuitions, ideas, experiences, made the gatherings on -his return amazingly stimulating to me. Sifting, examining, verifying, -following up, were all necessary. Mr. McClure understood that and -trusted John Phillips to see that it was done, but he properly fought -for his findings. In his “Autobiography” Steffens credits me with a tact -in our editorial scrimmages which I do not deserve. It is true, as he -says, that I was the friend of each and all, but what I was chiefly -interested in was seeing the magazine grow in delight and in usefulness. -I knew our excited discussions were really fertile. They also were -highly entertaining. - -It was in this unsatisfied seeking by Mr. McClure for more and more of -contemporary life that Lincoln Steffens’ chief contribution to it and to -the political life of his period had its root. Mr. McClure’s fixed -conviction that great editing was not to be done in the office he -finally applied to Steffens, who was bravely struggling there to become -the great editor he had been called to be. - -“You can’t learn to edit a magazine in the office,” Mr. McClure told -him. “Get out, go anywhere, everywhere, see what is going on in the -cities and states, find out who are the men and the movements we ought -to be reporting.” - -And so Stef went for a month, to the Middle West mainly, constantly -reporting back to the office in McClure fashion what he was finding. He -combed the universities and the newspaper offices; he looked up -politicians; he searched for writers, anything and everywhere which -might possibly be grist to the greedy mill in New York. - -One of the schemes on which he had been commissioned to check up was a -series of articles on city and state governments. Almost at once he -began to see larger and larger possibilities in the idea. There should -be two series, he wrote the office, descriptions of the actual -government of four or five typical cities and of as many states, -humanized by studies of the men who ruled them or who were fighting the -true rulers. A meeting with young district attorney Folk of St. Louis, -then in the thick of a fight to reform his town, whetted his appetite. -“If we take up the states,” he wrote, “I would prefer to wait for -William Allen White to write the articles. The cities will be more in my -line. If I should be entrusted with the work I think I could make my -name.” - -A few weeks later he was entrusted with the work. The result was “The -Shame of the Cities” which, as he prophesied, made his name. - - - - - 11 - A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY SEEKS MY ACQUAINTANCE - - -As Steffens’ case shows there was always much fingering of a subject at -_McClure’s_ before one of the staff was told to go ahead. The original -hint might come from Mr. McClure’s overflowing head and pocket, Mr. -Phillips’ notebooks, as much a part of him as his glasses, the daily -mail, the chance word of a caller. We all turned in our pickings. They -must concern the life of the day, that which was interesting people. An -idea, once launched, grew until fixed on somebody; and, once started, it -continued to grow according to the response of readers. No response—no -more chapters. A healthy response—as many chapters as the material -justified. - -It was by this process that my next long piece of work came into being: -“The History of the Standard Oil Company.” - -The deluge of monopolistic trusts which had followed the close of the -Spanish-American War and the “return of prosperity” was disturbing and -confusing people. It was contrary to their philosophy, their belief -that, given free opportunity, free competition, there would always be -brains and energy enough to prevent even the ablest leader monopolizing -an industry. What was interfering with the free play of the forces in -which they trusted? They had been depending on the Federal Antitrust Law -passed ten years before. Was it quite useless? It looked that way. - -There was much talk in the office about it, and there came to the top -finally the idea of using the story of a typical trust to illustrate how -and why the clan grew. How about the greatest of them all—the Standard -Oil Company? - -I suppose I must have talked rather freely about my own recollections -and impressions of its development. It had been a strong thread weaving -itself into the pattern of my life from childhood on. - -I had come into the world just before the discovery of oil, the land on -which I was born not being over thirty miles away from that first well. -The discovery had shaped my father’s life, rescuing him as it did -thousands of others from the long depression which had devastated the -eighteen-fifties. I had grown up with oil derricks, oil tanks, pipe -lines, refineries, oil exchanges. I remembered what had happened in the -Oil Region in 1872 when the railroads and an outside group of refiners -attempted to seize what many men had created. It was my first experience -in revolution. On the instant the word became holy to me. It was your -privilege and duty to fight injustice. I was much elated when, not so -long afterwards, I fell on Rousseau’s “Social Contract” and read his -defense of the right to revolt. - -I had been only dimly conscious of what had happened in the decade -following—the decade in which the Standard Oil Company had completed its -monopoly. It was the effect on the people about me that stirred me, the -hate and suspicion and fear that engulfed the community. I had been so -deeply stirred by this human tragedy, as I have told, that I had made a -feeble and ineffectual attempt to catch it, fix it in a novel. - -The drama continued to unfold while I was abroad, came into our very -household when a partner of my father’s ruined by the complex situation -shot himself, leaving father with notes. To pay them it was necessary in -the panic of ’93 to do what in his modest economy was unsound and -humiliating—mortgage our home. While the personal tragedies came in my -mother’s letters, my brother wrote me vivid accounts of what was going -on in the outside oil world, of the slow action of the Interstate -Commerce Commission from which all independents had hoped so much, of -businesses ruined while they waited for the decision; of the Ohio suit -which drove the trust to reorganization, a legal victory which in no way -weakened its hold or crippled its growth. Depressing as this was, I was -elated by my brother’s reports of the growing strength of a strongly -integrated cooperative effort of producers, refiners, transporters, -marketers, the Pure Oil Company. The only escape possible for those who -would do independent business, he argued ably, was to build their own -combination depending less on agitation, politics, legislation, more on -sound business. Fight if necessary, but above all do business. - -While I was still in Paris this clutter of recollections, impressions, -indignations, perplexities, was crystallized into something like a -pattern by Henry D. Lloyd’s brilliant “Wealth Against Commonwealth.” I -had been hearing about the book from home, but the first copy was -brought me by my English friend H. Wickham Steed, who, fresh from two -years’ contact with German socialism, took the work with great -seriousness. Was not this a conclusive proof that capitalism was -necessarily inconsistent with fair and just economic life? Was not -socialism the only way out, as Lloyd thought? - -I was more simple-minded about it. As I saw it, it was not capitalism -but an open disregard of decent ethical business practices by -capitalists which lay at the bottom of the story Mr. Lloyd told so -dramatically. - -The reading and discussions whetted my appetite; and when I came back to -America in 1894, and heard anew in the family circle of what had been -going on, my old desire to get the drama down seized me. Where were -those notes I had made back in my _Chautauquan_ days? Gathering dust in -the tower room. I looked them up, saw that I had done well in choosing -Pithole for my opening scene. Nothing so dramatic as Pithole in oil -history. How many men it had made and ruined! But “the bottom had -dropped out” in 1866. What was left of it now—1894? My brother and I -drove over to see. - -Thirty years before, Pithole had been a city of perhaps twenty thousand -men and women with all the equipment for a permanent life. Now here were -only stripped fields where no outline of a town remained. We spent a -long day trying to place the famous wells, to fix my father’s tank -shops, so profitable while Pithole lasted, to trace the foundations of -the Bonta House, which had furnished the makings of our home in -Titusville. The day left us with a melancholy sense of the impermanence -of human undertakings; and, more to the point, it showed me that if I -were to reconstruct the town with its activities and its people, picture -its rise and its fall, I must go back to records, maps, reminiscences; -that I must undertake a long and serious piece of investigation before I -began. But, given the material, how about my ability to make it live, to -create the drama which I felt? One must be an artist before he can -create—that I knew. I was no artist. - -Mr. McClure’s call to come on and write a life of Napoleon put an end to -my hesitations; and, Napoleon done, there had been Lincoln and the -Spanish-American War—no time to consider oil or even to rejoice over the -final success of the integrated industry to which my brother had tied -his fortune. - -But here I was again faced with the old interest. The desire to do -something about it, get down what I had seen, seized me. Was it possible -to treat the story historically, to make a documented narrative? The -more I talked, the more convinced I was that it could be done. But to -tell the story so that people would read it was another matter. Mr. -Phillips finally put it up to me to make an outline of what I thought -possible. We couldn’t go ahead without Mr. McClure’s approval, and he -was ill, in Europe with all his family. - -“Go over,” said John Phillips; “show the outline to Sam, get his -decision.” And so in the fall of 1890 I went to Lausanne in Switzerland -to talk it over with Mr. McClure. A week would do it, I thought; but I -hadn’t reckoned with the McClure method. - -“Don’t worry about it,” said he. “I want to think it over. Mrs. McClure -and you and I will go to Greece for the winter. You’ve never been there. -We can discuss Standard Oil in Greece as well as here. If it seems a -good plan you can send for your documents and work in the Pantheon.” And -he chuckled at the picture. - -Almost before I realized it we were headed for Greece via the Italian -Lakes, Milan and Venice. In Milan Mr. McClure suddenly decided that he -and Mrs. McClure needed a cure before Greece and headed for the ancient -watering place of Salsomaggiore. Here, in the interval of mud baths and -steam soaks and watching such magnificent humans as Cecil Rhodes and his -retinue recuperating from their latest South African adventure, we -finally came to a decision. I was to go back to New York and see what I -could make of the outline I had been expounding. Greece was to be -abandoned. - -Leaving Mr. and Mrs. McClure to finish their cure, I headed for New York -to write what, as far as title was concerned, certainly looked like a -doubtful enterprise for a magazine like _McClure’s_: “The History of the -Standard Oil Company.” - -“_McClure’s_ has courage.” How often that remark was made after our -undertaking was under way! But courage implies a suspicion of danger. -Nobody thought of such a thing in our office. We were undertaking what -we regarded as a legitimate piece of historical work. We were neither -apologists nor critics, only journalists intent on discovering what had -gone into the making of this most perfect of all monopolies. What had we -to be afraid of? - -I soon discovered, however, that, if we were not afraid, I must work in -a field where numbers of men and women were afraid, believed in the -all-seeing eye and the all-powerful reach of the ruler of the oil -industry. They believed that anybody going ahead openly with a project -in any way objectionable to the Standard Oil Company would meet with -direct or indirect attack. Examination of their methods had always been -objectionable to them. “Go ahead, and they will get you in the end,” I -was told by more than one who had come to that conclusion either from -long observation or from long suffering. - -Even my father said, “Don’t do it, Ida—they will ruin the magazine.” - -It was a persistent fog of suspicion and doubt and fear. From the start -this fog hampered what was my first business, making sure of the -documents in the case. I knew they existed. Almost continuously since -its organization in 1870 the Standard Oil Company had been under -investigation by the Congress of the United States and by the -legislatures of various states in which it had operated, on the -suspicion that it was receiving rebates from the railroads and was -practicing methods in restraint of free trade. In 1872 and again in 1876 -it was before Congressional committees; in 1879 it was before examiners -of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and before committees appointed by -the legislatures of New York and of Ohio for investigating railroads. -Its operations figured constantly in the debate which led up to the -creation of the Interstate Commerce Commission in 1887; and again and -again since that time the Commission had been called upon to examine -directly or indirectly into its relations with the railroads. - -In 1888, in the Investigation of Trusts conducted by Congress and by the -State of New York, the Standard Oil Company was the chief subject for -examination. In the state of Ohio, between 1882 and 1892, a constant -warfare was waged against the Standard in the courts and the -legislature, resulting in several volumes of testimony. The legislatures -of many other states concerned themselves with it. This hostile -legislation compelled the trust to separate into its component parts in -1892, but investigation did not cease; indeed, in the great industrial -inquiry conducted by the Commission appointed by President McKinley, the -Standard Oil Company was constantly under discussion, and hundreds of -pages of testimony on it appear in the nineteen volumes of reports which -the Commission submitted. - -This mass of testimony—most, if not all, of it taken under -oath—contained the different charters and agreements under which the -Standard Oil Trust had operated, many contracts and agreements with -railroads, with refineries, with pipe lines; and it contained the -experiences in business from 1872 up to 1900 of multitudes of -individuals. These experiences had exactly the quality of the personal -reminiscences of actors in great events, with the additional value that -they were given on the witness stand; and it was fair, therefore, to -suppose that they were more cautious and exact in statement than are -many writers of memoirs. These investigations, covering as they did all -of the important steps in the development of the trust, included full -accounts of the point of view of its officers in regard to that -development, as well as their explanations of many of the operations -over which controversy had arisen. - -Aside from the great mass of sworn testimony accessible to the student, -there was a large pamphlet literature dealing with different phases of -the subject, as well as files of the numerous daily newspapers and -monthly reviews, supported by the Oil Region, in the columns of which -were to be found, not only statistics, but full reports of all -controversies between oil men. - -But the documentary sources were by no means all in print. The Standard -Oil Trust and its constituent companies had figured in many civil suits, -the testimony of which was in manuscript in the files of the courts -where the suits were tried. - -I had supposed it would be easy to locate the records of the important -investigations and cases, but I soon found I had been too trustful. For -instance, there was a Federal investigation of the South Improvement -Company, the first attempt to make a hard and fast alliance between -oil-bearing railroads and oil refiners, an alliance which inevitably -would kill everybody not admitted, since by the contract the railroads -not only allowed the privileged refiners a rebate on all their -shipments, but paid them a drawback on those of independents. The -railroads also agreed to give them full information about the quantity -and the destination of their rivals’ shipments. The Standard Oil Company -as a monopoly had grown out of this pretty scheme. - -Where could I get a copy of that investigation? More than one cynic -said, “You’ll never find one—they have all been destroyed.” When I had -located copies in each of two private collections I was refused -permission to put my hands on them. - -To be sure, I did by persistent searching find that so-guarded -investigation in a pamphlet which is one of the three which are all I -know to be in existence. I am not supposing that there are not others, -for I quickly learned, when I was told that the entire edition of a -printed document had been destroyed, to go on looking. Once a document -is in print, somewhere, some time, a copy turns up, however small the -edition. For instance, there was the important Hepburn investigation of -the relations of railroads and private industries made by the State of -New York in 1879. I could not find a copy in the Oil Region where I was -working. The Standard had destroyed them all, I was told. At that time -there was in the Public Library of New York City one of the ablest of -American bibliographers—Adelaide Hasse. She had helped me more than once -to find a scarce document. - -“How about this Hepburn investigation?” I wrote Miss Hasse. - -“Here in the Library for your use whenever you will come around.” But -she added: “Only one hundred copies were ever published. It is a scarce -piece. I have known of a complete set selling for $100.00. It was -understood at the time,” she explained, “that one or two important -railroad presidents whose testimony was given before the committee -bought up and destroyed as many sets as they could obtain.” - -In the end all the printed documents were located. But there was the -unprinted testimony taken in lawsuits. Had incriminating testimony been -spirited away from the court files? Henry Lloyd made such an accusation -in his first edition of “Wealth Against Commonwealth.” It disappeared -from a second edition. I wrote to ask him, “Why?” “The testimony was put -back after my book first appeared,” he answered. I was particularly -anxious to have the original of one of these documents, but when I came -to look for it, it was not in the files. Where was it? How was I to -locate it? And if I did succeed would there be any chance—to judge from -past experience—that it would be turned over to me? I saw that I must -have an assistant, someone preferably in Cleveland, Ohio, so many years -the headquarters of the Standard’s operations. It meant more expense, -and I was already costing the office an amount which shocked my thrifty -practice. But Mr. McClure and Mr. Phillips, being generous and patient -and also by this time fairly confident that in the end we should get -something worth while, told me to go ahead. - -I had learned in my Lincoln work that an assistant, even if faithful and -hard-working, may be an incumbrance when it comes to investigation. It -needs more than accuracy; it needs enthusiasm for finding out things, -solving puzzles—anybody’s puzzles. I wanted a young man with college -training, a year or two of experience as a reporter, intelligent, -energetic, curious, convinced everything he was asked to do was -important, even if he did not at the moment know why. He must get his -fun in the chase—you in the bag. Also he must be trusted to keep his -mouth shut. - -I can recommend the technique I practiced in this case for finding my -rare bird. From each of three different editors in Cleveland I asked the -name of a young man whom he thought competent to run down a not very -important-looking bit of information. To each of the names given me I -wrote instructions from New York. I would be around soon to pick up the -report, I told them, adding that I should prefer that he say nothing -about the assignment. - -When I went to Cleveland to view my prospects I found both number one -and number two fine intelligent fellows. Their reports were excellent, -but they had not the least interest in what they had done. I thanked -them, paid them, and said, “Good day.” The third young man came, short -and plump, his eyes glowing with excitement. He sat on the edge of his -chair. As I watched him I had a sudden feeling of alarm lest he should -burst out of his clothes. I never had the same feeling about any other -individual except Theodore Roosevelt. I once watched the first Roosevelt -through a White House musicale when I felt his clothes might not contain -him, he was so steamed up, so ready to go, attack anything, anywhere. - -The young man gave me his report; but what counted was the way he had -gone after his material, his curiosity, his conviction that it was -important since I wanted it. I thought I had my man. A few more trials -convinced me John M. Siddall was a find. He at that time was an -associate of Frank Bray in the editing of _The Chautauquan_, the -headquarters of which had been shifted to Cleveland from Meadville. - -When Siddall once understood what I was up to he jumped at the -chance—went to work with a will and stayed working with a will until the -task was ended. He was a continuous joy as well as a support in my -undertaking. Nothing better in the way of letter writing came to the -_McClure’s_ office. In time everybody was reading Siddall’s letters to -me, whether it was a mere matter of statistics or a matter of the daily -life in Cleveland of John D. Rockefeller, the head of the Standard Oil -Company. If anything in or around Ohio interested the magazine the -office immediately suggested, “Ask Sid.” And Sid always found the -answer. Mr. McClure and Mr. Phillips began to say, “We want Sid as soon -as you are through with him.” Sid saw the opportunity, and as soon as I -could spare him in Ohio he joined the _McClure’s_ staff. - -I had been at work a year gathering and sifting materials before the -series was announced. Very soon after that, Mr. McClure dashed into the -office one day to tell me he had just been talking with Mark Twain, who -said his friend Henry Rogers, at that time the most conspicuous man in -the Standard Oil group, had asked him to find out what kind of history -of the concern _McClure’s_ proposed to publish. - -“You will have to ask Miss Tarbell,” Mr. McClure told him. - -“Would Miss Tarbell see Mr. Rogers?” Mark Twain asked. - -Mr. McClure was sure I would not ask anything better, which was quite -true. And so an interview was arranged for one day early in January of -1902 at Mr. Rogers’ home, then at 26 East Fifty-seventh Street. I was a -bit scared at the idea. I had met many kinds of people, but this was my -first high-ranking captain of industry. Was I putting my head into a -lion’s mouth? I did not think so. It had become more and more evident to -me that any attempt to bite our heads off would be the stupidest thing -the Standard Oil Company could do, its reputation being what it was. It -was not that stupid, I told myself. However, it was one thing to tackle -the Standard Oil Company in documents, as I had been doing, quite -another thing to meet it face to face. And then would Mr. Rogers “come -across”? Could I talk with him? So far my attempts to talk with members -of the organization had been failures. I had been met with that -formulated chatter used by those who have accepted a creed, a situation, -a system, to baffle the investigator trying to find out what it all -means. - -My nervousness and my skepticism fell away when Mr. Rogers stepped -forward in his library to greet me. He was frank and hearty. Plainly he -wanted me to be at ease. In that way he knew that he could soon tell -whether it was worth his while to spend further time on me or not. - -Henry Rogers was a man of about sixty at this time, a striking figure, -by all odds the handsomest and most distinguished figure in Wall Street. -He was tall, muscular, lithe as an Indian. There was a trace of the -early oil adventure in his bearing in spite of his air of authority, his -excellent grooming, his manner of the quick-witted naturally adaptable -man who has seen much of people. His big head with its high forehead was -set off by a heavy shock of beautiful gray hair; his nose was aquiline, -sensitive. The mouth, which I fancy must have been flexible, capable -both of firm decision and of gay laughter, was concealed by a white -drooping moustache. His eyes were large and dark, narrowed a little by -caution, capable of blazing as I was to find out, shaded by heavy gray -eyebrows giving distinction and force to his face. - -I remember thinking as I tried to get my bearings: Now I understand why -Mark Twain likes him so much. They are alike even in appearance. They -have the bond of early similar experiences—Mark Twain in Nevada, Henry -Rogers in the early oil regions. - -“When and where did your interest in oil begin?” Mr. Rogers asked as he -seated me—a full light on my face, I noticed. - -“On the flats and hills of Rouseville,” I told him. - -“Of course,” he cried, “of course! Tarbell’s Tank Shops. I knew your -father. I could put my finger on the spot where those shops stood.” - -We were off. We forgot our serious business and talked of our early days -on the Creek. Mr. Rogers told me how the news of the oil excitement had -drawn him from his boyhood home in New England, how he had found his way -into Rouseville, gone into refining. He had married and put his first -thousand dollars into a home on the hillside adjoining ours. - -“It was a little white house,” he said, “with a high peaked roof.” - -“Oh, I remember it!” I cried. “The prettiest house in the world, I -thought it.” It was my first approach to the Gothic arch, my first -recognition of beauty in a building. - -We reconstructed the geography of our neighborhood, lingering over the -charm of the narrow ravine which separated our hillsides, a path on each -side. - -“Up that path,” Mr. Rogers told me, “I used to carry our washing every -Monday morning and go for it every Saturday night. Probably I’ve seen -you hunting flowers on your side of the ravine. How beautiful it was! I -was never happier.” - -Could two strangers, each a little wary of the other, have had a more -auspicious beginning for a serious talk? For what followed was serious -with moments of strain. - -“What are you basing your story on?” he asked finally. - -“On documents. I am beginning with the South Improvement Company.” - -He broke in to say: “Well, that of course was an outrageous business. -That is where the Rockefellers made their big mistake.” - -I knew of course that Mr. Rogers had fought that early raid tooth and -nail; and I also knew that later he had joined “the conspirators,” as -the Oil Region called them, in carrying out point by point the initial -program. But I did not throw it up to him. - -“Why did you not come to us at the start?” Mr. Rogers asked. - -“It was unnecessary. You have written your history; besides, it would -have been quite useless,” I told him. - -“We’ve changed our policy,” he said. “We are giving out information.” As -a matter of fact Mr. Rogers may be regarded, I think, as the first -public relations counsel of the Standard Oil Company—the forerunner of -Ivy Lee—and I was, so far as I know, the first subject on which the new -policy was tried. - -In the close to two hours I spent that afternoon with Henry Rogers we -went over the history of the oil business. We talked of rebates and pipe -lines, independent struggles and failures, the absorption of everything -that touched their ambition. He put their side to me, the mightiness of -their achievement, the perfection of their service. Also he talked of -their trials, the persecution (as he called it) by their rivals, the -attack of Lloyd: “I never understood how Harper could have published -that book. Why, I knew Harry Harper socially. - -“There has always been something,” he said a little ruefully. “Look at -things now—Russia and Texas. There seems to be no end of the oil they -have there. How can we control it? It looks as if something had the -Standard Oil Company by the neck, something bigger than we are.” - -The more we talked, the more at home I felt with him and the more I -liked him. It was almost like talking with Mr. McClure and Mr. Phillips. - -Finally we made a compact. I was to take up with him each case in their -history as I came to it. He was to give me documents, figures, -explanations, and justifications—anything and everything which would -enlarge my understanding and judgment. I realized how big a contribution -he would make if he continued to be as frank as he was in this -preliminary talk. I made it quite clear to him, however, that while I -should welcome anything in the way of information and explanation that -he could give, it must be my judgment, not his, which prevailed. - -“Of course, Mr. Rogers,” I told him, “I realize that my judgments may -not stand in the long run; but I shall have to stand or fall by them.” - -“Well,” he said as I rose to go, “I suppose we’ll have to stand it. -Would you be willing to come to my office for these talks? It might be a -little more convenient.” - -“Certainly,” I replied. - -He looked a bit surprised. - -“Will you talk with Mr. Rockefeller?” - -“Certainly,” I said. - -“Well,” he said a little doubtfully, “I’ll try to arrange it.” - -For two years our bargain was faithfully kept, I usually going to his -office at 26 Broadway. That in itself at the start, for one as -unfamiliar as I was with the scene and customs of big business, was an -adventure. My entrance and exit to Mr. Rogers’ office were carried on -with a secrecy which never failed to amuse me. The alert, handsome, -businesslike little chaps who received me at the entrance to the Rogers’ -suite piloted me unerringly by a route where nobody saw me and I saw -nobody into the same small room opening on to a court, and it seemed -never the same route. I was not slow in discovering that across the -court in the window directly opposite there was always stationed a -gentleman whose head seemed to be turned my way whenever I looked -across. It may have meant nothing at all. I only record the fact. - -The only person besides Mr. Rogers I ever met in those offices was his -private secretary, Miss Harrison: a woman spoken of with awe at that -date as having a $10,000 salary, one who knew her employer’s business -from A to Z and whom he could trust absolutely. She radiated -efficiency—business competency. Along with her competency went that -gleam of hardness which efficient business women rarely escape. Miss -Harrison appeared only on rare occasions when an extra document was -needed. She was as impersonal as the chairs in the room. - -We discussed in these interviews, with entire frankness, the laws which -they had flouted. I could not shock Mr. Rogers with records—not even -when I confronted him one day with the testimony he had given on a -certain point which he admitted was not according to the facts. He -curtly dismissed the subject. “They had no business prying into my -private affairs.” As for rebates, “Somebody would have taken them if we -had not.” - -“But with your strength, Mr. Rogers,” I argued, “you could have forced -fair play on the railroads and on your competitors.” - -“Ah,” he said, “but there was always somebody without scruples in -competition, however small that somebody might be. He might grow.” - -There it was, the obsession of the Standard Oil Company, that danger -lurked in small as well as great things, that nothing, however trivial, -must live outside of its control. - -These talks made me understand as I could not from the documents -themselves the personal point of view of independents like Mr. Rogers -who had been gathered into the organization in the first decade of -monopoly making. For instance, there was Mr. Rogers’ reason for desiring -the trust agreement made in 1882: - -“By 1880,” said Mr. Rogers, “I had stock in nearly all of the seventy or -so companies which we had absorbed. But the real status of these -companies was not known to the public. In case of my death there would -have been practically no buyer except Mr. Flagler, Mr. Rockefeller, and -a few others on the inside. My heirs would not have reaped the benefit -of my holdings. The trust agreement changed this. The public at once -realized the value of the trust certificate. That is, my estate was -guarded in case of my death.” - -He often emphasized the part economies had played not only in building -up the concern but in their individual fortunes—economies and putting -their money back into the business. “We lived in rented houses and saved -money to buy stock in the company,” he told me once. - -Only one who remembers, as I do, the important place that owning your -own home took in the personal economy of the self-respecting individual -of that day can feel the force of this explanation. - -I was curious about how he had been able to adjust his well known -passion for speculation with Mr. Rockefeller’s well known antagonism to -all forms of gambling. - -“Didn’t he ever object?” I asked. - -“Oh,” he said a little ruefully, “I was never a favorite. I suppose I -was a born gambler. In the early days of the Charles Pratt Company, the -company of which I was a member—I always carried on the speculations for -the concern—Mr. Pratt said: ‘Henry, I haven’t got the nerve to -speculate. I kicked all the clothes off last night worrying about the -market.’ ‘Give me the money,’ I told him, ‘and I will furnish the -nerve.’ We simply raked in the money”—making a gesture with both hands. -“And of course it came out of the producer.” - -“That is what my father always said,” I told him. “One of the severest -lectures he ever gave came from one of those booms in the market which -sent everybody in the Oil Region crazy. I suppose you were responsible -for it. I remember a day when the schools were practically closed -because all the teachers in Titusville were on the street or in the Oil -Exchange—everybody speculating. I was in high school; the fever caught -me, and I asked father for $100 to try my luck in the market. He was as -angry with me as I ever saw him. ‘No daughter of mine,’ he said, etc., -etc.” - -“Wise man,” Mr. Rogers commented. - -“But it was not because he was so cautious,” I said. “It was because he -thought it was morally wrong. He would no more have speculated in the -stock market than he would have played poker for money.” - -“I always play poker when the market is closed,” commented Mr. Rogers. -“I can’t help it. Saturday afternoons I almost always make up a poker -party, and every now and then John Gates and I rig up something. He’ll -come around and say, ‘Henry, isn’t it about time we started something?’ -We usually do.” - -All of these talks were informal, natural. We even argued with entire -friendliness the debatable question, “What is the worst thing the -Standard Oil Company ever did?” Only now and then did one of us flare, -and then the other generally changed the subject. - -“He’s a liar and hypocrite, and you know it,” I exploded one day when we -were talking of a man who had led in what to me was a particularly -odious operation. - -“I think it is going to rain,” said Mr. Rogers, looking out of the -window with ostentatious detachment. - -Mr. Rogers not only produced documents and arguments; he produced people -with whom I wanted to talk. The most important was Henry Flagler, who -had been in on the South Improvement Company, that early deal with the -railroads which had started the Standard Oil Company off on the road to -monopoly. There had always been a controversy as to who had suggested -that fine scheme. Mr. Flagler was in it. What did he know? Mr. Rogers -arranged that I talk with him. - -Henry Flagler was not an acceptable figure even to Wall Street in those -days. There were scandals of his private life which, true or not, his -fellow financiers did not like. Bad for business. I found him a very -different type from Henry Rogers. He, for instance, did not conceal his -distrust of John Rockefeller. “He would do me out of a dollar today,” he -cried, off his guard, and with an excited smash of his fist on the -table; and then, catching himself and with a remarkable change of tone: -“That is, if he could do it honestly, Miss Tarbell, if he could do it -honestly.” - -Mr. Flagler knew what I had come for, but instead of answering my direct -questions he began to tell me with some show of emotion of his own early -life, how he had left home because his father was a poor clergyman—$400 -a year, a large family of children. He had not succeeded until he went -into the commission business with Mr. Rockefeller in Cleveland. “And -from that time we were prospered,” he said piously. In the long story he -told me, the phrase, “We were prospered,” came in again and again. That -was not what I was after. Their prosperity was obvious enough. Finally I -returned with some irritation to the object of my visit. - -“I see you do not know or are unwilling to say, Mr. Flagler, who -originated the South Improvement Company; but this is certain: Mr. -Rockefeller had the credit of it in the Oil Region. You know, yourself, -how bitter the feeling was there.” - -“But, ah, Miss Tarbell,” he said, “how often the reputation of a man in -his lifetime differs from his real character! Take the greatest -character in our history. How different was our Lord and Saviour -regarded when he was alive from what we now know him to have been!” - -After that, further questioning was of course hopeless, and until Mr. -Rogers returned I sat listening to the story of how the Lord had -prospered him. I never was happier to leave a room, but I was no happier -than Mr. Flagler was to have me go. - -Mr. Rogers produced Mr. Flagler and others of lesser importance. But -although I referred to his semi-promise in our first interview to -produce Mr. Rockefeller I found that after a few months there was no -hope of this. If I hinted at it he parried. - -Nearly a year went by after my first interview with Mr. Rogers before -the articles began to appear. I rather expected him to cut me off when -he realized that I was trying to prove that the Standard Oil Company was -only an enlarged South Improvement Company. But to my surprise my -arguments did not seem to disturb him. They had won out, had they not? -He sometimes complained that I had been unnecessarily blunt or a bit -vindictive, but he continued to receive me in friendly fashion and to -give me, perhaps not all the help he might, but always something to make -me think twice, frequently to modify a view. - -But if he was not himself disturbed by what I was doing why did he -continue the interviews? Gradually I became convinced it was because of -his interest in my presentation of a particular episode in their -history. It was a case in which Mr. Rogers and John Archbold, along with -all of the members of the board of a subsidiary company, the Vacuum Oil -Company of Rochester, New York, had been indicted for conspiring to -destroy an independent refinery in Buffalo, New York. - -In my opening interview with Mr. Rogers he with some show of feeling had -told me he wanted me to get a correct and impartial version of this -Buffalo case, as he always called it. There had been a break in his -voice when with hesitation he said: “That case is a sore point with Mr. -Archbold and me. I want you to go into it thoroughly. I have the reports -of the testimony before the grand jury; it took me months to secure -them. Of course in a sense I have no right with them. I told my children -that if their father’s memory is ever attacked this will serve to -vindicate him. He must stand or fall in their estimation by that -testimony.” - -At our second interview he produced the testimony before the grand jury, -repeating again that of course he had no business with it but he had to -have it. He would not allow me to take it away, and at his request I -read the sixty or more pages in his presence. It seemed quite clear to -me, as I told Mr. Rogers on finishing the reading, that his connection -with the affair had been so indirect that there was no reason for his -indictment, although it seemed equally clear to me that there was ample -reason for the indictment of certain members of the Vacuum board. The -judge was of that opinion, for he dismissed the indictment against Mr. -Rogers and two of his fellow directors while sustaining that against the -responsible operating heads of the concern. - -I soon discovered that what Mr. Rogers wanted me to make out was that -the three men who had founded the independent enterprise, all of them -former employees of the Vacuum Oil Company, had done so for the sole -purpose of forcing the Standard to buy them out at a high price; that -is, that it was a case of planned blackmail. But the testimony certainly -showed little evidence of that while it did show clearly enough that the -managers of the Vacuum Oil Company, from the hour they had learned of -the undertaking, had made deliberate and open attempts to prevent the -Buffalo refinery doing business. - -The more thoroughly I went into the matter—and I worked hard over it—the -more convinced I was that, while there had been bad faith and various -questionable practices on the part of members of the independent firm, -they had started out to build up a business of their own. Also it was -clear they had had hardly a shadow of success under the grilling -opposition of the Standard concern. This included various suits for -infringement of patents, all of which the Standard had lost. In course -of the years of litigation four juries—two grand juries and two petit -juries—gave verdicts against the Standard Oil Company. - -Finally the independent concern was so shot to pieces by the continuous -bombardment that it had to be put into the hands of a receiver. The -Standard offered to settle for $85,000, and the judge ordered the -acceptance. This made it the owner of the bone of contention. - -I had a feeling that my final conclusion in the matter would probably -end my relations with Mr. Rogers. I did not want to spring that -conclusion on him, that is, I wanted him to know ahead of publication -where I had come out. Although I had never allowed him to read an -article before its appearance, that being part of the original compact, -I broke my rule in this case. Promptly I received a letter asking me to -call at 26 Broadway. He received me in his usual cordial way and told me -he had gone over my article carefully, compared it with certain papers -in his possession and had written me a letter in which he had stated his -criticisms. - -Handing me the letter, he said, “I think it will be a good plan for you -to read that out loud, so that we can talk it over here.” - -I began to read, but broke off with the first sentence. Mr. Rogers had -written that he appreciated my request that he should make the story -correspond with his knowledge and opinion of the case. - -“Mr. Rogers,” I said, “if you will look at my letter you will see that I -did not suggest that you make the article correspond with your opinion -of this case. I am convinced that I cannot do that. I asked you to -examine the article and see if I had made any errors in statement or had -omitted any essential testimony on either side.” - -He smiled. “Never mind, go ahead,” he said. - -The letter was admirable, almost every point well taken. There was -nothing which it was not proper for me to consider at least, and with -certain of his points I said at once that I was willing to comply. The -discussion of the letter finished, I inwardly breathed a sigh of -satisfaction. We were going to part on friendly terms with neither of us -having yielded our convictions. - -But I had not counted on the resources of Henry Rogers in a matter in -which he was deeply concerned, particularly one which touched his -personal pride and aroused his fighting spirit. For as I was about to go -he sprang on me an entirely new interpretation of the case. Not only was -the suit of the independent refinery in which he had been indicted a -continuation of the original blackmailing scheme, but the lawyers in the -case had themselves been in the conspiracy. He laid before me a number -of documents which he claimed proved it. The chief of these was the -itemized report of the receiver. This report, he said, showed that the -lawyers had taken the case knowing that if the Buffalo concern did not -win there would be no fees, and showed that when the matter had finally -been settled they had made what the receiver considered exorbitant -claims for their services. There were five of them, and they finally -were allowed some thirty thousand dollars. - -“You can see,” Mr. Rogers said as he pointed out these facts, “why they -were so eager to convict us. They were making a raid on the Standard, -and the bench was with them.” - -His charge that the bench was with them, he based on the fact that two -of the lawyers originally in the case had later been elevated to the -bench. They had not of course heard the case, but they had put their -information and conclusions at the disposal of their successors. - -I was startled by this sudden and sinister accusation and sat for some -time with my head bent over the papers, forgetting his presence, trying -to get at the meaning of the documents. Was there any other explanation -than that which Mr. Rogers had given me with such conviction? Looking up -suddenly for the first time in my experience with Mr. Rogers, I caught -him looking at me with narrowed and cunning eyes. I took alarm on the -instant. - -“We are not the only ones, you see, Miss Tarbell.” - -“If this means what it seems to mean you are not. But I shall have to -study these documents, Mr. Rogers; I shall have to consult a lawyer -about the practice common in such cases.” - -“That will be all right,” he said. - -He was more exultant than I had ever found him. “I knew that paper would -come in well some day. To get it I consented to our people buying the -Buffalo refinery—we did not want it, but I wanted to get the receiver’s -reports and know just what had been done with the money we had paid -them.” - -On the whole I had never seen him better pleased with himself than he -was at that moment. His satisfaction was so great that for the first -time in our acquaintance he gave me a little lecture for a caustic -remark I had made. “That is not a Christian remark,” he said. I -contended that it was a perfect expression of my notion of a Christian. - -“You ought to go to church more frequently,” he said. “Why don’t you -come and hear my pastor, Dr. Savage?” - -We parted on good terms after a discussion of our religious views and -churchgoing practices, and he gave me a cordial invitation to come back, -which I agreed to do as soon as I had studied the new angle in the -Buffalo case. - -Aided by a disinterested and fair-minded lawyer, I gave a thorough study -to the documents; but do my best I could not convince myself that Mr. -Rogers’ contention was sound. It is not an unusual thing for lawyers to -take cases they believe in, knowing that their compensation depends on -their winning. Many clients with just cases would be deprived of counsel -if they had to insure a fixed compensation, for not infrequently, as in -the Buffalo case, all that a client has is involved in a suit. The -practice is so common among reputable lawyers that it certainly cannot -be regarded as a proof of a conspiracy, unless there is a reason to -suppose that they have taken a case of whose merits they themselves are -suspicious. There was no evidence that the counsel of the independent -concern were not convinced from the first that they had a strong case. -Their claims were large; but lawyers are not proverbial for the modesty -of their charges and, besides, exorbitant charges can hardly be -construed as a proof of conspiracy. - -When I finally had written out my conclusion I sent a copy of it to Mr. -Rogers, saying I should be glad to talk it over with him if he wished. -He did wish—wrote me that he had new material to present. But before the -date set for the meeting an article in our series was published which -broke off our friendly relations. - -In studying the testimony of independents over a period of some thirty -years I had found repeated complaints that their oil shipments were -interfered with, their cars side-tracked en route while pressure was -brought on buyers to cancel orders. There were frequent charges that -freight clerks were reporting independent shipments. - -I did not take the matter seriously at first. The general suspicion of -Standard dealings by independents had to be taken into consideration, I -told myself. Then, too, I was willing to admit that a certain amount of -attention to what your competitor is doing is considered legitimate -business practice. I knew that in the office of _McClure’s Magazine_ we -were very keen to know what other publishers were doing. And, too, there -is the overzealous and unscrupulous employee who in the name of -competition recognizes no rules for his game. - -But the charges continued to multiply. I met them in testimony, and I -met them in interviews. There was no escaping espionage, men told me. -“They know where we send every barrel of oil. Half the time our oil -never reaches its destination.” I could scarcely believe it. And then -unexpectedly there came to my desk a mass of incontrovertible proofs -that what I had been hearing was true and more. As a matter of fact this -system of following up independent oil shipments was letter-perfect, so -perfect that it was made a matter of office bookkeeping. - -“It looks sometimes,” Mr. Rogers had said to me, “as if something had -the Standard Oil Company by the neck, something bigger than we are.” - -In this case the something bigger was a boy’s conscience. A lad of -sixteen or seventeen in the office of a Standard plant had as one of his -regular monthly duties the burning of large quantities of records. He -had carried out his orders for many months without attention to the -content. Then suddenly his eyes fell one night on the name of a man who -had been his friend since childhood, had even been his Sunday-school -teacher, an independent oil refiner in the city, a Standard competitor. -The boy began to take notice; he discovered that the name appeared -repeatedly on different forms and in the letters which he was -destroying. It made him uneasy, and he began to piece the records -together. It was not long before he saw to his distress that the concern -for which he was working was getting from the railroad offices of the -town full information about every shipment that his friend was making; -moreover, that the office was writing to its representative in the -territory to which the independent oil was going, “Stop that -shipment—get that trade.” And the correspondence showed how both were -done. - -What was a youth to do under such circumstances? He didn’t do anything -at first, but finally when he could not sleep nights for thinking about -it he gathered up a full set of documents and secretly took them to his -friend. - -Now this particular oil refiner had been reading the _McClure’s_ -articles. He had become convinced that I was trying to deal fairly with -the matter; he had also convinced himself in some way that I was to be -trusted. So one night he brought me the full set of incriminating -documents. There was no doubt about their genuineness. The most -interesting to me was the way they fitted in with the testimony -scattered through the investigations and lawsuits. Here were bookkeeping -records explaining every accusation that had been made. But how could I -use them? Together we worked out a plan by which the various forms and -blanks could be reproduced with fictitious names of persons and places -substituted for the originals. - -It was after this material had come to my hands that I took the subject -up with Mr. Rogers. “The original South Improvement Company formula, Mr. -Rogers, provided for reports of independent shipments from the -railroads. I have come on repeated charges that the practice continues. -What about it? Do you follow independent shipments? Do you stop them? Do -you have the help of railroad shipping clerks in the operation?” - -“Of course we do everything we legally and fairly can to find out what -our competitors are doing, just as you do in _McClure’s Magazine_,” Mr. -Rogers answered. “But as for any such system of tracking and stopping, -as you suggest, that is nonsense. How could we do it even if we would?” - -“Well,” I said, “give me everything you have on this point.” - -He said he had nothing more than what he had already told me. - -As I have said, the article came out just before I was to see Mr. Rogers -on what I hoped would be the last of the Buffalo case. The only time in -all my relations with him when I saw his face white with rage was when I -met the appointment he had made. Our interview was short. - -“Where did you get that stuff?” he said angrily, pointing to the -magazine on the table. - -All I could say was in substance: “Mr. Rogers, you can’t for a moment -think that I would tell you where I got it. You will recall my efforts -to get from you anything more than a general denial that these practices -of espionage so long complained of were untrue, could be explained by -legitimate competition. You know this bookkeeping record is true.” - -There were a few curt exchanges about other points in the material, but -nothing as I now recall on the Buffalo case. The article ended my visits -to 26 Broadway. - -Nearly four years passed before I saw Henry Rogers, and in that period -exciting and tragic events had come his way. - -There was the copper war. He and his friends had attempted to build up a -monopoly in copper to match that of the Standard Oil Company in -petroleum, the Amalgamated Copper Company. A youngster, F. Augustus -Heinze, had come into Montana, and by bold and ruthless operation put -together a copper company of his own. The two organizations were soon at -each other’s throats. It was a business war without a vestige of -decency, one in which every devious device of the law and of politics -was resorted to by both sides. - -But Mr. Rogers had other troubles. He and his friends had been engaged -in organizing the gas interests of the East. They had engineered stock -raids which had been as disastrous to Wall Street as to gambling Main -Street. Such operations in the past had never cost him more than a -passing angry comment by the public press. Now, however, came something -damaging to his reputation and his pride. It was a series of lurid -articles by a bold and very-much-on-the-inside broker and -speculator—Thomas Lawson of Boston. For nearly two years Lawson -published monthly in _Everybody’s Magazine_ under the admirable title -“Frenzied Finance” circumstantial accounts of the speculation of the -Rogers group and what they had cost their dupes. That story cut Mr. -Rogers’ pride to the quick. He is said to have threatened the American -News Company with destruction if it circulated the magazine. - -Taken all together the excitement and anger were too much for even his -iron frame and indomitable spirit, and in the summer of 1907 he suffered -a stroke which put him out of the fight for many weeks. When he came -back it was at once to collide with the Government suit against the -Standard Oil Company, and soon after that with the “rich man’s panic” of -1907, a panic for which his old enemy in copper, F. Augustus Heinze, was -largely responsible. - -Early in November, when the panic was still raiding the banks and the -millionaires of the country, I stood one day at a corner on Fifth Avenue -waiting for the traffic to clear. Suddenly I saw an arm waving to me -from a slowly passing open automobile, and there was H. H. Rogers -smiling at me in the friendliest way. - -When I reported the encounter at the office Mr. Phillips at once said: - -“Why not try to see him? If he’ll talk about what is going on, what a -story he could tell!” - -But would he see me? I was a little dubious about trying. Still the -greeting and the smile seemed to mean that at least he harbored no ill -will. Suppose, I said, he is sufficiently subdued to go over with me his -exciting life. What a document of big business in the eighties and -nineties he could produce if he would put down his recollections with -the frankness with which he had sometimes talked to me! It seemed worth -trying for, and I asked for an appointment. I had not made a mistake. -Mr. Rogers was harboring no ill will. I was promptly invited to come to -his house. He greeted me heartily. I found him physically changed, -stouter, less sinewy, but quite as frank as ever. He told me of his -stroke; he spoke bitterly of what he called the Roosevelt panic as well -as of Roosevelt’s interference with the business of the Standard Oil -Company. He gave me my cue when he began to talk about the early days of -the Oil Region. “There is a whole chapter,” he said, “that has not been -written, that from ’59 to ’72.” - -We were getting on swimmingly when our interview was cut short by a card -handed him—Joseph Seep, the head of the Standard Oil Purchasing Agency. -It amused him greatly that Mr. Seep should have come in while I was -there. - -“Now you’ll have to go,” he said, and he put me out by a circuitous -route. As at 26 Broadway callers were not to see one another. - -As we came into a dark hall he turned on the light. “You see we have to -economize now,” he said laughingly. Our good-bye was cordial. “We’ll -talk about this again,” he said. “Call up Miss Harrison in a week or ten -days, and we’ll make an appointment.” - -The appointment was never made. The coming months were too difficult for -Mr. Rogers. His vast business affairs continued complicated; the legend -of his invincibility in the market was weakened. Moreover, such was the -bitterness of the Standard Oil Company over the Government suit that I -doubt if he or his associates would have considered it wise for him to -talk to me. They probably thought he had talked already too much to too -little purpose. They—and he probably—never understood how much he had -done to make me realize the legitimate greatness of the Standard Oil -Company, how much he had done to make me understand better the vastness -and complexity of its problems and the amazing grasp with which it dealt -with them. - -Their complaint against me, Mr. Rogers’ complaint, was that I had never -been able to submerge my contempt for their illegitimate practices in my -admiration for their genius in organization, the boldness of their -imagination and execution. But my contempt had increased rather than -diminished as I worked. - -I never had an animus against their size and wealth, never objected to -their corporate form. I was willing that they should combine and grow as -big and rich as they could, but only by legitimate means. But they had -never played fair, and that ruined their greatness for me. I am -convinced that their brilliant example has contributed not only to a -weakening of the country’s moral standards but to its economic -unsoundness. The experience of the last decade particularly seems to me -to amply justify my conviction. - -I was never to see Mr. Rogers again, for in May of 1909 he suddenly -died—two years before the Supreme Court dissolved the Standard Oil -Company. - - - - - 12 - MUCKRAKER OR HISTORIAN? - - -It was inevitable that my visits to 26 Broadway should be noised among -critics and enemies of the Standard Oil Company curious about what -_McClure’s_ was going to do. It was not infrequent for some one on the -independent side to say with a wise nod of the head: “Oh, they’ll get -around you. You’ll become their apologist before you get through.” It -was quite useless for me to insist that I was trying to be nobody’s -apologist, that I was trying to balance what I found. At least two -people of importance whose experiences I was anxious to hear from their -own lips refused to see me. I learned later that Henry D. Lloyd had -written them after he learned I was seeing Mr. Rogers that they had -better not talk, better not show me their papers, that inevitably I -should be taken in. - -Now I had already talked with Mr. Lloyd, already had help from him, but -the Rogers association evidently upset him for a time. My first article -seemed to reassure him, for he wrote me at once on its appearance: “I -read your first installment of the story of the Standard Oil Company -with eager curiosity, then intense interest and then great -satisfaction.” He seems to have divined at once where I was heading. - -The suspicion of my relations with 26 Broadway cut me off for some two -years from one of the most interesting independent warriors in the -thirty years’ struggle. This was one Lewis Emery, Jr., whom I had known -from childhood. He had grown up in the oil business, side by side with -H. H. Rogers; he had been a producer and a refiner as well as one of the -powerful factors in building up the Pure Oil Company, the integrated -concern in which my brother was carrying on. From the start Mr. Emery -had fought the Standard’s pretensions, individually and collectively, -politically and financially. He had a gift for language—a marvelous -vituperative vocabulary—and he had no restraint in using it. He was a -feature of almost every investigation, every lawsuit, a member of every -combination of producers and refiners. Where he was, there were sure to -be lively exchanges between him and the representatives of the other -side. His particular abomination was John Archbold, vice president of -the Standard Oil Company, a person as free with charges and epithets as -Lewis Emery himself. - -“You are a liar,” he shouted one day in an investigation when Mr. Emery -had made an exaggerated charge. - -Joseph H. Choate was Mr. Archbold’s lawyer. - -“There, there, Mr. Archbold!” he said. “We’ll put Mr. Emery on the stand -and convict him of perjury.” - -Without noticing Mr. Choate’s remark Mr. Emery called across the table, -“Young man, if this table wasn’t so wide I would tweak your nose for -that.” - -Such exchanges were not infrequent. - -Henry Rogers, who really liked Lewis Emery, was always trying to calm -him down. “Can’t you stop this, Lew?” he said one day. “Come with us, -and it will be better for you. There is no hope for you alone, but with -us there is a sure thing.” - -Mr. Emery, who told me of this offer, said: “Henry, I can’t do it even -if I wanted to. They would mob me in the Oil Region if I went back on -them.” - -They would not have mobbed him, but they would have done what would have -been worse for a man of his temperament, his passion for free action -whether wise or unwise—they would have ostracized him. - -The most tragic effect I had seen in my girlhood of “going over to the -Standard,” as it was called, was partial ostracism of the renegade. When -a man’s old associates crossed to the other side of the street rather -than meet him, when nobody stopped him on the street corner to gossip -over what was going on, few men were calloused enough not to suffer. It -was worse than mobbing. The Oil Region as a matter of fact never mobbed -any man so far as I know, though it did occasionally destroy property -and once at least hung Mr. Rockefeller himself in effigy. - -By this time Lewis Emery had fought his way to a substantial position in -the oil world; but to the end he prided himself on being a victim. When -he finally talked to me after he learned from Mr. Lloyd that the embargo -against me had been raised, he said, with what seemed to me considerable -satisfaction: “I have been tortured. I am a wounded man because of them, -and I hate them.” - -In spite of this he was getting a good deal out of life. He was a rich -man, and he was making the most of his money. He never let money stifle -his personality. His success in being himself was in striking contrast -to that of most of the successful oil men of that day whom I knew. Most -of them, independent and Standard, submitted to an application of -veneer, a change of habits which destroyed much of their natural flavor. -They took little part in politics and social agitation; they remained -regular in all things; they made their investments only in sure -enterprises. You knew always where to find them. But not so Lewis Emery, -Jr. He continued to wear his clothes naturally, to go on his own erratic -way. He threw himself into political movements, wise and unwise, and he -never lost his pioneering spirit. After he was seventy years old, as a -final fling, he took on a gold mine in Peru, a gold mine which was -reached by climbing mountains and descending narrow paths cut out of -rock, crossing swaying rope bridges—approaches fit only for the most -daring mountain climbers. Yet there he was when nearly eighty charging -up and down those mountains and trotting his mule across those bridges -when younger men led their mules and crept. - -The degree to which he was reconciled to me after two years of ostracism -was proved by his annual invitation to come along to Peru with his -party. And I would have gone and told the story of his mine as he wanted -me to do if it had not been for the pictures he sent me—those pictures -of unprotected swaying bridges suspended from mountain side to mountain -side, hundreds of feet above the rushing rocky streams. I had not the -head for that, and so gave up what would have been, I am sure, one of -the most amusing adventures that ever came my way. - -Not a few of the personal experiences in gathering my materials left me -with unhappy impressions, more unhappy in retrospect perhaps than they -were at the moment. They were part of the day’s work, sometimes very -exciting parts. There was the two hours I spent in studying Mr. John D. -Rockefeller. As the work had gone on, it became more and more clear to -me that the Standard Oil Company was his creation. “An institution is -the lengthened shadow of one man,” says Emerson. I found it so. - -Everybody in the office interested in the work began to say, “After the -book is done you must do a character sketch of Mr. Rockefeller.” I was -not keen for it. It would have to be done like the books, from -documents; that is, I had no inclination to use the extraordinary gossip -which came to me from many sources. If I were to do it I wanted only -that of which I felt I had sure proof, only those things which seemed to -me to help explain the public life of this powerful, patient, secretive, -calculating man of so peculiar and special a genius. - -“You must at least look at Mr. Rockefeller,” my associates insisted. -“But how?” Mr. Rogers himself had suggested that I see him. I had -consented. I had returned to the suggestion several times, but at last -was made to understand that it could not be done. I had dropped his name -from my list. It was John Siddall who then took the matter in hand. - -“You must see him,” was Siddall’s judgment. - -To arrange it became almost an obsession. And then what seemed to him -like a providential opening came. It was announced that on a certain -Sunday of October 1903 Mr. Rockefeller before leaving Cleveland, where -he had spent his summer, for his home in New York would say good-bye in -a little talk to the Sunday school of his church—a rally, it was called. -As soon as Siddall learned of this he begged me to come on. “We can go -to Sunday school; we can stay to church. I will see that we have seats -where we will have a full view of the man. You will get him in action.” - -Of course I went, feeling a little mean about it too. He had not wanted -to be seen apparently. It was taking him unaware. - -Siddall’s plan worked to perfection, worked so well from the start that -again and again he seemed ready to burst from excitement in the two -hours we spent in the church. - -We had gone early to the Sunday-school room where the rally was to -open—a dismal room with a barbaric dark green paper with big gold -designs, cheap stained-glass windows, awkward gas fixtures. Comfortable, -of course, but so stupidly ugly. We were sitting meekly at one side when -I was suddenly aware of a striking figure standing in the doorway. There -was an awful age in his face—the oldest man I had ever seen, I thought, -but what power! At that moment Siddall poked me violently in the ribs -and hissed, “There he is.” - -The impression of power deepened when Mr. Rockefeller took off his coat -and hat, put on a skullcap, and took a seat commanding the entire room, -his back to the wall. It was the head which riveted attention. It was -big, great breadth from back to front, high broad forehead, big bumps -behind the ears, not a shiny head but with a wet look. The skin was as -fresh as that of any healthy man about us. The thin sharp nose was like -a thorn. There were no lips; the mouth looked as if the teeth were all -shut hard. Deep furrows ran down each side of the mouth from the nose. -There were puffs under the little colorless eyes with creases running -from them. - -Wonder over the head was almost at once diverted to wonder over the -man’s uneasiness. His eyes were never quiet but darted from face to -face, even peering around the jog at the audience close to the wall. - -When he rose to speak, the impression of power that the first look at -him had given increased, and the impression of age passed. I expected a -quavering voice, but the voice was not even old, if a little fatigued, a -little thin. It was clear and utterly sincere. He meant what he was -saying. He was on his own ground talking about dividends, dividends of -righteousness. “If you would take something out,” he said, clenching the -hand of his outstretched right arm, “you must put something -in”—emphasizing “put something in” with a long outstretched forefinger. - -The talk over, we slipped out to get a good seat in the gallery, a seat -where we could look full on what we knew to be the Rockefeller pew. - -Mr. Rockefeller came into the auditorium of the church as soon as Sunday -school was out. He sat a little bent in his pew, pitifully uneasy, his -head constantly turning to the farthest right or left, his eyes -searching the faces almost invariably turned towards him. It was plain -that he, and not the minister, was the pivot on which that audience -swung. Probably he knew practically everybody in the congregation; but -now and then he lingered on a face, peering at it intently as if he were -seeking what was in the mind behind it. He looked frequently at the -gallery. Was it at Siddall and me? - -The services over, he became the friendly patron saint of the flock. -Coming down the aisle where people were passing out, he shook hands with -everyone who stopped, saying, “A good sermon.” “The Doctor gave us a -good sermon.” “It was a very good sermon, wasn’t it?” - -My two hours’ study of Mr. Rockefeller aroused a feeling I had not -expected, which time has intensified. I was sorry for him. I know no -companion so terrible as fear. Mr. Rockefeller, for all the conscious -power written in face and voice and figure, was afraid, I told myself, -afraid of his own kind. My friend Lewis Emery, Jr., priding himself on -being a victim, was free and happy. Not gold enough in the world to -tempt him to exchange his love of defiance for a power which carried -with it a head as uneasy as that on Mr. Rockefeller’s shoulders. - -My unhappiness was increased as the months went by with the multiplying -of tales of grievances coming from every direction. I made a practice of -looking into them all, as far as I could; and while frequently I found -solid reasons for the complaints, frequently I found the basic motives -behind them—suspicion, hunger for notoriety, blackmail, revenge. - -The most unhappy and most unnatural of these grievances came to me from -literally the last person in the world to whom I should have looked for -information—Frank Rockefeller—brother of John D. Rockefeller. - -Frank Rockefeller sent word to me by a circuitous route that he had -documents in a case which he thought ought to be made public, and that -if I would secretly come to him in his office in Cleveland he would give -them to me. I knew that there had been a quarrel over property between -the two men. It made much noise at the time—1893—had gone to the courts, -had caused bitterness inside the family itself; but because it was a -family affair I had not felt that I wanted to touch it. But here it was -laid on my desk. - -So I went to Cleveland, where John Siddall had a grand opportunity to -play the role of sleuth which he so enjoyed, his problem being to get me -into Mr. Rockefeller’s office without anybody suspecting my identity. He -succeeded. - -I found Mr. Rockefeller excited and vindictive. He accused his brother -of robbing (his word) him and his partner James Corrigan of all their -considerable holdings of stock in the Standard Oil Company. The bare -facts were that Frank Rockefeller and James Corrigan had been interested -in the early Standard Oil operations in Cleveland and had each acquired -then a substantial block of stock. Later they had developed a shipping -business on the Lakes, iron and steel furnaces in Cleveland. In the -eighties they had borrowed money from John D. Rockefeller, putting up -their Standard Oil stock as collateral. Then came the panic of ’93, and -they could not meet their obligations. In the middle of their distress -John Rockefeller had foreclosed, taking over their stocks, leaving them, -so they charged, no time in which to turn around although they felt -certain that they would be able a little later, out of the substantial -business they claimed they had built up, to pay their debt to him. Their -future success proved they could have done so. - -I could see John Rockefeller’s point as I talked with his brother Frank. -Frank Rockefeller was an open-handed, generous trader—more interested in -the game than in the money to be made. He loved good horses—raised them, -I believe, on a farm out in Kansas; he liked gaiety, free spending. From -his brother John’s point of view he was not a safe man to handle money. -He did not reverence it; he used it in frivolous ways of which his -brother did not approve. So it was as a kind of obligation to the -sacredness of money that John Rockefeller had foreclosed on his own -brother and his early friend James Corrigan. He was strictly within his -legal rights and within what I suppose he called his moral right. - -But the transaction left a bitterness in Frank Rockefeller’s heart and -mind which was one of the ugliest things I have ever seen. “I have taken -up my children from the Rockefeller family lot. [Or “shall take up”—I do -not know now which it was.] They shall not lie in the same enclosure -with John D. Rockefeller.” - -The documents in this case, which I later analyzed for the character -sketch on which we had decided, present a fair example of what were -popularly called “Standard Oil methods” as well as what they could do to -the minds and hearts of victims. - -The more intimately I went into my subject, the more hateful it became -to me. No achievement on earth could justify those methods, I felt. I -had a great desire to end my task, hear no more of it. No doubt part of -my revulsion was due to a fagged brain. The work had turned out to be -much longer and more laborious than I had had reason to expect. - -The plan I had taken to Mr. McClure in the fall of 1890, which we had -talked over in Salsomaggiore, Italy—I still have notes of our talk on a -yellow piece of the stationery of the Hôtel des Thermes—called for three -papers, possibly twenty-five thousand words. But before we actually -began publication Mr. Phillips and Mr. McClure decided we might venture -on six. We went through the six, and the series was stretched to twelve. -Before we were through we had nineteen articles, and when the nineteen -were off my hands I asked nothing in the world but to get them into a -book and escape into the safe retreat of a library where I could study -people long dead, and if they did things of which I did not approve it -would be all between me and the books. There would be none of these -harrowing human beings confronting me, tearing me between contempt and -pity, admiration and anger, baffling me with their futile and -misdirected power or their equally futile and misdirected weakness. I -was willing to study human beings in the library but no longer, for a -time at least, in flesh and blood, so I thought. - -The book was published in the fall of 1904—two fat volumes with generous -appendices of what I considered essential documents. I was curious about -the reception it would have from the Standard Oil Company. I had been -told repeatedly they were preparing an answer to flatten me out; but if -this was under way it was not with Mr. Rockefeller’s consent, I -imagined. To a mutual friend who had told him the articles should be -answered Mr. Rockefeller was said to have replied: “Not a word. Not a -word about that misguided woman.” To another who asked him about my -charges he was reported as answering: “All without foundation. The idea -of the Standard forcing anyone to sell his refinery is absurd. The -refineries wanted to sell to us, and nobody that has sold or worked with -us but has made money, is glad he did so. - -“I thought once of having an answer made to the McClure articles but you -know it has always been the policy of the Standard to keep silent under -attack and let their acts speak for themselves.” - -In the case of the Lloyd book they had kept silent, but only because Mr. -Rockefeller had been unable to carry out his plans for answering. What -he had proposed was a jury of the most distinguished clergymen of the -day to consider Mr. Lloyd’s argument and charges. Certain clergymen -invited refused unless there should be a respectable number of -economists added to the jury. That, apparently, Mr. Rockefeller did not -see his way to do, and the plan was abandoned. So far as I know Mr. -Lloyd’s book was never answered by the Standard Oil Company. - -But I wanted an answer from Mr. Rockefeller. What I got was neither -direct nor, from my point of view, serious. It consisted of wide and -what must have been a rather expensive anonymous distribution of various -critical comments. The first of these was a review of the book which -appeared in the _Nation_ soon after its publication. The writer—one of -the _Nation’s_ staff reviewers, I later learned—sneered at the idea that -there was anything unusual in the competitive practices which I called -illegal and immoral. “They are a necessary part of competition,” he -said. “The practices are odious it is true, competition is necessarily -odious.” Was it necessarily odious? - -I did not think so. The practices I believed I had proved, I continued -to consider much more dangerous to economic stability than airing them, -even if I aired them in the excited and irrational fashion the review -charged. As I saw it, the struggle was between Commercial Machiavellism -and the Christian Code. - -The most important of the indirect answers was an able book by Gilbert -Holland Montague. It separated business and ethics in a way that must -have been a comfort to 26 Broadway. - -As soon as published, Mr. Montague’s book became not exactly a best -seller but certainly a best circulator—libraries, ministers, teachers, -prominent citizens all over the land receiving copies with the -compliments of the publisher. Numbers of them came back to me with -irritated letters. “We have been buying books for years from this -house,” wrote one distinguished librarian, “and never before was one -sent with their compliments. I understand that libraries all over the -country are receiving them. Can it be that this is intended as an -advertisement, or is it not more probable that the Standard Oil Company -itself is paying for this widespread distribution?” - -The general verdict seemed to be that the latter was the explanation. - -Some time later there came from the entertaining Elbert Hubbard of the -Roycroft Shop of East Aurora, New York, an essay on the Standard -extolling the grand results from the centralization of the industry in -their hands. - -I have it from various interested sources that five million copies were -ordered printed in pamphlet form by the Standard Oil Company and were -distributed by Mr. Hubbard. They went to schoolteachers and journalists, -preachers and “leaders” from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Hardly were -they received in many cases before they were sent to me with angry or -approving comments. For a couple of years my birthday and Christmas -offerings were sure to include copies of one or the other of these -documents with the compliments of some waggish member of the McClure -group. - -I had hoped that the book might be received as a legitimate historical -study, but to my chagrin I found myself included in a new school, that -of the muckrakers. Theodore Roosevelt, then President of the United -States, had become uneasy at the effect on the public of the periodical -press’s increasing criticisms and investigations of business and -political abuses. He was afraid that they were adding to the not -inconsiderable revolutionary fever abroad, driving people into -socialism. Something must be done, and in a typically violent speech he -accused the school of being concerned only with the “vile and debasing.” -Its members were like the man in John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” who -with eyes on the ground raked incessantly “the straws, the small sticks, -and dust of the floor.” They were muckrakers. The conservative public -joyfully seized the name. - -Roosevelt had of course misread his Bunyan. The man to whom the -Interpreter called the attention of the Pilgrim was raking riches which -the Interpreter contemptuously called “straws” and “sticks” and “dust.” -The president would have been nearer Bunyan’s meaning if he had named -the rich sinners of the times who in his effort to keep his political -balance he called “malefactors of great wealth”—if he had called them, -“muckrakers of great wealth” and applied the word “malefactors” to the -noisy and persistent writers who so disturbed him. - -I once argued with Mr. Roosevelt that we on _McClure’s_ were concerned -only with facts, not with stirring up revolt. “I don’t object to the -facts,” he cried, “but you and Baker”—Baker at that time was carrying on -an able series of articles on the manipulations of the railroads—“but -you and Baker are not _practical_.” - -I felt at the time Mr. Roosevelt had a good deal of the usual conviction -of the powerful man in public life that correction should be left to -him, a little resentment that a profession outside his own should be -stealing his thunder. - -This classification of muckraker, which I did not like, helped fix my -resolution to have done for good and all with the subject which had -brought it on me. But events were stronger than I. All the radical -reforming element, and I numbered many friends among them, were begging -me to join their movements. I soon found that most of them wanted -attacks. They had little interest in balanced findings. Now I was -convinced that in the long run the public they were trying to stir would -weary of vituperation, that if you were to secure permanent results the -mind must be convinced. - -One of the most heated movements at the moment was the effort to -persuade the public to refuse all gifts which came from fortunes into -the making of which it was known illegal and unfair practices had gone. -“Do not touch tainted money,” men thundered from pulpit and platform, -among them so able a man as Dr. Washington Gladden. The Rockefeller -fortune was singled out because about this time Mr. Rockefeller made -some unusually large contributions to colleges and churches and general -philanthropy. “It is done,” cried the critics, “in order to silence -criticism.” Frequently some one said to me, “You have opened the -Rockefeller purse.” But I knew, and said in print rather to the disgust -of my friends in the movement, that there was an unfairness to Mr. -Rockefeller in this outcry. It did not take public criticism to open his -purse. From boyhood he had been a steady giver in proportion to his -income—10 per cent went to the Lord—and through all the harrowing early -years in which he was trying to establish himself as a money-maker he -never neglected to give the Lord the established proportion. As his -fortune grew his gifts grew larger. He not only gave but saw the money -given was wisely spent; and he trained his children, particularly the -son who was to administer his estate, to as wise practice in public -giving as we have ever had. That is, it did not take a public outcry -such as came in the early years of this century against the methods of -the Standard Oil Company to force Mr. Rockefeller to share his wealth. -He was already sharing it. Indeed, in the fifteen years before 1904 he -had given to one or another cause some thirty-five million dollars. - -If his gifts were larger at this time than they had ever been before, -his money-making was greater. If they were more spectacular than ever -before, it may have been because he thought it was time to call the -public’s attention to what they were getting out of the Standard Oil -fortune. At all events it seemed to me only fair that the point should -be emphasized that it had not taken a public revolt against his methods -to force him to share his profits. - -I could not escape the controversies, hard as I tried. Nor could I -escape events, events which were forcing me against my will to continue -my observations and reports. My book was hardly published before it was -apparent that the oil field which it had covered and which for so long -had been supposed to be the only American oil field of importance was -soon to be surpassed by those in the Southwest. The first state to force -recognition of the change on the country at large was Kansas, where -suddenly in the spring of 1905 there broke out an agitation as -unexpected to most observers as it was interesting to those who knew -their oil history. Kansas, we old-timers told ourselves, was duplicating -what the Oil Creek had done in 1872. It was putting on a revolt. How had -it come about? - -For a number of years “wildcatters” with or without money had been -prospecting for oil in the state. Only a modest production had rewarded -them at first, but in 1904 oil suddenly poured forth in great -quantities. On the instant Kansas went oil-mad, practically every farmer -in the state dreamed of flowing wells. As soon as it was proved that -Kansas was to be a large field the Standard took charge. It leased, -drilled, and, most important, it threaded the state with its pipe-line -system. No sooner was oil proved to be on a farmer’s land than the -pipe-line people were there caring for it at market rates. But they -began not only to develop and handle scientifically and efficiently, but -quite as scientifically and efficiently they began to get rid of all the -small fry that in the early days of small wells had been refining and -marketing. They would take all the oil that Kansas could produce, they -said, but on their own terms: they wanted no interference. - -As soon as this became clear to Kansas the state rose in revolt. The -Populists, who for six years now must needs grumble in a corner, came -out to inveigh with all of their old fervor against the trust. Women’s -clubs took it up, political parties took it up. A program was developed, -the gist of which was that Kansas would take care of its own oil. Bills -were introduced into the legislature calculated to control railroad -rates, pipe-line rates, competitive marketing. To the joy of the -Populists and to the horror of the conservatives a bill for a state -refinery was presented by the governor himself. Kansas had a hemp -factory in the state penitentiary not doing so badly. Why should not the -penitentiary run an oil refinery, too? The legislature agreed to do it. - -The excitement grew and so attracted the attention of the country that -the office concluded that I must go out and see what I could make of it. -I did not much want to go, not only because of my desire to free myself -of the subject but because my heart was too heavy with personal loss to -feel enthusiasm for any task. In the spring of 1905 my father had died -after a long slow illness. To me he had always been everything that is -summed up in the word “dear.” Modest, humorous, hard-working, friendly, -faithful in what he conceived to be the right, he loved his family and -friends and church, and asked only to serve them. His business -associates held him as a man of honor and a gentleman. - -Father’s death for a time darkened my world. Later I began to realize -that the dearness of him was to remain as a permanent thing in my life. -But in 1905 this sense of continued companionship was something which -came slowly out of a dark sea of loss. So it was with a heavy heart that -I went to see what was happening in Kansas. - -First I wanted to see with my own eyes if the fields I had been hearing -about were as rich as advertised; so I spent some ten days driving about -southeastern Kansas and northeastern Oklahoma, then just coming in with -the promise of great wells. It was about as exciting a journey as I ever -have made. It was on one of these trips I saw my first dust storm. -Driving in a buckboard behind two spirited horses across a practically -unbroken prairie, my companion suddenly looked behind him. -“Jehoshaphat!” he shouted. “Wrap your head up.” I turned to see the sky -from horizon to zenith filled with dark rolling clouds. It was not from -fire. What was it? “A dust storm,” my companion cried. - -Quickly and expertly he prepared to take it. He loosened the checkreins -of the horses, and the spirited animals evidently knowing what they were -in for dropped their heads as low as they could hold them and leaned up -against each other. We wrapped ourselves as closely as we could and, -like the horses, clung to each other. The storm did not last long, but -it was pretty awful while it did. The air was thick, you could not -breathe. But it passed, and I was ordered to shake myself out. I found -that I was almost engulfed with a fine black dust, that it was packed -close to the hubs of the wheels of our buckboard. It was ten days before -I got rid of that dust, for it was ten days before I had a real bath. -The dust had turned the primitive water supplies into a muddy liquid -quite impossible to drink and hopeless for cleansing. - -The wonder of it was that the real discomforts counted not at all at the -time. I had joined an eager, determined, exultant procession of -wildcatters and promoters, of youths looking for their chance or seeking -adventure for the first time, tasting it to the full. - -Nothing so great as this Kansas and Indian Territory field had ever been -known. Every well was to be a gusher, every settlement a city. On every -side they were selling town lots and stock in oil companies. One of the -most irresponsible stock-selling schemes I have ever known, I happened -on in one of these trips. Two anxious-faced boys were going about among -experienced oilmen begging them for oil leases, preferably oil leases on -which there was a proved well. The lads had come as sightseers and had -been caught in the wild excitement of the region. Everybody had a scheme -to make himself and his friends rich. Why not they? And largely as a -joke they had sent out a flamboyant letter offering stock in a mythical -oil field. The letter had gone to scores of innocents in the East, and -in answer schoolteachers, clergymen, and women with little or no money -had poured in subscriptions. - -If there had been few subscriptions they would have been able to return -them, but here they were when I saw them with literally a suitcase full -of checks and money orders and not a foot of land leased, and in the -excitement there was practically no land to be had. They must either get -a lease or go to the penitentiary, they concluded. Hence their alarm, -their pitiful begging of older men to help them out of the predicament -into which their irresponsibility had plunged them. - -It was not long before I found I was being taken for something more -serious than a mere journalist. Conservative Standard Oil sympathizers -regarded me as a spy and not infrequently denounced me as an enemy to -society. Independent oilmen and radical editors, who were in the -majority, called me a prophet. It brought fantastic situations where I -was utterly unfit to play the part. A woman of twenty-five, fresh, full -of zest, only interested in what was happening to her, would have -reveled in the experience. But here I was—fifty, fagged, wanting to be -let alone while I collected trustworthy information for my -articles—dragged to the front as an apostle. - -The funniest things were the welcomes. The funniest of all was at the -then new town of Tulsa, Oklahoma. I had arrived late at night in what -seemed to me a no man’s land, and after considerable trouble had found a -place in a rough little hostelry where I was so suspicious of the look -of things that I moved the bureau against the lockless door. I am sure -now that I was as safe there as I should have been in my bed at home. - -I had registered, of course, and the next morning before I had finished -my breakfast I was waited on by the editor of the local newspaper, who -took me to his office, a barnlike structure next door, for an interview. -Almost immediately a handsome youth in knickerbockers and high laced -boots came hurriedly in. - -“I think I ought to tell you, Miss Tarbell,” he said with a grin, “that -you are in for a serenade.” - -“A serenade,” I said, “what do you mean?” - -“Well,” he said, “the Tulsa boomers have been making a tour of cities to -the north. Their special train has just come in; they want something to -celebrate, and, learning that you were in town they are sending up the -band to welcome you. They want a speech.” - -I had never made an impromptu speech in my life. I was horrified at the -idea. “You must get me out of this,” I begged of my gallant but very -amused informer. - -“No,” he said, “there is no way to escape. Here they are.” - -And there they were—a band of thirty or forty pieces, several of the -players stalwart Indians. - -I had to face it, and for once in my life I had a happy idea. “Go buy me -two boxes of the best cigars that are to be had in town.” And I shoved a -bill into his hand. “Go quickly.” - -And then the band began. Not so bad, but so funny. There I was standing -on the sidewalk with all the masculine inhabitants of Tulsa—so it seemed -to me—packed about, some of them serious and some of them highly -delighted at my obvious consternation. I had not guessed wrong about the -cigars. They preferred them to a speech, I saw as I passed around the -circle distributing them to the players. What was left I gave to the -bodyguard which had assembled to back me up. A compliment I have always -treasured was given by one of the Indians, as he watched me disposing of -my goods: “He all right.” Still more flattering it was as I went around -in Tulsa that day to meet gentlemen who had fat cigars tied with little -red ribbons in their buttonholes, and to have them point gaily to them -as I passed. - -But the serenade was not the end of the celebration. That afternoon I -was taken out in a barouche—the only one in the countryside, I was -told—the band behind, and paraded up and down the distracted streets of -Tulsa. A day or two later when I went on my journey, it was with a -seatful of candy, magazines, books, flowers, everything that the -community afforded for a going-away present. I never had been before nor -have been since so much the prima donna. - -But all this was preliminary to the real task of finding out what was -happening in Kansas, outside of the production of oil. The legislation -already passed was intended to make the Standard Oil Company the servant -of the state. But I had long ago learned it was one thing to pass laws -and another thing to enforce and administer them. How were they getting -on? - -I went first to see the governor—E. W. Hoch—a humorless and honest man. -It was he who had sponsored the state refinery. I found him impressed by -what he had done, but a little doubtful about how things were going to -come out. He was opening his mail when I went in and he showed me -letters nominating him for the Presidency. He had been receiving many of -them, he said. It was obvious they came from radical socialists -rejoicing over the encouragement that he was giving to the public -ownership of industry. He liked the applause but did not like the -source. He was no socialist, he protested to me. He was a firm believer -in the competitive system. The state refinery was a “measuring stick.” - -He had wanted to settle definitely just what the profits of the refinery -business in Kansas were. Nobody knew except experts, and they wouldn’t -tell. A first-class oil refinery would settle for all time the cost of -refining Kansas oil and force the sale at a reasonable price. He was not -trying to drive private industry out of the state. He merely wanted to -force private industry to be reasonable—the private industry being of -course the Standard Oil Company. - -Governor Hoch and the state as a whole were soon feeling the effect of -the letdown which always follows an exciting legislative campaign, -particularly for the winner. Not since the early nineties had Kansas -enjoyed so rousing a time. And now it was over and they had to come down -to business. But could they get down to business? Could they administer -the new laws? Meetings were being held, half in jubilation over the -successful legislation, half in anxiety about the next step. I was asked -to come and speak at one of them. - -I was no speaker, but I could not let them down. Moreover, because of my -familiarity with past exciting experiments on the part of indignant oil -independents I realized better than they did, so I thought, the hard -pull they had before them. - -“Your problem now,” I told them, “is to do business. As far as laws can -insure it you have free opportunity; but good laws and free opportunity -alone do not build up a business. Unless you can be as efficient and as -patient, as farseeing as your great competitor—laws or no laws, you will -not succeed. You must make yourselves as good refiners, as good -transporters, as good marketers, as ingenious, as informed, as -imaginative in your legitimate undertakings as they are in both their -legitimate and illegitimate.” - -My speech was not popular. What they wanted from me was a rousing attack -on the Standard Oil Company. They wanted a Mary Lease to tell them to go -on raising hell, and here I was telling them they had got all they could -by raising hell and now they must settle down to doing business. - -“You have gone over to the Standard Oil Company?” said one disgusted -Populist. - -I saw I had ruined my reputation as the Joan of Arc of the oil industry, -as some one had named me. But there were hard-headed independent -legislators and business men in the state who consoled me, “You are -right, we must learn to do business as well as they do.” - -One immediate national effect of the Kansas disturbance was to arouse -the legislatures of other oil-producing states in the Southwest to enact -laws not unlike those of Kansas, though I do not remember that a state -refinery was sponsored anywhere else. There was a wide demand that -Congress place the pipe-line system under the Interstate Commerce -Commission, subject it to the same restrictions as interstate rails, but -most important was the fine popular backing the row gave the -trust-busting campaign of Theodore Roosevelt, now President of the -United States. He had begun his attack on big business by putting an end -to the first great holding company the country had seen—the Northern -Securities Company. He had followed this by a bill establishing a -department for which people had been asking for a decade or more, that -of Commerce and Labor, including a Bureau of Corporations with power to -examine books and question personnel. Congress at first shied at the -measure, but Mr. Roosevelt thundered, “If you do not pass it this -session I will call an extra session.” And they knew he would. - -Ironically enough it was the Standard itself that broke the reluctance -of Congress. The proposal had shocked it out of its usual discretion. -There never was an organization in the country which held secrecy more -essential to doing business. Breaking down the walls behind which it -operated was not to be tolerated. It seems to have been the peppery John -Archbold who took charge of the fight against the bill, using all the -political influence of the company, which was considerable at that -moment. - -Roosevelt soon learned something of what was going on—it is not certain -how much; and when he saw his measure in danger he gave out the -statement that John D. Rockefeller had wired his friends in the Senate, -“We are opposed to any antitrust legislation—it must be stopped.” - -The last thing in the world that John D. Rockefeller would have done was -to send such a telegram to anybody. Probably Mr. Roosevelt knew that; -but somebody in the Standard was passing on such a word, and Mr. -Rockefeller was the responsible head of the organization. His name did -the work. Congress passed the bill in a hurry. The Bureau of -Corporations was speedily set up, an excellent man at its head—James -Garfield. The first task assigned it by the President was an -investigation of the petroleum industry. - -This investigation reported in 1906 that the Standard Oil Company was -receiving preferential rates from various railroads and had been for -some time. One of the most spectacular business suits the country had -seen up to that time followed. The Standard was found guilty by Judge -Kenesaw Landis, the present arbitrator of the manners and morals of -national baseball, and a punishment long known as the “Big -Fine”—twenty-nine million dollars—inflicted. The country gasped at the -size of the fine, but not so the Bureau of Corporations. My -correspondent there contended that over eight thousand true indictments -had been found, and that the maximum penalty would have amounted to over -a hundred and sixty million dollars! - -But even the twenty-nine million dollars, so modest in the view of the -Bureau of Corporations, was not allowed to stand, for in 1908 Judge -Peter Grosscup of the Circuit Court of Appeals in Illinois upset it. -Roosevelt was angry. “There is too much power in the bench,” he told his -friends. - -But by this time the Government had under way another and a much more -serious line of attack, from which Roosevelt was hoping substantial -results. Back in 1890 the Congress had enacted what was known as the -Sherman Antitrust Law, a law making illegal every contract and -combination restraining trade and fostering monopoly. The Government was -now seeking to apply this law to the Standard Oil Company. Was it not -the first industry to attempt monopoly? Had it not been the model for -all the brood? - -Such a suit was no new idea. Independent oilmen had long talked of it, -and in 1897 they had been ready to go ahead when at the last moment the -lawyer to whom they had entrusted their case was taken suddenly ill and -died. It must have seemed to the energetic Lewis Emery, Jr., who had -been engineering the attack that the Lord himself had “gone over to the -Standard.” - -Ten years went by, and then in September, 1907, the United States of -America began suit against the Standard Oil Company of New York _et al._ -There were months and months of hearings. If I had been a modern -newspaper woman I could have made a good killing out of that long -investigation, for more than one editor asked me to analyze the -testimony as it came along or give my impressions of the gentlemen who -appeared on the witness stand. But I had no stomach for it; I never -attended a public examination though I of course read the published -testimony with care. - -I knew well enough that the time would come when, if I did my duty as a -historian, I must analyze the suit; but that must be after it was ended -and a sufficiently practical test had been made of the decision. It -would be a long time, I told myself, before I should be obliged to take -up the story where I had left it. - - - - - 13 - OFF WITH THE OLD—ON WITH THE NEW - - -Twelve years had gone by since I tied myself, temporarily as I thought, -to the McClure venture. To my surprise, the longer I was with the -enterprise the more strongly I felt it was giving me the freedom I -wanted, as well as a degree of that security which makes freedom so much -easier a load to carry. Here was a group of people I could work with, -without sacrifice or irritation. Here was a healthy growing undertaking -which excited me, while it seemed to offer endless opportunity to -contribute to the better thinking of the country. The future looked fair -and permanent. - -And then without warning the apparently solid creation was shattered and -I found myself sitting on its ruins. - -Looking back now, I know that the split in the McClure staff in 1906 was -inevitable. Neither Mr. McClure nor Mr. Phillips, the two essential -factors in the creation, could have done other than he did. The points -at issue were fundamental. Each man acted according to an inner -something which made him what he was, something he could not violate. - -Back of the difficulty lay the fact that at this time Mr. McClure was a -sick man. The hardships of his youth and early manhood, the intense -pressure he had put on himself in founding his enterprises had exhausted -him. For several years he had been obliged to take long vacations, -usually in Europe with his family, his staff carrying on his work in his -absence. The enterprises were bringing him larger and larger returns and -more and more honor; but that was not what he most wanted. He wanted to -be in the thick of things, feel himself an active factor in what was -doing. Above all he wanted to add to what he had already achieved, to -build a bigger, a more imposing House of McClure. - -“What he wanted was more money,” I have heard men comment. - -They were wrong. I have never known a man freer from the itch for money -as an end than S. S. McClure. Money for him meant power to do things, to -build, to help others. On his way up he had gathered about him a horde -of dependents with whom he was always ready to share his last dollar. He -was reckless with money as with ideas. - -In these years when he was practically living in Europe, though -returning regularly to the United States, his chief interest was not in -what his enterprises were accomplishing, but in adding something bigger -than they were or could be. Only by doing this could he prove to himself -and to his colleagues that he was a stronger and more productive man -than ever. Nothing else would satisfy him. - -His passion to build, to realize his ambitions, made him careless about -laying foundations. What he did usually had the character of -improvisation, frequently on a grand scale, sometimes merely gay spurts -of fancy. I was myself caught in one of the latter when Mr. McClure in -London suddenly ordered me in Paris to drop whatever I was doing and to -hurry into Germany to collect material for an animal magazine. - -Animals were an abiding interest with _McClure’s_. Rudyard Kipling laid -the foundation in the Jungle tales. After that great series few were the -numbers that did not have an animal in text and picture. It was as much -a passion as baseball was to become in the latter days with _The -American Magazine_. - -I spent a lively month visiting zoos, interviewing animal trainers and -hunters and keepers, buying books and photographs, turning in what I -considered a pretty good grist of materials and suggestions. What became -of it, I never knew, for I never heard a word of it after I came back to -America. The only remnant I have now of that month is a powder box of -Dresden china bought at the showrooms of the factory of the crossed -swords, it being my practice when on professional trips to use my -leisure seeing the town, guidebook in hand, and buying all the souvenirs -my purse permitted. - -It was in 1906 that Mr. McClure brought home from one of his foraging -expeditions the plan which was eventually to wreck his enterprises. He -had it cut and dried ready to put into action. Without consultation with -his partners he had organized a new company, the charter of which -provided not only for a _McClure’s Universal Journal_, but a McClure’s -Bank, a McClure’s Life Insurance Company, a McClure’s School Book -Publishing Company, and later a McClure’s Ideal Settlement in which -people could have cheap homes on their own terms. It undertook to -combine with a cheap magazine—which it goes without saying was to have -an enormous circulation with the enormous advertising which circulation -brings—an attempt to solve some of the great abuses of the day, abuses -at which we had been hammering in _McClure’s Magazine_. He proposed to -do this by giving them a competition which would draw their teeth. - -By the time Mr. McClure got around to explaining his plan to me and -asking my cooperation he had worked himself up to regarding it as an -inspiration which must not be questioned. It seemed to me to possess him -like a religious vision which it was blasphemy to question. Obsessed as -he was, he was blind and deaf to the obstacles in the way. I am sure I -hurt Mr. McClure by telling him bluntly and at once that I would never -have anything to do with such a scheme. - -In a recently published letter Lincoln Steffens tells how he saw Mr. -McClure’s plan. To him it was not only “fool” but “not quite right.” -Certainly it was not right. As organized, it was a speculative scheme as -alike as two peas to certain organizations the magazine had been -battering. - -The tragedy of the situation was that Mr. McClure did not see and could -not understand the arguments of his associates that his plan was not -only impossible but wrong. This failure of judgment was, I am convinced, -due to his long illness. The mental and physical exhaustion from which -he was suffering, and which he could not bring himself to understand or -accept, explains the unwisdom of this undertaking, his contention that -it was an inspiration, his stubbornness in insisting that it be accepted -and set to work. Human reason has little influence on one who believes -he is inspired. - -The members of the staff were little more than outsiders when it came to -the final decision. It was up to John Phillips to accept and do his -utmost to aid in the grandiose adventure or patiently to wait while -persuading the General that it was not the mission of the McClure crowd -to reconstruct the economic life of the country, that we were -journalists, not financial reformers. I think no man ever tried harder -to keep another from a suicidal undertaking; and certainly no man could -have been firmer from the start in his refusal to go along. - -The struggle went on for six months, and no two men ever tried more -honestly to adjust their differences; but they were irreconcilable. It -came to a point where one or the other must sell his interest in the -magazine. It was Mr. McClure who bought out his partner. - -Although _McClure’s Magazine_ is no longer on the newsstands, it does -occupy a permanent place in the history of the period that it served, -because it worked itself into the literary and economic life of the -country. - -It was a magazine which from the first put quality above everything else -and was willing to chase checks around town in order to pay for it. For -those who collect Kipling there are the first publications of many of -his rarest poems, short stories, and such distinguished serials as -“Captains Courageous” and “Kim.” Here first appeared Willa Cather and O. -Henry. - -It was a magazine which backed regardless of expense, one might say, the -investigations and reports of men like Ray Stannard Baker and Lincoln -Steffens. For twelve years it encouraged with liberality and patience -the work of which I have been talking in this narrative. - -Mr. McClure had two editorial policies when it came to getting the thing -he felt was important for the Magazine. First, the writer must be well -paid and the expense money be generous. Second, and most important of -all, he must be given time. He did not ask that you produce a great -serial in six months. He gave you years if it was necessary. I spent the -greater part of five years on “The History of the Standard Oil Company.” -I was what was called a contributing editor; that is, I turned in -suggestions as they came to me in my work around the country. I did -occasional extra articles that seemed to be in my line. I read and took -part in editorial counsels, but it was recognized that all the time I -demanded should be given to the serial. I know of no other editor and no -other publisher who has so fully recognized the necessity of generous -pay and ample time, if he were to get from a staff work done according -to the best editorial standard, and worthy of the magazine and the -writer. - -When it was finally decided that Mr. Phillips was to sever his long -relation to _McClure’s_ several members of the editorial staff resigned, -including Ray Stannard Baker, Lincoln Steffens, John Siddall, the -efficient young managing editor Albert Boyden, and myself. We could not -see the magazine without Mr. Phillips. - -The last day we left the office, then on Twenty-third Street near Fourth -Avenue, some of us went together to Madison Square and sat on a bench -talking over our future. We were derelicts without a job. - -But not for long. - -[Illustration: - - _First year of The American Magazine, 1907_ -] - -There was then in New York, though it was not generally known, a -magazine group which wanted a change. The magazine was very old—long -known as _Frank Leslie’s Illustrated_ _Monthly_, recently changed to -_The American Magazine_. Its owner was Frederick L. Colver; its editor, -Ellery Sedgwick (afterward editor of the _Atlantic_); its publisher, -William Morrow (afterward the founder of William Morrow & Company, the -book publishing house). Mr. Colver approached Mr. Phillips: “Why don’t -_you_ take it over?” - -Finally in council assembled, our editorial group together with David A. -McKinlay and John Trainor of the McClure business department, decided to -incorporate the Phillips Publishing Company and buy _The American -Magazine_. With what we could put in ourselves and money from the sale -of stock to interested friends, we secured funds for the purchase and -sufficient working capital. - -We left _McClure’s_ in March: six months later, October, 1906, appeared -our first issue. The announcement shows how seriously we took ourselves, -as befitted people who had seen something in which they deeply believed -go to pieces. We had been too cruelly bruised to take anything lightly, -but luckily we were able to make two additions to our staff, each man -with a vein of humor not to be dried up or muddled by any -cataclysms—William Allen White and Finley Peter Dunne (Mr. Dooley). - -We had known Mr. White in the _McClure’s_ office since the day of his -famous editorial, “What’s the Matter with Kansas?” After that came his -Boyville stories, two or three of which _McClure’s_ published, and then -at intervals studies of political situations and political figures. It -was not long before he began to come to New York. He was a little -city-shy then, or wanted us to think so. As I was one of the official -entertainers of the group, it occasionally fell to me to “take him by -the hand,” as he put it, and show him the town. I could have hardly had -a more delightful experience. He judged New York by Kansas standards, -and New York usually suffered. His affection and loyalty for his state, -his appreciation and understanding of everything that she does—wise and -foolish—the incomparable journalistic style in which he presents her are -what has made him so valuable a national citizen. His crowning -achievement among the many to be credited to him has been remaining -first, last, and always the editor of the Emporia _Gazette_. A staunch -friendship had sprung up between Mr. White and Mr. Phillips, and it was -natural enough that he interested himself in the new venture. - -As for Peter Dunne, we went after him and rather to my surprise he came -along, taking a desk in our cramped offices and appearing with amazing -regularity. At this time he was some forty years old—the greatest -satirist in my judgment the country has yet produced. He had a wide -knowledge of men and their ways. There was no malice in his judgments, -but a great contempt for humbuggery as well as for all forms of -self-deception devoted to uplifting the world. However, he felt kindly -towards our ardent desire to improve things by demonstrating their -unsoundness and approved our unwillingness to use any other tools than -those which belonged legitimately to our profession. He came out -strongest in his contributions to the department of editorial comment, -which Mr. Phillips had introduced under the head of “The Interpreter’s -House.” We were all supposed to contribute whatever was on our minds to -this department. Mr. Phillips and Mr. Dunne did the censoring and -dovetailing. I did not often make “The Interpreter’s House,” much to my -chagrin. Dunne said, “You sputter like a woman,” which I fear was true. -If it had not been for him the first Christmas issue of “The -Interpreter’s House” would have been bleak reading. We had each of us -broken forth in lament for the particular evil of the world which was -disturbing us, offering our remedies. - - It seems to me [wrote Dunne, editing our contributions] that we are - serving up a savory Christmas number ... a nice present to be found - in the bottom of a stocking.... - - You cannot go to the Patent Office in Washington and take out a - patent that will transform men into angels. The way upward, long and - tedious as it is, lies through the hearts of men. It has been so - since the founding of the Feast. Nothing has been proved more - clearly in the political history of the race than this, that good - will to men has done more to improve government than laws and wars. - - ... Let us close down our desks for the year. If you want to find me - for another week I will be found in the wonderful little toy shop - around the corner. - -That editorial broke the tension which had made me think this was no -time to go home for Christmas. I went. - -Peter Dunne hated the pains of writing. His labor affected the whole -office—sympathy with what he was going through, fear that his copy would -not be in on time, eagerness to see it when it came, to know if it was -“one of his best.” But Peter’s work was never what he thought it ought -to be, and he sought forgetfulness. - -Indispensable on the new editorial staff, seeing Peter through his birth -pains, keeping the rest of us at our tasks, nursing new writers, making -up the magazine, was Albert Boyden. He had come fresh from Harvard to -_McClure’s_ and had at once made himself a place by his genius for -keeping things going and his gift for sympathetic friendliness. It was a -combination which became more valuable and irresistible as time went on. -Bert was everybody’s friend, whether editor, artist, or writer. “One can -have friends, one can have editors,” Ray Stannard Baker was to write -later, “but Bert was both.” - -He was of the greatest value to the _American_ in bringing together -writers and artists who were attaching themselves to the new magazine. -Bert was so fond of us all that he could not endure the idea that we did -not all know one another, and he made it his business to see that we had -at least the opportunity. He lived on the south of Stuyvesant Square, -four flights up. There was no one in all that circle of distinguished -contributors who did not welcome the chance to climb those stairs to -Bert’s dinners and teas. And what a group of people came! They are -recorded in his guest book: Booth Tarkington, Edna Ferber, Stewart -Edward White, his wife and his brother Gilbert, Julian and Ada Street, -the Norrises, the Rices and Martins of Louisville, Joe Chase, Will -Irwin, and a dozen more, along with visiting celebrities, politicians, -scientists, adventurers. What talk went on in that high-up living room! -What wonderful tales we heard! - -Bert was so much younger than the rest of us, so full of enthusiasm and -hope, so much more vital and all-shedding, that it is still to me -incredible that he should have left this world so much earlier than I. -He died in 1925, but he lives in a little book which J. S. P. edited in -his memory. How proud Bert would have been of that! “There is nobody -like J. S. P.,” he used to say. Many of his big circle of friends -contributed their recollections of him. I have never known another -person in my life for whom quite such a book could have been written. - -In spite of the gay unity of our group, the vigor and steadiness with -which it began and continued its operation, I had suffered a heavy -shock. I know now I should not have taken it as well as I did (and -inwardly that was nothing to boast of) if it had not been cushioned by -an engrossing personal interest. I had started out to make a home for -myself. - -I had already made three major attempts to establish myself—first in -Meadville, then in Paris, then in Washington—and all had failed. When in -1898 it became evident that if I were to remain on the _McClure’s_ staff -I must come to New York, I was in no mood to adopt a new home town. New -York might be my writing headquarters, but Titusville should be home. -Finally I would return there, I told myself. But Titusville was five -hundred miles away. There were no airplanes in those days. The railroad -journey was tedious and expensive, week-ending was impossible. I soon -grew weary of the week-end makeshifts of a homeless person in a city. I -wanted something of my own. And at last by a series of circumstances, -purely fortuitous, I acquired forty acres and a little old house in -Connecticut. - -I had meant to let the land and the house run to seed if they wanted to. -I had no stomach, or money, for a “place.” I wanted something of my very -own with no cares. Idle dream in a world busy in adding artificial cares -to the load Nature lays on our shoulders. - -Things happened: the roof leaked; the grass must be cut if I was to have -a comfortable sward to sit on; water in the house was imperative. And -what I had not reckoned with came from all the corners of my land: -incessant calls—fields calling to be rid of underbrush and weeds and -turned to their proper work; a garden spot calling for a chance to show -what it could do; apple trees begging to be trimmed and sprayed. I had -bought an abandoned farm, and it cried loud to go about its business. - -Why should I not answer the cry? Why should I not be a farmer? Before I -knew it I was at least going through the motions, having fields plowed, -putting in crops, planting an orchard, supporting horses, a cow, a pig, -a poultry yard—giving up a new evening gown to buy fertilizer! - -Seeing what I was in for and fearing lest I should do as so many of my -friends had done—go in deeper than my income justified, find myself -borrowing and mortgaging in order to carry out the fascinating things I -saw to do—I laid down a strict rule which I have followed ever since, -and which I recommend to people of limited incomes who acquire a spot in -the country, and want it to be a continuous pleasure instead of a -continuous anxiety. I resolved that I would spend only what I could lay -aside from income, that I would divide this appropriation into three -parts—one for the land, one for the house, one for furnishing. As the -budget was very small it meant that a thousand things that I wanted to -do went undone, and still are undone. But it meant also that I had -little or no financial anxiety. - -If the call of the land had been unexpected and not to be denied, even -more unexpected and still less to be denied was the call of the -neighborhood. I was not long in learning that in the houses I could see -in valley and on hillside centered the most genuine of human dramas, -tragic and comic. - -After the land and its background, the greatest gift of God to us (“us” -including my niece Esther) was our nearest neighbors Mr. and Mrs. G. -Burr Tucker, at the side of whose house swung a sign, “Antiques for -Sale.” - -But it was as neighbors, not as customers Mr. and Mrs. Tucker regarded -us from the start. When Burr was not over helping us settle he was -watching what was going on from his front porch. I have never had more -pungent, salty, faithful friends. They had spent most of their lives on -the corner, not always selling antiques. Mrs. Tucker had taught in the -schoolhouse at the top of the hill for twenty-nine years, and Burr had -had a varied and picturesque career as a salesman of pumps, fruit trees, -any gadget that seemed to be useful to his country neighbors. - -Not long before we moved in he had discovered by accident that there -were people in the outside world who bought old spinning wheels, ancient -chairs, ancient pottery. Burr knew the contents of every garret and -woodshed for twenty miles around, and when he made his discovery he -began systematically to buy them out. By the time I arrived on the scene -he had an established business. - -Not knowing whether we were going to like our new acquisition well -enough to make it permanent, Esther and I had decided to furnish out of -a department store basement. But in looking over Burr’s miscellaneous -assortment my eye fell on an old-fashioned melodeon, charming in line, -its bellows broken but easy to repair—$10. I couldn’t resist it, and so -I became almost from the first day a customer of my nearest neighbor. It -was a great day when Burr went “teeking,” as they called the hunt for -treasures. We would watch for his return, and when his white horse and -wagon loaded high with loot appeared down the road we were on the ground -as soon as he was. - -Not only did the immediate vicinity yield rich and exciting material, -but a little distance away there were people from the world we knew. -There were the friends who had first shown me the country—Noble and Ella -Hoggson, up the Valley, the center of a jolly and interesting group -known as the “Valley Crowd.” A mile or so away was one of the most -interesting women in the literary world of that day—Jeannette Gilder, -sister of Richard Watson Gilder, a lively writer and editor. - -Perhaps no woman in her time carried to more perfection the then -feminine vogue for severe masculine dress: stout shoes, short skirt, -mannish jacket, shirt, tie, hat, stick. They were the last word in -style. They suited her as they did few, for she was large of frame, with -strong, bold features and a fine swinging gait; but the masculinity was -all on the surface. Esther came home one day shouting with laughter: -“Miss Gilder is a fake. She wears silk petticoats and is afraid of -mice.” - -Soon after I acquired my farm the countryside was stirred by the news -that Mark Twain was building only eight or nine miles away from us. -Everybody seemed to know what was happening with the building, the -settling, the life going on. That was partly because of our omnivorous -curiosity and partly because Mark Twain was a friendly neighbor. He -every now and then gave a great party, sending the invitations around by -our peripatetic butcher, a member of one of our first families, a -gentleman as well as a good tradesman. - -I have a few treasured recollections of days when Jeannette Gilder and I -drove over to tea or lunch with Mark Twain, heard great stories of the -doings in his new home. It was from him that I heard the story of the -famous burglary; it was from him I heard the story of one of the best -practical jokes ever played—when Peter Dunne and Robert Collier sent him -an elephant. - -Not only was all this fun and excitement and novelty shared by my niece -and those of my family who came to see what we were so excited about, -but every member of the _American_ staff sooner or later appeared at the -farm to look us over. From the start our chief counselor had been Bert -Boyden, who six months after I had taken the first option on the place -had insisted on accompanying me to see whether I had better take it up. - -Bert looked at the oaks, he looked at the gay little stream that ran -across the land, and without hesitation said, “Buy it.” And buy it, I -did. Having had a part in the purchase, Bert superintended henceforth -all changes. He approved my plan of budgeting. He helped me select the -wallpapers which were hung; he was interested in the larder for the -winter. - -In the summer when his family was at a distance J. S. P. came often to -discuss the perplexities of the magazine and rest himself from the -commotion of the office. The Norrises came, and Kathleen named my pig. -Who but Kathleen would have called him “Juicy”? He looked it, fat as -butter. The Siddalls came often, for in the summer we kept their famous -cat, “Sammy Siddall.” The Rices, the Martins, the Bakers—all came to -look on that rough land and shell of a house and wonder, I suspect, how -I could be happy with anything so simple, be satisfied with no more -pretentious plans than I had. - -Among those who came in those early days was one who has left a crimson -streak across the history of his time—Jack Reed. Jack, just out of -Harvard, was giving half-time to the _American_, half-time to writing. -We would invite him for the week end but he was never at the station -when we drove over to find him. Likely he had missed his train, taken a -freight—that was more fun. And late in the evening he would come walking -over the hilltop demanding food and a bed, and we would sit long hearing -the adventures of his day. - -It was on one of these trips that Jack found near by a natural -amphitheater. Before he had left he had planned to buy the place and -worked out in detail a Greek theater. He started towards New York on -foot, expecting to raise the money from friends en route. “I was all -ready to put up money,” one of them told me not many years ago. - -[Illustration: - - _From Lumière autochrome by Arnold Genthe, N. Y._ - - _Miss Tarbell in her garden at her Connecticut farm, 1914_ -] - -But when Jack was back at his desk in New York he forgot the theater—I -never heard of it afterwards. That was the delightful creature Jack Reed -was, up to the time that he discovered what is called life. He took it -hard. Now his bones lie under a tomb in Moscow, one of the martyrs to -Lenin’s great vision of the communal life. - -All this was good for me, cushioned the shock I had suffered, convinced -me that at least I had gotten my hands on something permanent, a -fundamental factor in my future security—a home—a home capable of -feeding me if the worst came to the worst. But while it was good for me -it was not so good for my work on the magazine. - -I had believed I could work better in the quiet of the country, but I -was discovering that the country was more exciting than the town and the -office as I knew it. Its attractions were proving too much for the -difficult task which had been assigned me in the planning for the first -year of the _American_. The task was nothing less than to write a -history of the making of our tariff schedules from the Civil War on. It -had been a natural enough selection for me after the experience with the -history of the Standard Oil Company for the tariff was quite as much a -matter of popular concern at the moment as the trust had been in 1900. -There was a growing demand for revision. How could we get into the -fight? A subject must be found for me. How about the tariff? Was a -historical treatment possible? I thought so; at least I so despised the -prohibitive tariff that I was willing to try if the magazine was willing -to back me. - -I suppose most of us have had at various periods of our life homemade -remedies for the economic ills we see about us. When I was a girl in -high school I looked on an eight-hour day of productive labor for -everybody as the way out. I was much less worried by the hardships the -long day brought working people than the mental and moral deterioration -I imagined suffered by people who did not work. Idleness, not labor, was -the scourge of the world. For me the eight-hour day was a save-the-idle -day! - -Before I left _The Chautauquan_ I had concluded that there was a trilogy -of wrongs—all curable—responsible for our repeated depressions and our -poorly distributed wealth: discrimination in transportation; tariffs -save for revenue only; private ownership of natural resources. I was -still of that opinion when, largely by accident, I had my chance to -strike at number one in my trilogy. Could I by the method I had followed -in that case, and the only one I knew how to use, present a plausible -argument against Number Two? - -What had particularly aroused me was the way tariff schedules were made, -the strength of what we now call pressure groups—the powerful lobbies in -wool and cotton and iron and sugar which for twenty-five years I had -watched mowing Congress down like a high wind. There was no concealment -of the pressure. The lobbyists went at it hammer and tongs and battered -down opposition with threats, bribes, and unparalleled arrogance. By -these tactics they had overcome Mr. Cleveland’s famous tariff message of -1886, had passed the outrageous McKinley bill of 1890, had ruined the -Wilson bill of 1893, had defeated the promise of McKinley and Dingley -and Aldrich to lower duties in 1896, and had substituted the highest and -most distorted schedules the country had yet seen. But it looked in 1906 -as if the Day of Judgment was near, and I asked nothing better than to -be on the jury. - -I went into it blindly—on faith, certainly not on knowledge—and I had a -handicap that I was far from realizing at the time: that was that, while -in the case of the Standard Oil I had spent my life close to the events, -the tariff and its makers had never touched my life. This was something -that I had read in a book. - -Another handicap was that my indignation was directed towards legal -acts. Congress had adopted these schedules, under coercion if you -please, but still it had adopted them. The beneficiaries had the -sanction of law. It was a different case from challenging railroad -discriminations, which were forbidden by law. - -As I worked on the _Congressional Record_ and related documents I looked -up men still living who had had a part in the struggle on one side or -the other. There were many of them scattered around the country, now out -of Congress for the most part, but not averse to talking. As a rule I -got little from them. The fight which seemed to me so important was a -dead issue to them. They had lost or won. It was all part of a game. -Fresh from reading the daily discussions in the _Record_, curious about -this or that man or argument, I found them hazy, often not particularly -interested. There was little of the righteous indignation which I -thought I found in their recorded speeches. Had that been political, -instead of righteous, indignation? I began to think so. - -It was Grover Cleveland who put heart in me. He had lost none of his -righteous indignation over the aid prohibitive tariffs were giving -certain trusts, none of his alarm over the growing disparity between -industry and agriculture they were fostering. He felt deeply the wrong -of the prices they were inflicting on the farmer, the professional -class, the poor. I got nothing but encouragement from him for the review -I had planned. - -Luckily I already had a pleasant working relation with Mr. Cleveland. It -had come about in my last two years on _McClure’s_, when my chief -editorial task had been trying to persuade him that it was his duty to -write his reminiscences for us, incidentally offering myself as a ghost -if he felt that he needed one. - -As his letters to me at this time show he was not entirely unfriendly to -the project: - - I want to do the thing; and yet I am afraid the difficulties in the - way of doing it are fundamental and inexorable. You see the project - requires me to exploit myself and my doings before the public. I do - not see how I can do this, though I am terribly vain and often bore - my friends privately by tiresome reminiscence. And yet I cannot but - think that there are incidents and results in my career, which, by - their narration might be of service in stimulating those who aspire - to good citizenship—“and there we are.” This latter consideration - hints of duty; but then comes the fear that what seems to me duty is - a mere fantastic notion, and thereupon the old disinclination - resumes its sway. - - * * * * * - - I have frequently thought no one could help me so much as you; and - it has seemed to me more than once that you and I might possibly - “cook up something” in a summer vacation’s freedom from - distractions. - -Nothing came at this time, 1904, of the “Tarbell-Cleveland fantasy,” as -Mr. Cleveland gaily dubbed it, and two years later the project was -dismissed, but in a letter so friendly that I cannot resist quoting from -it: - - I do not believe a man who has turned the corner of sixty-nine - years, is any less vain and self-satisfied than when he was a youth. - At any rate here I am, in this sixty-nine predicament, delighted - with the generous things you say of me in the goodness of your - heart, and more than halfway deluding myself into the notion that I - deserve them. I want to be very sensible and hard-headed in this - affair; but in any event I am entitled to rejoice in your good - opinion of me, and your hearty wishes for my welfare and happiness. - - I thank you from the bottom of my heart for them; and I shall - gratefully remember them as long as I live. Somehow I have an idea - that you know me well—and surely I need not afflict myself with the - fear of vanity if I have found a friend in you. - -With those letters in my files I felt free, when I undertook the tariff -work for the _American_, to ask Mr. Cleveland to talk to me about the -making of his tariff message in 1886, and the failure of the Wilson bill -in 1893. He was most generous, and when I had completed my story of the -two episodes I asked him to read the manuscript and give me a candid -judgment and of course his corrections and his suggestions. The chief -suggestion that he made showed a sensitiveness to his literary style in -public documents which I had not suspected. Charming letter writer as -Mr. Cleveland was, in his public documents he was ponderous. I must have -enlarged a little on this, for I find this paragraph in his letter with -which he sent back the proofs: - - I have ventured to suggest a little toning down of your - characterization of my style—thinking perhaps you would be willing - to make an alteration to please me if for no other reason. You know - we are all a little sensitive on such a point. - -There was another paragraph in that letter which touched me deeply: - - Your article has caused me to feel again the greatest sorrow and - disappointment I have ever suffered in my public career—the failure - of my party to discharge its most important duty and its fatuous - departure from its appointed mission. - -But lean as heavily as I dared on Mr. Cleveland, work as I would and did -on the tariff debates of Congress (I can wish my worst enemy no greater -punishment than reading them in full), I could not put vitality into my -narrative. It was of the _Congressional Record_—it was secondhand. - -It was the making of the Payne-Aldrich bill in 1909 that finally gave a -certain life to my narrative. Here was something belonging to the -present, not something of the past. By all the signs Theodore Roosevelt -should have been the St. George to lead in the revision the public was -calling so loudly for, particularly after the panic of 1907. Few of his -party leaders paid attention. - -“Are not all our fellows happy?” Speaker Joseph Cannon asked as the -demand for revision became louder. - -Roosevelt himself heard it, but frankly said to his intimates that he -did not know anything about the tariff. He did not and he would not take -the time to learn. He hammered at the effects of privilege, pursued -“malefactors of great wealth,” but was not willing to do the hard -studying of the causes which produced the malefactors. - -Mr. Taft, who followed Roosevelt, had no choice. The platform on which -he was elected called “unequivocally” for tariff reform, and as soon as -he was inaugurated he called a special session to do the work. My -chagrin was great when I realized at once that all the ancient technique -I had been trying to discredit was repeating itself. It is, I told -myself, the same old circus, the same old gilded chariots, the same old -clowns. So far as arguments were concerned they might have been taken -from the hearings of ’83, of ’88, of ’93, of ’96. Figures were changed, -and nobody could deny that these figures of growth were impressive; but -they came from interested men. - -“They are incapable of judging,” Mr. Carnegie told the committee. “No -judge should be permitted to sit in a cause in which he is interested; -you make the greatest mistake in your life if you attach importance to -an interested witness.” - -The process which “Sunset” Cox back in the seventies characterized as -“reciprocal rapine”—buying votes for the schedule their constituents -wanted by voting for schedules they could not justify—was in full swing. - -Never was the tariff as the “cause of prosperity” worked harder. It was -the answer of the prohibitive protectionist to the charge that the -tariff was a tax. In all the early years they had called it so—a tax to -produce revenue, encourage new industries, protect higher wages, a -better standard of living. But Mr. Cleveland had called it boldly “a -vicious, inequitable, illogical tax,” and illustrated his adjectives -tellingly. The effect of his attack was so disastrous that the -supporters of prohibitive duties went into a huddle to find a new name. -“The cause of prosperity” was the euphemism they produced. - -A repeater that had figured in every tariff bill was the answer of the -priests of the dogma to the argument that the poor should be considered. -According to the pictures they drew there were no poor in the United -States. This refusal to recognize poverty was no more discouraging in -the making of the bill of 1909 than the indifference to the effect high -tariffs were having on the cost of the necessities of life. In this they -ran true to historical precedent. From the time the business man took -charge in the late seventies any attempt to call the attention at -hearings to what a duty would do to the price of a necessity of life was -ignored or jeered. - -Justice Brandeis, then plain lawyer Brandeis, was before a committee -considering the Dingley bill. - -“And for whom do you appear?” he was asked. - -“For the consumer,” he answered. - -The committee, chairman and all, laughed aloud, but they were good -enough to say, “Oh, let him run down.” - -This old indifference to the effect of higher prices on the living of -the poor stirred me to the only article in my series which seemed to -“take hold.” I called it, “Where Every Penny Counts.” - -The worth-while thing, from my point of view, was that it reached women. -“I never knew what the tariff meant before,” Jane Addams wrote me. - -Here was something which touched those in whom she was interested—wage -earners. She knew from actual contact what the increase of a cent in the -price of a quart of milk, a spool of thread, a pound of meat, meant to -working girls with their six or eight dollars a week. She knew that -every penny added to the cost of their food, clothes, or coal gave less -warmth, less covering. It was not difficult to show that what they were -trying to do in Washington in the making of the Payne-Aldrich bill was -just that—a tariff that would add to the cost of things that must be had -if people were to live at all. - -To my deep satisfaction this effort to make the new tariff bill in the -good old way was promptly met by a rousing challenge from a group of -progressive Republican Senators, men who had been largely responsible -for forcing the promise to reform into the party platform. When they -discovered that there would be no reform if the lobbyists and their -friends in Congress could prevent it, they crystallized into one of the -most vigorous and intelligent fighting bands that had been seen for many -years in Congress. Insurgents, they were called. - -The leader in the revolt, interested in railroad reform rather than the -tariff, was La Follette of Wisconsin. Others were Beveridge of Indiana, -Cummins and Dolliver of Iowa, Borah of Idaho, and Bristow of Kansas. -They were already familiar figures at the _American_ along with certain -members of the House, particularly the salty and peppery William Kent of -California—Phillips, Baker and Steffens being in frequent communication -with them. - -The most brilliant and witty, as well as the most thoroughly informed of -the tariff insurgents was the amiable Senator Dolliver from Iowa—twenty -years in Congress—always regular—always stoutly supporting the tariff -bills turned out by the committee. - -“What ails you now?” I asked him. - -“Well,” he said, “I had been going on for twenty years taking -practically without question what they handed me; but these alliances -between the party and industrial interests have at last set me thinking. -I began to understand something of the injustice that was being done to -the consumer. And then we promised to reform the tariff.” - -When the insurgents divided up the schedules for study, Schedule -K—wool—the most difficult and the most important politically, fell to -Senator Dolliver. He found he had been voting for years for duties -which, when he sat down to read the schedule, he could not understand. -He discovered they were a mixture of tricks, evasions, and -discriminations—intended to be so, he believed. He determined to master -them. - -And master them he did by months of the severest night work. He pored -over statistics and technical treatises. He visited mills and importing -houses and retail shops. He sought the aid of experts, and in the end he -knew his subject so well that he went onto the floor of the Senate -without a manuscript and literally played with Schedule K, and -incidentally also with Senator Aldrich, who was said to fly to the cloak -room whenever Senator Dolliver rose to speak. When he had finished his -clean, competent dissection, Schedule K lay before the Senate a law -without principles or morals; and yet, just as it was, the Senate of the -United States passed it, and the President of the United States signed -it, and it went on the statute books. - -Why? Neither Mr. Taft nor Mr. Aldrich defended the wool schedule which -made the bill odious. They both were frank in explaining that it was -politically necessary, not at all a question of the fairness of the -schedule, but a question of what powerful interests demanded. The wool -interests could defeat the bill if they did not get what they wanted. - -My conviction about the inequity of Schedule K was so strong that when -the _Outlook_ published a long defense of it, plainly an advertisement -but not so marked, I protested in a personal letter to its vociferous -contributing editor, Theodore Roosevelt, with whom by this time I was on -fairly friendly terms. Just what I said in my letter about the _Herald_ -which so stirred his wrath I do not remember, but his answer to my -comment is so typically Rooseveltian in temper and reasoning that I -think it should be preserved: - - May 6, 1911 - - Oh! Miss Tarbell, Miss Tarbell! - - How can you take the view you do of the Herald! You compare it with - the Tribune. It is perfectly legitimate to compare the Tribune with - Mr. Watterson’s paper, the Courier-Journal. Honest people could - agree or disagree about those two papers. Personally I think that - during the last thirty or forty years the Tribune has been - infinitely more helpful to good causes than the Courier-Journal, - but, as I say, people can differ on such a subject; and I should be - very glad to meet at any time either Henry Watterson or Whitelaw - Reid. But to compare either one of them with the Herald is literally - and precisely as if I should compare either the American Magazine or - The Outlook with Town Topics. - -Having expressed his opinion of the _Herald_, he proceeded to an -elaborate specious explanation of the matter which had so stirred my ire -that I had protested to him. - - Now as for what you say about The Outlook’s publishing “The Truth - about K.” In the first place, I admit at once that the title, the - type, and the placing of this advertisement _did_ make it look to - many readers like an editorial article. We used the same title, type - and placing that had been used for similar articles for twenty - years; but our attention was subsequently called to the fact, to - which you now call my attention, i.e., that some people were misled - in the matter; and in consequence we at once abandoned this twenty - years’ custom. From now on, every article of the kind will appear - under the heading of “Advertising Department” or “Advertising - Section,” so that there cannot be any possible mistake in the - future. As for the publication of the article itself, I most - emphatically think that it was not only justifiable, but - commendable. The Outlook publishes continually letters from people - upholding policies or views with which The Outlook diametrically - disagrees. (For example, The Outlook has on several different - occasions published letters taking a very dark view of my own - character and achievements, whether at San Juan Hill or elsewhere.) - This particular article by Spencer I should have been glad to see - published in the regular section of the Outlook as putting forth his - side of the case, just as I am now trying to secure publication in - The Outlook of an article from the North Western farmers giving - their side of the case against Canadian reciprocity. Spencer’s - article, however, was too long, and such being the case, as I say, I - was not merely willing but glad to see it put in. (I did not know it - had been put in, of course, until long after it had appeared; but - when I did see it, I was glad that it had been put in.) Probably you - know that on April 8th The Outlook editorially took up this - question, stated that the American Woolen Company was entirely - justified in printing their article as an advertisement, and that - The Outlook violated in no degree the ethics of journalism in - admitting the advertisement to its pages and expressed its total - disagreement with the views expressed in the article. I would have - gone further than this; I would have stated that The Outlook did not - violate the ethics of journalism, but rendered a great and needed - service as an example in showing its willingness to accept the - statement of a case with which it did not agree, to put it in - exactly as it was written, and then itself to comment with absolute - freedom, as it has done, upon the arguments made in the - advertisement. Let me repeat that if The Outlook had had space, - which it unfortunately did not have, I should have been glad to see - Spencer’s article inserted, not as an advertisement, but as a - communication signed by Spencer, and avowedly stating his side of - the case. - - Sincerely yours - THEODORE ROOSEVELT - -I felt that I had won my case with Mr. Roosevelt’s assurance that -henceforth every article of the kind would appear under the head of -“Advertising Department.” - -When the Payne-Aldrich bill was finally passed with Mr. Taft’s and Mr. -Aldrich’s brutally frank explanations, I was done with the tariff as a -subject for further study and writing. Four years later came the -Democratic effort to make a revision. I had only the most casual -interest. It was the same old method. They might make a better bill, I -told myself, but there never could be a fair one as long as tariffs were -set by a Congress under the thumb of people personally interested. - -One thing seemed to me clear which is still clearer now, the combined -prohibitive tariff industries were digging their own grave. Foreign -markets they had to have; but they refused to buy from those to whom -they wanted to sell. What the gentlemen did not realize was that by this -procedure they were practically forcing nations not naturally industrial -to copy their methods, industrialize themselves. These nations soon were -succeeding with such skill that in spite of the boosting of the tariff -again and again the foreigners continued to undersell us. - -But the prohibitive protectionists were building a future competitor -threatening to be stronger than foreign trade. This in the realm of -politics. There had been no more hearty and conscienceless supporters of -prohibitive tariffs than certain groups of organized labor, -conspicuously the Amalgamated Steel and Iron Workers under John Jarrett. -They were not a numerous body, but with the cry of the full dinner pail -they were able to back the demands of the employers. They had a body of -votes that no political party dared defy. But in teaching organized -labor the power of political pressure the industrialists gave them a -weapon that they did not see might one day be turned against themselves. - -Back in the eighties one of the wisest and soundest economists we have -produced, David A. Wells, said in substance of the victory of the tariff -lobbies: “This is a revolution. It will take another revolution to -overthrow the leadership now established by business men.” - -I felt after the bill of 1909 that there was nothing for an outsider -like me to do but wait for that revolution. - -I felt this so deeply that when President Wilson invited me to be a -member of the Tariff Commission he formed in December, 1916, I refused. -I was pleased, of course, that Mr. Wilson thought me fit for such a -place. I knew that I should find the associations interesting. The dean -of tariff students in the United States—Dr. Taussig of Harvard—was the -chairman. To be under him would be an education that would be worth the -taking, but I did not hesitate. - -First, there was my personal situation—my obligations. I had no right to -give up my profession for a connection of that sort, in its nature -temporary. Then I realized my own unfitness as Mr. Wilson could not. I -had had no experience in the kind of work this required. I was an -observer and reporter, not a negotiator. I am not a good fighter in a -group; I forget my duty in watching the contestants. But primarily there -was my hopelessness about the service the Tariff Commission might -render. Its researches and its conclusions, however sound, would stand -no chance in Congress when a wool or iron and steel or sugar lobby -appeared. A Tariff Commission was hamstrung from the start. - -Of course it was not only my interest and work on the tariff that had -led Mr. Wilson to offer me the position. He was looking about for women -to whom he could give recognition. He was an outspoken advocate of -suffrage and wanted to use women when he thought them qualified. - -Jane Addams pleaded with me to accept “for the sake of women,” but I did -not feel that women were served merely by an appointment to office. -Women, like men, serve in proportion to their fitness for office, to the -actual fact they have something to contribute. I had no enthusiasm for -the task, did not even respect it greatly. I believed, too, that harm is -done all around by undertaking technical jobs without proper scientific -training. The cause of women is not to be advanced by putting them into -positions for which they are untrained. - -The press comments on the idea of a woman on this commission were not -unfriendly, as far as I saw them; but they were a little surprised and, -as I was to find later, protests were made to Mr. Wilson. My friend Ray -Stannard Baker, working on the Wilson papers, came across an answer of -the President on December 27, 1916, to one protesting gentleman which I -am not too modest to print: - - As a matter of fact, she has written more good sense, good plain - common sense, about the tariff than any man I know of, and is a - student of industrial conditions in this country of the most serious - and sensible sort. - - - - - 14 - THE GOLDEN RULE IN INDUSTRY - - -I was done with the tariff, but it was out of the tariff that my next -serial came—born partly of a guilty conscience! In attempting to prove -that in certain highly protected industries only a small part of a duty -laid in the interest of labor went to labor, I had taken satisfaction in -picturing the worst conditions I could find, badly ventilated and -dangerous factories, unsanitary homes, underfed children. But in looking -for this material I found, in both protected and unprotected industries, -substantial and important efforts making to improve conditions, raise -wages, shorten hours, humanize relations. - -My conscience began to trouble me. Was it not as much my business as a -reporter to present this side of the picture as to present the other? If -there were leaders in practically every industry who regarded it not -only as sound ethics but as sound economics to improve the lot of the -worker, ought not the public to be familiarized with this belief? - -At that moment, and indeed for a good many years, the public had heard -little except of the atrocities of industrial life. By emphasizing, the -reformers had hoped to hasten changes they sought. The public was coming -to believe that the inevitable result of corporate industrial management -was exploitation, neglect, bullying, crushing of labor, that the only -hope was in destroying the system. - -But if the practices were not universal, if there was a steady, though -slow, progress, ought not the public to recognize it? Was it not the -duty of those who were called muckrakers to rake up the good earth as -well as the noxious? Was there not as much driving force in a good -example as in an evil one? - -The office was not unfriendly to the idea. As a matter of fact _The -American Magazine_ had little genuine muckraking spirit. It did have a -large and fighting interest in fair play; it sought to present things as -they were, not as somebody thought they ought to be. We were -journalists, not propagandists; and as journalists we sought new angles -on old subjects. The idea that there was something fundamentally sound -and good in industrial relations, that in many spots had gone far beyond -what either labor or reformers were demanding, came to the office as a -new attack on the old problem. Mr. Phillips, always keenly aware of the -new and significant, had his eye on the movement, I found, and was -willing to commission me to go out and see what I could find. - -This was in 1912, and for the next four years I spent the bulk of my -time in factories and industrial towns. The work took me from Maine to -Alabama, from New York to Kansas. I found my material in all sorts of -industries: iron and steel in and around Pittsburgh, Chicago, Duluth; -mines in West Virginia, Illinois, and Wisconsin; paper boxes and books -and newspapers everywhere; candy in Philadelphia; beer and tanneries and -woodwork in Wisconsin; shirts and collars and shoes in New York and -Massachusetts. I watched numberless things in the making: turbines and -optical lenses, jewelry and mesh bags, kodaks and pocketknives, plated -cutlery and solid silver tea services, Minton tableware and American -Belleek, cans and ironware, linen tablecloths and sails for a cup -defender, furniture I suspected was to be sold in Europe for antiques, -and bric-a-brac I knew was to be sold in America as Chinese -importations, railroad rails and wire for a thousand purposes, hookless -fasteners and mechanical toys. I seemed never to tire of seeing things -made. But do not ask me now how they were made! - -I never counted the number of factories I visited. Looking at the volume -in which I finally gathered my findings, I find there are some -fifty-five major concerns mentioned; but these were those which in my -judgment best illustrated the particular point I was trying to make. -There were many more. - -My visits had to be arranged beforehand. I took pains to make sure of my -credentials, but I soon discovered that my past work served me well. The -heads of the industries and many workmen were magazine readers, liked to -talk about writers and asked all sorts of curious questions about men -and women they had become acquainted with in _McClure’s_ and the -_American_: Kipling, Baker, Steffens, Will White, Edna Ferber, just -coming on at that time. There was often considerable asperity at the top -when I presented my letters of introduction. They set me down as an -enemy of business; but again and again this asperity was softened by a -man’s love of Abraham Lincoln. He had a habit of reading everything -about Lincoln that he could put his hands on, collected books, brought -out my “Life” to be autographed. That is, while I was _persona non -grata_ for one piece of work, another piece softened suspicion and -opened doors to me. - -My first move in a factory was to study the processes of the particular -industry. Machines were not devils to me as they were to some of my -reforming friends, particularly that splendid old warrior Florence -Kelley, then in the thick of her fight for “ethical gains through -legislation.” To me machines freed from heavy labor, created abundance. -That is, I started out free of the inhibition that hate of a machine -puts on many observers. I think because of this I was better able to -judge the character of a factory, to see its weak as well as its good -points. I was able to understand what the enemy of the machine rarely -admits: that men and women who have arrived at the dignity of steady -workers not only respect, but frequently take pride in, their machines. - -Again, I gave myself time around these factories. The observer who once -in his life goes down for half a day into a mine or spends two or three -hours walking through a steel mill, naturally revolts against the -darkness, the clatter, the smoke, the danger. As a rule he misses the -points of real hardship; he also misses the satisfactions. As my -pilgrimage lengthened, I became more and more convinced that there is no -trade which has not its devotee. - -“Once a miner, always a miner.” “Once a sailor, always a sailor.” One -might go through the whole category. - -“Why,” I now and then asked miners, “do you stay by the mine?” - -“I was brought up to it.” “I like it.” “Nobody bothers you when you are -working with a pick.” “Nice and quiet in the mines.” - -“But the danger!” - -“No worse than railroading.” “My brother got killed by a horse last -week.” - -In the end I came to the conclusion that there was probably no larger -percentage of whose who did not like the work they were doing than there -is in the white-collar occupations. In the heavy industries -particularly, I found something like the farmer’s conviction that they -were doing a man’s job. It made them contemptuous of white-collar -workers. - -I spent quite as much time looking at homes as at plants. The test I -made of the industrial villages and of company houses was whether or no, -if I set myself to it, I could make a decent home in them. I found even -in the most barren and unattractive company districts women who had made -attractive homes. There was the greatest difference in home-making -ability, in the training of women for it. The pride of the man who had a -good housekeeper as a wife, a good cook, was great. I do not remember -that a man ever asked me to come to his house unless he considered his -wife a good housekeeper. I remember one so proud of his home that he -took me all over it, showing with delight how his Sunday clothes, his -winter overcoat, the Sunday dress of his little girl, were hung on -hangers with a calico curtain in front to keep them clean. His -housekeeper, in this case a mother-in-law, confided to me in talking -things over that night that in her judgment the reason so many men drank -was that the women did not know how to keep house. - -Visiting with the family after the supper dishes were cleared away, I -managed to get at what was most important in their lives. After steady -work it was the church. After minister or priest, the public-school -teacher was the most trusted friend of the household. In many places, -however, I found her authority beginning to be divided with the company -nurse, for the company nurse was just being added to industrial staffs. -Many of my reforming friends felt that in going into a factory and -taking a salary a nurse was aligning herself with the evil intentions of -the corporation, but the average man did not feel that way. She helped -him out in too many tight places. - -As to the relation of workmen to their union—for often they belonged to -a union—I concluded that in the average industrial community it was not -unlike that of the average citizen to his political party and political -boss. - -Both the union and the employer seemed to me to be missing opportunities -to help men to understand the structure of industry, perhaps because -they did not themselves understand it too well, or sank their -understanding in politics. Both union and employer depended upon one or -another form of force when there was unrest, rather than education and -arbitration. In doing this they weakened, perhaps in the end destroyed, -that by which they all lived. - -The most distressing thing in mills and factories seemed to me to be the -atmosphere of suspicion which had accumulated from years of appeal to -force. I felt it as soon as I went into certain plants—everybody -watching me, the guide, the boss, the men at the machines. - -But to conclude that because of this suspicion, this lack of -understanding, which keeps so many industries always on the verge of -destruction, there were no natural friendly contacts between the -management and the men is not to know the world. I found that -practically always the foreman or the boss, sometimes the big boss, in -an industry had come up from the ranks. In various industrial towns I -found the foreman’s family or the superintendent’s family living just -around the corner, and his brother, perhaps his father, working in the -mine or the mill. He was one in the family who had been able to lift -himself. Nor did it follow that there was bad blood between a “big boss” -and the head of a warlike union. I had been led to believe they did not -speak in passing. I had supposed that, if Samuel Gompers and Judge Gary -met, they would probably fly at each other’s throat; but at the -Washington Industrial Conference in 1919, standing in a corridor of the -Pan-American Building, I saw the two approaching from different -directions. They were going to pass close to me. I had a cold chill -about what might happen. But what happened was that Mr. Gompers said, -“Hello, Judge,” in the friendliest tone and Judge Gary called -cheerfully, “Hello, Sam.” And that was all there was to it. Later, when -I was to see much of Judge Gary, trying to make out what the famous Gary -code meant, and how it was being applied, we talked more than once of -Samuel Gompers and his technique. The Judge had great respect for him as -a political opponent, as well he might. - -It is hard to stop talking when I recall these four years, drifting up -and down the country into factories and homes. The contrast between old -ways and new ways was always before me. Many a sad thing I saw—nothing -more disturbing than the strikes, for I managed to get on the outskirts -of several and follow up the aftermath, which was usually tragic. - -There was the ghastly strike in certain fertilizer plants at Roosevelt -on the Jersey coast. I followed it through to its unsatisfactory end. -Rival labor and political bodies fought each other for days while the -men with drawn and hopeless faces loafed in groups in saloons or on -doorsteps. - -“All going to the devil while their unions fight,” said the woman who -gave me my meals in the only boarding house in the desolate place. “I am -for the union, but the union does not know when they go into a strike -which they can avoid what they are doing to men. It turns them into -tramps. They leave their families and take to the road. It is better -that they leave. I think the women often think that, so they won’t have -any more babies. No, the union does not see what it does to men. But -what are the men going to do when things were like they were in this -place? You know what their wages were. You know what a hellish sort of -place this is. What are they going to do?” - -It was the men who saw industry as a cooperative undertaking who gave me -heart. I do not mean political cooperation, but practical cooperation, -worked out on the ground by the persons concerned. The problems and -needs of no two industrial undertakings are ever alike. For results each -must be treated according to the situation. The greatest contributions I -found to industrial peace and stability came when a man recognized that -a condition was wrong and set out to correct it. - -There was Thomas Lynch, president of the Frick Coke Company of -Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania. Tommy Lynch had swung a pick before -John Lewis did and, like Lewis, had risen by virtue of hard work and -real ability, from one position to another—one to become the head of a -group of mines, the other to become the head of a group of miners. But -no union could keep up with Tommy Lynch in the improvements he demanded -for his mines and miners. It was he who originated the famous slogan -“Safety First.” When I talked with him about rescue crews he swore -heartily, “Damn rescue work—prevent accidents.” - -Tommy Lynch’s work did not end in the mine. He had a theory that you -could not be a good worker unless you had a good home. He literally -lifted some seven thousand company houses, which he had inherited from -an old management, out of their locations between high mountains of -lifeless slag and put them onto tillable land, gave every woman water in -her kitchen and a plot of land for a garden. - -In 1914, when I was first there, out of 7,000 homes 6,923 had gardens. -And such gardens! It took three days for Mr. Lynch and two or three -other distinguished gentlemen to decide on the winners of the nine -prizes given for the finest displays. They were estimating that the -vegetable gardens yielded $143,000 worth of vegetables that year. I went -back to see what they were doing with those gardens in the middle of the -late depression. There were even more of them, and they were even more -productive. Knowing what the garden meant, the miners had turned to the -cultivation with immense energy. The company had plowed and fertilized -tracts of untilled land near each settlement, and the men were raising -extra food for the winter. Many of these miners were selling vegetables -in the near-by town markets. - -Believing as I do that the connection of men and women with the soil is -not only most healthy for the body but essential for the mind and the -soul, these gardens aroused almost as much thankfulness in my heart as -the safety work. - -But Tommy Lynch could not have worked out his notions of safety and -gardening without the cooperation of the miners, even if it was -sometimes begrudging. - -Then there was Henry Ford attacking the problem which most concerned his -plant, labor turnover—in his case something like 1200 per cent. He had -come into the industrial picture with his minimum wage of five dollars a -day just before I began my work. In May of 1915 I set up shop for ten -days in a Detroit hotel in order to study what he was doing. The days I -spent in and around the Ford factory; nights, tired out with -observations and emotions, I came back to a hot bath and dinner in bed, -talking my findings into a dictaphone until I fell off to sleep. - -Connections had not been hard to make. There was then at the head of -Ford publicity an experienced and able gentleman who realized that -articles in _The American Magazine_ on the Ford plant, whether favorable -or not, were good for the concern, and who saw to it that I had every -chance. Mr. Ford himself was my first important objective. He saw me in -his big office looking down on the plant, a plant then employing -eighteen thousand men. At the first glimpse of his smiling face I was -startled by the resemblance to the picture of the young Lincoln which -had played such a part in the launching of the Lincoln articles in -_McClure’s_. It was the face of a poet and a philosopher, as in the -young Lincoln there was a young Emerson. - -Like a poet and a philosopher, Henry Ford was unhurried. He was no slave -to his desk. I saw it practically abandoned when he was wrestling with -the successor to Model T. “Mr. Ford does not often come in,” my -conductor told me. “He is wandering through the factories these days. We -never touch his desk.” - -He was boyish and natural in off hours. Coming into the private -lunchroom for officers at the plant, where I judged a place was always -left for him, I saw him throw his long right leg over the back of the -chair before he slid leisurely into the seat. - -“I have got an idea,” he said. “People complain about the doors of the -car—not convenient. I am going to put a can opener into every car from -now on and let them cut their own.” - -He delighted in the flow of Ford jokes, wanted to hear the latest, to -see it in the house organ. - -When he saw me, it was he who did the talking, and he seemed to be -straightening out his thoughts rather than replying to my questions. -When I asked him his reasons for mass production he had a straight-away -answer. - -“It is to give people everything they want and then some,” he said. And -then he went on to enlarge in a way I have never forgotten. - -“There’s no reason why everybody shouldn’t have everything he needs if -we managed it right, weren’t afraid of making too much. Our business is -to make things so cheap that everybody can buy ’em. Take these shears.” -He picked up a handsome pair of large shears on his desk. “They sell for -three or four dollars, I guess. No reason you couldn’t get them down to -fifty cents. Yes, fifty cents,” he repeated as I gasped. “No reason at -all. Best in the world—so every little girl in the world could have a -pair. There’s more money in giving everybody things than in keeping them -dear so only a few can have them. I want our car so cheap that every -workman in our shop can have one if he wants it. Make things everybody -can have—that’s what we want to do. And give ’em money enough. The -trouble’s been we didn’t pay men enough. High wages pay. People do more -work. We never thought we’d get back our five dollars a day; didn’t -think of it; just thought that something was wrong that so many people -were out of work and hadn’t anything saved up, and thought we ought to -divide. But we got it all back right away. That means we can make the -car cheaper, and give more men work. Of course when you’re building and -trying new things all the time you’ve got to have money; but you get it -if you make men. I don’t know that our scheme is best. It will take five -years to try it out, but we are doing the best we can and changing when -we strike a snag.” - -What it simmered down to was that if you wanted to make a business you -must make men, and you must make men by seeing that they had a chance -for what we are pleased to call these days a good life. And if they are -going to have a good life they must not only have money but have low -prices. - -There was much more, I soon found, than five dollars a day and upwards -that was behind the making of men at Ford’s. There was the most -scientific system for handling mass production processes that I had ever -seen. Tasks were graded. A workman was given every incentive to get into -higher classes. But I was not long at Ford’s before I discovered that it -was not this system, already established, it was not the five dollars, -it was not the flourishing business, it was not advertising—deeply and -efficiently and aggressively as all these things were handled—which at -the moment was absorbing the leaders of the business. It was what Mr. -Ford was calling “the making of men.” It was a thoroughly worth-while -and deeply human method. Mr. Ford knew that, do all you can for a man in -the factory—a short day, higher wages, good conditions, training, -advancement—if things are not right for him at home he will not in the -long run be a good workman. So he set out to reorganize the home life of -the men. - -It was done by a sociological department made up at that time of some -eighty men all taken out of the factory itself, for Mr. Ford’s theory -was then that, no matter what you wanted done, you could always find -somebody among the eighteen thousand “down there,” as he called it, that -was qualified. So they had selected eighty for social service work and -these men were doing it with a thoroughness and a frankness which was -almost as important as the five dollars a day had been. - -“Paternal” was the adjective generally applied to the Ford method; but -one of the interesting things about Mr. Ford is the little effect a word -has on him. Call a thing what you like, it is the idea, the method, that -he is after. If that seems to him to make sense, you may have your -word—it doesn’t trouble him. - -So they went energetically about their determination to add to what they -were doing for the making of men inside of the factory a thorough -overhauling of the men’s lives outside. There were certain things that -were laid down as essential. You had to be clean—cleanliness had played -no part in the lives of hundreds of these men. But when they did not get -their “big envelope” and asked why, they were told it was because their -hands were dirty, they didn’t wash their necks, didn’t wear clean -clothes. Ford’s men must be clean. Already it had made an astonishing -difference in the general look of the factory. And this cleanliness was -carried by the sociological department into the home. The men must be -kept clean, and the women must do their part. Many of the women as well -as the men were discovering for the first time the satisfaction of -cleanliness. “Feels good,” said a working woman to me, reluctant but -thorough convert according to my conductor. “Feels good to be clean.” - -They were enemies of liquor, and no man who drank could keep his place. -But he was not thrown out: he must reform. And some of the most -surprising cures of habitual drunkenness that I have ever come across I -found in the Ford factory in 1915. - -There was a strong sympathy throughout the factory for derelicts. There -were four hundred men in Ford’s when I was there who had served prison -terms. Nobody knew them, but each had his special guardian; and no -mother ever looked after a child more carefully than these guardians -looked after their charges. - -In this social work Mr. Ford was constantly and deeply interested. As -nearly as I could make out, there was nothing of which they all talked -more. - -I dined one night with four or five of the officers, including Mr. Ford, -and while I had expected to hear much about mass production and wage -problems the only thing I heard was, “How are you getting on with Mary?” -“How about John?” “Do you think we can make this housing scheme work?” -That is, what I was discovering at Ford’s was that they were not -thinking in terms of labor and capital, but in terms of Tom, Dick, and -Harry. They were taking men and women, individuals, families, and with -patience and sense and humor and determination were putting them on -their feet, giving them interest and direction in managing their lives. -This was the Henry Ford of 1916. - -But work like that of Tommy Lynch and Henry Ford depended upon -individual qualities of a rare and exceptional kind, also upon the -opportunity to test ideas. Neither Lynch nor Ford was willing to let bad -situations, a stiff problem alone. It challenged their wits, -particularly when it concerned men in mine and factory. They were not -hampered by dogmas or politics. They did things in their own way, and if -one method did not work tried another; and both had a rare power to -persuade men to follow them. They were self-made, unhampered products of -old-fashioned democracy, and both were thorns in the flesh of those who -worked according to blue prints, mechanized organizations or the status -quo. But the success of both with the particular labor problems they -tackled was the answer to critics. - -Only how could men of lesser personality, lesser freedom of action, and -lesser boldness in trying out things follow? They could not. They had to -have a more scientific practice if they were to achieve genuine -cooperation in working out their problems. And what I was seeing in -certain plants, as I went up and down the country, convinced me it had -come in the Frederick Taylor science of management. - -I had first heard of Taylor in the _American Magazine_ office. John -Phillips had sensed something important on foot when he read that Louis -Brandeis, acting as counsel for certain shippers in a suit they had -brought against the railroads, had told the defendants that they could -afford lower rates if they would reorganize their business on the lines -of scientific management which Frederick Taylor had developed. They -could lower rates and raise wages. - -“And who is Frederick Taylor?” asked Mr. Phillips. “Baker, you better -find out.” - -And so Frederick Taylor had come to know the _American_ group, and he -had given to the _American_, much to our pride, his first popular -article explaining what he meant by scientific management. In the -following letter Mr. Taylor tells a protesting friend why he gave it to -us: - - I have no doubt that the Atlantic Monthly would give us a better - audience from a literary point of view than we could get from the - American Magazine. But the readers of the Atlantic Monthly consist - probably very largely of professors and literary men, who would be - interested more in the abstract theory than in the actual good which - would come from the introduction of scientific management. - - On the other hand, I feel that the readers of the American Magazine - consist largely of those who are actually doing the practical work - of the world. The people whom I want to reach with the article are - principally those men who are doing the manufacturing and - construction work of our country, both employers and employees, and - I have an idea that many more persons of that kind would be reached - through the American Magazine than through the Atlantic Monthly. - - In considering the best magazine to publish the paper in, I am very - considerably influenced by the opinion I have formed of the editors - who have been here to talk over the subject; and of these Ray - Stannard Baker was by far the most thorough and enthusiastic in his - analysis of the whole subject. He looked at all sides in a way which - no other editor dreamed of doing. He even got next to the workingmen - and talked to them at great length on the subject. I cannot but - feel, also, that the audience which reads the work of men of his - type must be an intelligent and earnest audience. - - Mr. ——, who has just been here, suggested that among a certain class - of people the American Magazine is looked upon as a muckraking - magazine. I think that any magazine which opposed the - “stand-patters” and was not under the control of the moneyed powers - of the United States would now be classed among the muckrakers. - This, therefore, has no very great weight with me. - -Taylor believed like Henry Ford that the world could take all we could -make, that the power of consumption was limitless. “To give the world -all it needs is the mission of industry,” he shouted at me one day I -spent with him at Boxley (his home near Philadelphia)—shouted it with -many picturesque oaths. I have never known a man who could swear so -beautifully and so unconsciously. - -Mr. Taylor’s system in part or whole had been applied in many factories -which I visited in my four years. You knew its outward sign as soon as -you entered the yard. Order, routing, were first laws, and the old -cluttered shops where you fell over scattered material and picked your -way around dump heaps were now models of classified order. A man knew -where to find the thing he needed, and things were placed where it took -the fewest steps to reach them. - -Quite as conspicuous as the physical changes in the shop was the change -in what may be called its human atmosphere. Under the Taylor System the -business of management was not only planning but controlling what it -planned. Management laid out ahead the day’s work for each man at his -machine; to him they went with their instructions, to them he went for -explanations and suggestions. Office and shop intermingled. They -realized their mutual dependence as never before, learned to respect -each other for what they were worth. Watching the functioning, one -realized men had come to feel more or less as Taylor himself felt: that -nothing of moment was ever accomplished save by cooperation, which must -be “intimate and friendly.” Praised once for his work on the art of -cutting metal he said a thing all leaders would do well to heed: - -“I feel strongly that work of any account in order to be done rightly -should be done through true cooperation, rather than through the -individual effort of any one man; and, in fact, I should feel rather -ashamed of any achievement in which I attempted to do the whole thing -myself.” - -Nothing was more exciting to me than the principles by which Taylor had -developed his science. They were the principles he had applied to -revolutionary discoveries and inventions in engineering. I made a brief -table of them. They make the best code I know for progress in human -undertakings: - - 1) Find out what others have done before you and begin where they - left off. - - 2) Question everything—prove everything. - - 3) Tackle only one variable at a time. Shun the temptation to try - more than one in order to get quick results. - - 4) Hold surrounding conditions as constant and uniform as possible - while experimenting with your variable. - - 5) Work with all men against no one. Make them want to go along. - -There is enduring vitality in these principles and there is -universality. They are as good for battered commonwealths as for -backward disorganized industries. Think what it would mean in Washington -today if all the experimenters began where others had left off, if no -demonstrated failure was repeated, if theory was held to be but 25 per -cent of an achievement, practice 75, if one variable at a time was -experimented with, if time were taken for solutions and above all if -everybody concerned accepted “intimate and friendly” cooperation as the -most essential of all factors in our restoration. - -This hunt for practical application of the Golden Rule in industry left -me in much better spirits than my studies of transportation and tariff -privileges. The longer I looked into the latter the deeper had been my -conviction that in the long run they would ruin the hope of peaceful -unity of life in America. They seemed to me inconsistent with democracy -as I understood it and certainly inconsistent with my simple notions of -what made men and women of character. Were we not getting a larger and -larger class interested only in what money would buy? Particularly did I -dislike the spreading belief that wealth piled up by a combination of -ability, illegality, and bludgeoning could be so used as to justify -itself—that the good to be done would cancel the evil done. What it -amounted to was the promotion of humanitarianism at the expense of -Christian ethics; and that, I believe, made for moral softness instead -of stoutness. - -But there was nothing soft about the experiments I had been following. -Where they succeeded, it was by following unconsciously in general -Taylor’s stiff principles. Patient training, stern discipline, active -cooperation alone produced safety, health, efficient workmen, abundance -of cheap honest output. I had faith in these things. They were the -foundation of genuine social service. All desired goods followed them as -they became part of the nation’s habit of life, reaching down to its -lowest depths. - -Many of my reforming friends were shocked because the one and only -reason most industrial leaders gave for their experiments was that it -paid. Generally speaking, the leaders were the kind who would have cut -their tongues out before acknowledging that any other motive than profit -influenced them. Certainly they sought dividends; but they believed -stability, order, peace, progress, cooperation were back of dividends. -That industry which paid must, as Mr. Ford said, “make men.” That the -right thing paid, was one of their most far-reaching demonstrations. Men -had not believed it. They were proving the contrary; so in spite of the -charge of many of my friends that I was going over to the enemy, joining -the corporation lawyer and the company nurse, I clung to the new ideals. -What I never could make some of these friends see was that I had no -quarrel with corporate business so long as it played fair. It was the -unfairness I feared and despised. I had no quarrel with men of wealth if -they could show performance back of it untainted by privilege. - -Sometimes I suspected that the gains I set forth as practical results of -this experimenting inside industry were resented by those who had been -working for them for years through legislation, organization, agitation, -because they had come about by other methods than theirs and generally -in a more complete form than they had ventured to demand. But that the -idealists had been a driving force behind the new movement inside -industry was certain. Their method could not do the thing, but it could -and did drive men to prove it could be done. - -My critics who charged me with giving comfort to the enemy did not see -that often this enemy disliked what I was trying to do even more deeply -than my so-called muckraking. Indeed, he took those pictures of new -industrial methods and principles as a kind of backhanded -muckraking—indirect and so unfair. It threw all established methods of -force into a relief as damaging as anything I ever had said about high -duties and manipulations of railroad rates. - -Whatever challenges my new interest aroused, however confused my own -defense of it was, I knew only that I should keep my eye on it and -report any development which seemed to me a step ahead. That, of course, -was counting on continued editorial sympathy in the _American_. But -hardly had I finished my book before that sympathy was cut off by a -change in ownership. - -The change was inevitable, things being as they were in the magazine -world after 1914. The crew who had manned our little ship so gallantly -in 1906 when we left _McClure’s_ had lost only one of its numbers. A few -months after we started Lincoln Steffens withdrew. He objected to the -editing of his articles, demanded that they go in as he wrote them. The -same editorial principles were being applied to his productions that -were applied to those of other contributors. They were the principles -which he himself had been accustomed to applying and to submitting to on -_McClure’s_. The editorial board decided the policy could not be changed -and accepted Steffens’ resignation. - -Back of his withdrawal, as I saw it, was Steffens’ growing -dissatisfaction with the restrictions of journalism. He wanted a wider -field, one in which he could more directly influence political and -social leaders, preach more directly his notions of the Golden Rule, -which certainly at that time was his chosen guide. - -Certainly it was the creed of the _American_. It had always been John -Phillips’ answer to our fervent efforts to change things, “The only way -to improve the world is to persuade it to follow the Golden Rule.” - -I suppose Steffens had heard of the Golden Rule, but I am certain he had -never thought about it as a practical scheme for improving society. It -seemed to me, at the time, that it came to him as an illumination, and -for some years he held tight to it, preaching it to political bosses, to -the tycoons of Wall Street, the Brahmins of Boston, confronting them -with amazing frankness and no little satisfaction with their open -disregard of its meanings. He became greatly disillusioned finally by -discovering that men were quite willing to let their opponents act upon -the Golden Rule but much less so to be governed by it themselves. - -My first realization that Steffens was struggling with the problem which -confronted us all—that is, whether we should stick to our profession or -become propagandists—was one day when I looked up suddenly to find him -standing by my desk more sober, less certain of himself than I had ever -seen him. - -“Charles Edward Russell has gone over to the Socialist party,” he said. -“Is that not what we should all be doing? Should we not make _The -American Magazine_ a Socialist organ?” - -I flared. Our only hope for usefulness was in keeping our freedom, -avoiding dogma, I argued. And that the _American_ continued to do. - -In the years that were to come, wars and revolutions largely occupied -Steffens. Wherever there was a revolution you found him. He wrote many -brilliant comments on what was going on in the world. When he came back -from Russia after the Kerensky revolution he was like a man who had seen -a long hoped-for vision. - -“I have looked at the millennium and it works,” he told me. - -It was to be the practical application of that Golden Rule he had -so long preached. But to my mind the Russian Revolution had only -just begun. The event in which he saw the coming of the Lord I -looked on as only the first of probably many convulsions forced by -successive generations of unsatisfied radicals, irreconcilable -counterrevolutionists. When I voiced these pessimistic notions to -Steffens he called me heartless and blind. - -But there were other forces working against the type of journalism in -which we believed. We were classed as muckrakers, and the school had -been so commercialized that the public was beginning to suspect it. The -public is not as stupid as it sometimes seems. The truth of the matter -was that the muckraking school was stupid. It had lost the passion for -facts in a passion for subscriptions. - -The coming of the War in 1914 forced a new program. It became a grave -question whether, under the changed conditions, the increased confusion -of mind, the intellectual and financial uncertainties, an independent -magazine backed with little money could live. In undertaking the -_American_ we had all of us put in all the money we could lay our hands -on. We had cut the salaries of _McClure’s_ in two, reduced our scale of -living accordingly, and done it gaily as an adventure. And it had been a -fine fruitful adventure in professional comradeship. We had made a good -magazine, and we were all for making a better one and convinced we could -do it. “I don’t think,” Ray Baker wrote me not long ago, “that I look -back to any period of my life with greater interest than I do to -that—the eager enthusiasm, the earnestness, and the gaiety!” But we had -come to a time when under the new conditions the magazine required fresh -money, and we had no more to put in. - -The upshot was that in 1915 the _American_ was sold to the Crowell -Publishing Company. The new owners wanted a different type of magazine, -and John Siddall, who had been steadily with us since I had unearthed -him in Cleveland as a help in investigating the Standard Oil Company, -was made active editor. Siddall was admirably cut out to make the type -of periodical the new controlling interests wanted. I have never known -any one in or out of the profession with his omnivorous curiosity about -human beings and their ways. He had enormous admiration for achievement -of any sort, the thing done whatever its nature or trend. His interest -in humankind was not diluted by any desire to save the world. It -included all men. He had a shrewd conviction that putting things down as -they are did more to save the world than any crusade. His instincts were -entirely healthy and decent. The magazine was bound to be what we call -wholesome. Very quickly he put his impress on the new journal, made it a -fine commercial success. - -Gradually the old staff disintegrated. Peter Dunne went over to the -editorial page of _Collier’s_—Bert Boyden went to France with the -Y.M.C.A.—Mr. Phillips remained as a director and a consultant—Siddall -would hear of nothing else. “He is the greatest teacher I have ever -known. I could learn from him if I were making shoes,” he declared. And -years later when, facing his tragic death, he was preparing a new man to -take his place he told him solemnly, “Never fail to spend an hour a day -with J. S. P. just talking things over.” - -As for me it was soon obvious there was no place for my type of work on -the new _American_. If I were to be free I must again give up security. -Hardly, however, had I acted on my resolution before along came Mr. -Louis Alber of the Coit Alber Lecture Bureau, one of the best known -concerns at that time in the business. Mr. Alber had frequently invited -me to join his troupe, and always I had laughed at the invitation: I was -too busy; moreover I had no experience, did not know how to lecture. -Now, however, it was a different matter. I was free, and I might forget -the situation in which I found myself by undertaking a new type of work. -Was not lecturing a natural adjunct to my profession? Moreover, Mr. -Alber wanted me to speak on these New Ideals in Business which I had -been discussing in the magazine, and he wanted me to speak on what was -known as a Chautauqua circuit, a kind of peripatetic Chautauqua. Perhaps -my willingness to go had an element of curiosity in it, a desire to find -out what this husky child of my old friend Chautauqua was like. - -At all events I signed up for a seven weeks’ circuit, forty-nine days in -forty-nine different places. - - - - - 15 - A NEW PROFESSION - - -It was not until my signed contract to speak for forty-nine consecutive -days in forty-nine different places was laid before me that I realized I -had agreed to do what I did not know how to do. I had never in my life -stood on my feet and made a professional speech. To begin with—could I -make people hear? I felt convinced that I had something to say, and so -did my sponsors—but to what good if I could not be heard? What was this -thing they called “placing the voice”? I went to my friend Franklin -Sargent of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, told him of my -predicament. After a first test he agreed with me that I did not know -how to use my voice, and that unless I could learn I was letting myself -in for a bad failure. - -Mr. Sargent was good enough to take me on as a pupil, uninteresting a -one as I must have been. He began by putting me on the simplest -exercises but with severe instructions about keeping them up. I went -about my apartment day and night shouting “Ma, Me, Mi, Mo,” “Ba, Be, Bi, -Bo.” I learned that the voice must come from the diaphragm, and that the -diaphragm must be strong to throw it out for an hour at a time. -Regularly every morning and every night, lying on my back with books on -my stomach, I breathed deeply until I could lift four or five volumes. - -By the time the circuit opened in July I knew theoretically how to use -my voice; but I soon found that to do it without now and then getting it -into my throat, making horrible noises and throwing myself into nervous -panics, I must be more conscious of it than was good for my method of -handling my material. Indeed, it was not until my second year of -speaking that I could count on my voice for the hour of the performance. -I never came to a point where I did not have to ask that a glass of -water be put within reach—just in case. I found a glass of water a -safety device if my attention was distracted for a moment and I lost my -line of argument. I could pick it up, pretend to drink, change my -position, regain poise. - -So much for my voice. I knew how to make people hear what I was saying. -Now as to material. I was to talk on the same subject day after day. -That is, I was supposed to make daily the same speech. I was afraid of a -memorized speech. A lecture experience of my old friend George Kennan -was largely responsible for that. After he had published his classic -work on Siberia Mr. Kennan took his story to the lecture platform. He -wrote his lecture with characteristic care—memorized it and repeated it -night after night on the long tours he made. It was an admirable -lecture, one of the most moving I ever heard. - -In telling me of his platform experiences Mr. Kennan dropped this -warning: “In giving a memorized lecture one must be very careful that no -two sentences end with the same words. In my lecture on Siberia I -unwittingly used five or six identical words to end different -sentences—one near the opening, the other near the closing of my talk. -One night when perhaps I was unusually tired, instead of picking up what -followed the first sentence I picked up the words that followed the -second. That is, I was ending my lecture when I had only just begun it. -I saved myself, but after that I always took care that there were no two -sentences in my talk with identical, even similar endings.” - -My memory is a tricky and unreliable organ—never properly trained, never -held resolutely to its job. I should have been afraid to trust it on a -lecture platform. Moreover, I realized that, since I was no orator and -never should be, my only hope was to give the appearance of talking -naturally, spontaneously. I put together what seemed to me a logical -framework and decided to drape it afresh every day, never to begin with -the same words, to use fresh illustrations, to think aloud, -experimenting. I soon discovered a fresh beginning every day was too -much to ask of myself under the conditions of travel. I found it -foolish, too, for if I had struck an opening that arrested attention, -why change it for one that might not? I soon found that illustrations -which were all right in an article did not serve with an audience. The -line of argument which I would have followed in an article became more -effective on a platform if switched. That is, as it turned out, although -I was giving the same lecture every day, it was never quite the same. I -worked on it constantly; and that is what kept my interest. I think, -because always I found however tired I might be, however much I despised -myself for undertaking to do what I more and more realized I did not -know how to do, I always was interested in my subject, talking as if it -was something of which I had never talked before. It was that personal -interest in my material which carried me through. - -I had not given a thought in advance to the physical aspect of my -undertaking. I had known that every day for forty-nine days I was to -speak in a different place; I knew that meant daily traveling, but that -had not disturbed me. I had always prided myself that I was superior to -physical surroundings. I had not been long on the Chautauqua Circuit -before I was realizing that they played an enormous part in my day. I -found I was inquiring about the town to which we were headed: “How about -the hotel? Are there bathrooms? If so, am I to get one?” - -I was uneasy about the table—the ideas of cooking and serving—and at -night about the noises, the drafts and other unmentionable worries. To -my amazement the bed in which I was to sleep soon was taking an -altogether disproportionate place in my mind. It is a fact that, when -the circuit was over and I came to tell its story, I could draw a -diagram of any one of the rooms in which I had slept, giving the exact -location of the bed in relation to windows and doors and bathroom. I -remembered these beds when I did not remember the hotel. - -To my surprise I found myself deeply interested in the physical life of -the circuit, so like the life of the circus. We performed in tents, and -our outfit was as gay as ever you saw—khaki tents bound in red, with a -great khaki fence about, pennants floating up and down the streets, and -within, order, cleanliness, and the smartest kind of little platform and -side dressing rooms. - -Naturally I had no little curiosity about my traveling companions. -Scoffing eastern friends told me that there would be bell ringers, -trained dogs, and Tyrolese yodelers. I found no such entertainment, but -I could hardly have fallen in with pleasanter company. A quintette of -young people whose business it was to sing for three-quarters of an hour -before my afternoon lecture and for a like period before the evening -entertainment, proved to be the gayest, kindest, healthiest of -companions. They were hard workers, seriously interested in pleasing -their audiences. They knew not only how to work, but how to live on the -kind of junket that I had undertaken. In other words, here was a group -of five young people who were doing what to me was very unusual, in a -thoroughly professional way. The seventh member of our party, the -evening entertainer, Sydney Landon, had had long experience on the -circuit. He was doing his work exactly as a good writer or a good lawyer -would do his. I saw at once that what I had joined was not, as I had -hastily imagined, a haphazard semi-business, semi-philanthropic, -happy-go-lucky new kind of barnstorming. It was serious work. - -In starting the Chautauqua work I was not conscious that there was a -large percentage of condescension in my attitude. My first audience -revealed my mind to me with painful definiteness, and humbled me beyond -expression. It was all so unlike anything that I had had in my mind. I -was to speak in the evening and arrived at my destination late and after -a rather hard day. It was a steel town—one which I had known long years -before. The picturesqueness of the thing struck me with amazement. -Planted on an open space in the straggling, dimly lighted streets, where -the heavy panting of the blast furnaces could be clearly heard, I saw -the tent ablaze with electric lights, for, if you please, we carried our -own electric equipment. From all directions men, women, and children -were flocking—white shirtwaists in profusion, few coats, and still fewer -hats. And there were so many of them! I felt a queer sensation of alarm. -Here in the high-banked tiers were scores upon scores of serious faces -of hard-working men. I had come to talk about the hopeful and optimistic -things that I had seen in the industrial life of the country; but face -to face with these men, within sound of the heavy panting of great -furnaces, within sight of the unpainted, undrained rows of company -houses which I had noticed as I came in on the train, the memory of many -a long and bitter labor struggle that I had known of in that valley came -to life, and all my pretty tales seemed now terribly flimsy. They were -so serious, they listened so intently to get something; and the tragedy -was that I had not more to give them. This was my first audience. I -never had another that made so deep an impression upon me. - -I had not been long on the Circuit before I realized that my audience -had only a languid interest in my subject, that what they were really -interested in, wanted to hear and talk about, was the War, then ending -its second year. But I could not talk about the War. Nothing had ever so -engulfed me as in a black fog, closed my mouth, confused my mind. -Chiefly this was because of the apparent collapse of organized efforts -to persuade or to force peaceful settlements of international quarrels. -These had taken so large a place in the thinking and agitating of the -liberal-minded with whom I lived that I had begun to delude myself that -they were actually strong enough to prevent future wars. Largely these -efforts were the result of the revulsion the conflicts of the nineties -had caused; the Boer War, the Greco-Turkish War, the Spanish War. People -who wanted to live in peace wrote books, talked, organized -societies—national and international. Jane Addams stirred the -English-speaking world by her “Newer Ideals of Peace.” William H. Taft, -Elihu Root, leading public men, educators, combined in one or another -society advocating this or that form of machinery. - -And while this was going on Theodore Roosevelt was doing his best to -counteract it by his bold talk of war as a maker of men, the only -adequate machine for preparing human beings for the beneficent strenuous -life he advocated. - -What was the _American Magazine_ to do about it? It seemed to us that we -ought to find some answer to Theodore Roosevelt. Certainly we could not -do it by promoting organized efforts; certainly not by preaching. We -must prove him wrong. - -In 1910 our attention was turned to what seemed a possibly useful -educational effort against war, inaugurated at Stanford University by -its president, David Starr Jordan. I knew Dr. Jordan slightly. His -argument for opening the channels of world trade in the interest of -peace had helped keep up my spirits when laboring against the tariff -lobbies that so effectively closed them. What were they doing in -Stanford? It was decided that I go out and see; at least there might be -material for an article or two. Early in 1911 Dr. Jordan arranged that I -spend a few weeks at the university. He was very cordial, meeting me at -Los Angeles, where I arrived low in mind and body from an attack of -influenza. - -There was to be a peace meeting that night—Dr. Jordan was to speak. They -had announced me, and when I refused to get out of my bed they took it -as proof of indifference to the cause. The truth was that the idea of -speaking extemporaneously was at that time terrifying to me; ill too, I -could not, or perhaps would not, rally my forces. I would rather be -regarded as a sneak than attempt it. - -But Dr. Jordan understood and laughed off my apology, and together we -made a leisurely trip to Palo Alto. He was a delightful companion when -he felt like talking, as he often did! There was nothing which did not -interest him. Looking out of the car window, he talked not of peace at -all but of birds and trees and fishes and Roosevelt and the recent -earthquake. - -At Palo Alto I found that the most exciting course then offered to the -students was the six weeks on war and peace which I had come to study. -The big assembly room was packed for all the public lectures. Among the -advanced students following the course were several who have since made -names for themselves: Bruce Bliven, Robert L. Duffus, Maxwell Anderson. - -There was considerable intensive work on special themes. One student was -collecting war slogans; another, making a comparison of declarations of -war, each of which called God to witness that its cause was just. -Another student was compiling tables showing the yearly increase in the -costs of armament in the twenty years from 1890 on; another, the -economic losses through the devastations caused by war; and so on. All -interesting and useful material. - -But, study the work as closely as I could, I could not for the life of -me lay my hands on that definite something which the _American_ needed. -Finally I took my discouragement to Dr. Jordan, and together we planned -collaboration on a series of articles to be called “The Case Against -War.” Dr. Jordan in his autobiography, “The Days of a Man,” tells of our -scheme and what became of it; “crowding events permitted war to frame -its own case.” - -In August, 1914, all of the machinery on which peace lovers had counted -collapsed. The Socialists in a body in every country took up arms; so -did organized labor, so did the professional advocates of peace. - -It was not only this collapse of effort that had stunned me. From the -hour war was declared I had a sense of doom quite inexplicable in so -matter-of-fact a person. We should go in; of that, I felt certain. After -we did go in John Siddall more than once recalled how in August of 1914, -when a party of us were dining at the then popular Hungarian Restaurant -on Houston Street, I had said that before the thing was ended the United -States, the world, would be in. - -“You are a prophet,” Siddall would laugh. - -But I was not a prophet. It was the logic of my conviction that the -world is one, that isolation of nations is as fantastic as isolation of -the earth from the solar system, the solar system from the universe. - -All this made a species of Fabian pacifist of me. I was for anything -that looked to peace, to neutrality, but it was always with the hopeless -feeling that one simply must do what one can if the house is on fire. - -I could not share the hate of Germany, in spite of my profound devotion -to France, my conviction that Germany had believed a war of conquest -essential to realize what she called her destiny, that she had been -consciously preparing for it, that she thought the Day had come when she -could venture it. - -The awful thing seemed too big for hate by puny humans, and I was amazed -and no little shocked soon after the outbreak when, visiting my friend -John Burroughs at Squirrel Lodge in the Catskills, I found him whom I -had always regarded as an apostle of peace and light in a continuous -angry fever against all things German. Woodchucks were troubling his -corn, and every morning he went out with his gun. “Another damned Hun,” -he would cry savagely when he returned with his dead game. - -Time did not cure John Burroughs’ wrath, for in December, 1917, he -pledged himself in an open letter published in the New York _Tribune_ -never to read a German book, never to buy an article of German make. But -John Burroughs was not the only one of my supposedly gentle-souled -friends who felt this serious necessity to punish not only now but -forever. - -I was too befogged to hate or to take part in the organizations looking -to ending the War which sprang up all about, and which I felt so -despairingly were all futile. - -There was Mr. Ford’s Peace Ship. Mr. Ford had startled me one day in the -spring of 1915, when in Detroit I was observing his methods for making -men, by saying suddenly: “You know I am rather coming to the conclusion -that we ought to join the Allies. If we go in we can finish the thing -quickly. And that is what should be done. As it is now, they will fight -to a finish. It ought some way to be stopped, and I see no other way.” - -Six months later Mr. Ford called me up at my home in New York and asked -if I would not come to his hotel: he and Miss Addams wanted to talk with -me. Of course I went at once. - -It is curious how sometimes, when one steps inside a door without -knowing what is behind it, one senses caution. The door was open to Mr. -Ford’s suite—nobody in sight, no answer to my ring; but I could hear -voices and followed them to a room at the end of the hall. Mr. Ford was -standing in the corner facing me. Before him were two rows of -men—reporters, I knew. - -“Here, boys, is Miss Tarbell—she will go with us,” he called. - -“Go where, Mr. Ford?” I asked. - -“Oh,” he said, “we are chartering a Peace Ship. We are going to Europe -and get the boys out of the trenches by Christmas.” - -I had a terrible sinking of heart. “Oh, Mr. Ford, I don’t think I could -go on such an expedition!” - -“Come with me and we will convince you.” - -And he led me into a room where Madame Rosika Schwimmer and my old -friend Fred Howe were talking—Jane Addams was not there. - -“Tell Miss Tarbell what we are going to do. We want her to go along.” -And he went back to the reporters. - -I put in one of the most difficult hours of my life. Madame Schwimmer -argued ably; so did Mr. Howe; and all that I could say was, feeling like -a poor worm as I said it, “I can’t see it.” - -When Mr. Ford came back and they told him, “She can’t see it,” I tried -to explain my doubts. He listened intently and then very gently said, -“Don’t bother her—she’ll come.” - -On top of this interview came a long telegram followed by a longer -letter, both signed by Henry Ford. I doubt now if he ever saw either of -them. Certainly the signature at the foot of the letter is not his. I am -putting them in here, long as they are, because they are important in -the history of the Peace Ship, and so far as I know have never been -printed. Here they are: - - November 24, 1915 - - Will you come as my guest aboard the Oscar Second of the - Scandinavian-American Line sailing from New York December fourth for - Christiania, Stockholm and Copenhagen? I am cabling leading men and - women of the European Nations to join us en route and at some - central point to be determined later establish an International - Conference dedicated to negotiations leading to a just settlement of - the War. A hundred representative Americans are being invited among - whom Jane Addams, Thomas A. Edison and John Wanamaker have accepted - today. Full letter follows. With twenty thousand men killed every - twenty four hours, tens of thousands maimed, homes ruined, another - winter begun, the time has come for a few men and women with courage - and energy irrespective of the cost in personal inconvenience, money - sacrifice and criticism to free the good will of Europe that it may - assert itself for peace and justice with the strong probability that - international disarmament can be accomplished. Please wire reply. - - November 27, 1915 - - Dear Miss Tarbell:— - - From the moment I realized that the world situation demands - immediate action, if we do not want the war fire to spread any - further, I joined those international forces which are working - toward ending this unparalleled catastrophe. This I recognize as my - human duty. - - There is full evidence that the carnage, which already has cost ten - millions of lives, can and is expected to be stopped through the - agency of a mediating conference of the six disinterested European - nations, Holland, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Switzerland, Spain, and - the United States. - - Envoys to thirteen belligerent and neutral European governments have - ascertained in forty visits that there is a universal peace desire. - This peace desire, for the sake of diplomatic etiquette, never can - be expressed openly, or publicly, until one side, or the other, is - definitely defeated, or until both sides are entirely exhausted. - - For fifteen months the people of the world have waited for the - governments to act; have waited for governments to lead Europe out - of its unspeakable agony and suffering and to prevent Europe’s - entire destruction. As European neutral governments are unable to - act without the cooperation of our government, and as our - government, for unknown reasons, has not offered this cooperation, - no further time can be wasted in waiting for governmental action. - - In order that their sacrifice may not have been in vain, humanity - owes it to the millions of men led like cattle to the slaughter - house, that a supreme effort be made to stop this wicked waste of - life. - - The people of the belligerent countries did not want the war. The - people did not make it. The people want peace. It is their human - right to get a chance to make it. The world looks to us, to America, - to lead in ideals. The greatest mission ever before a nation is - ours. - - This is why I appealed to you, as a representative of American - democracy, in my telegram of the twenty-fourth. It is for this same - reason that I repeat my appeal to you and urge you to join a peace - pilgrimage. - - Men and women of our country, representing all of its ideals and all - of its activities, will start from New York on the 4th of December - aboard the Scandinavian-American Steamship Oscar II. The peace ship - that carries the American delegation will proceed to Christiania, - where Norway’s valiant sons and daughters will join the crusade. In - Stockholm, the ship’s company will be reinforced by the choicest of - Sweden’s democracy. The crusade will then go on to Copenhagen, where - further harbingers of peace will be foregathered. - - These various groups will add such momentum to the crusade that when - the pilgrims reach The Hague, with its achievements of international - justice and comity, the moral power of the peace movement will be - irresistible. In The Hague we hope to meet delegations from - Switzerland and from Spain. - - From all these various delegations will be selected a small - deliberative body which shall sit in one of the neutral capitals. - Here it will be joined by a limited number of authorities of - international promise from each belligerent country. This - International Conference will frame terms of peace, based on justice - for all, regardless of the military situation. - - This International Conference will be an agency for continuous - mediation. It will be dedicated to the stoppage of this hideous - international carnage and further dedicated to the prevention of - future wars through the abolition of competitive armaments. - - In case of a governmental call for an official neutral conference - before the Peace Ship departs from New York, or even reaches - European shores, our party will continue on its mission, rejoicing - that the official gathering has materialized. We will then place our - united strength solidly behind those entrusted by the governments to - carry on the peace negotiations. - - In The Hague the members of the Peace Pilgrimage will dissolve. - Accommodations will be provided for each one back to his home. It is - impossible to determine the exact length of time the pilgrimage will - take. Six weeks, however, should be allowed. - - I respectfully beg of you to respond to the call of humanity and - join the consecrated spirits who have already signified a desire to - help make history in a new way. The people of Europe cry out to you. - - Information about the meeting place in New York, the hour of - sailing, the amount of luggage, your accommodations, etc., will be - sent as soon as we have your reply. I should appreciate it if you - would telegraph your affirmative decision. Will you send it to the - Hotel Biltmore, Suite 717, New York, our temporary headquarters. - - Yours for peace - HENRY FORD. - -I have no copies of my replies, but I know the gist of them must have -been a heavy-hearted “I can’t do it, Mr. Ford.” - -The night after my visit to the hotel Miss Addams called me up, and for -a half-hour we argued the matter on the telephone. All I could say was: -“If you see it you must go, Miss Addams. I don’t see it and I can’t. It -is possible that standing on the street corner and crying, ‘Peace, -Peace,’ may do good. I do not say that it will not, but I cannot see it -for myself.” - -We were to talk it over in the morning, but that night they took her to -Chicago, hurried her into a hospital. She was very ill. Jane Addams did -not go on the Peace Ship. - -Years after, I asked her, “Would you have gone if you had not been ill?” - -“I certainly should,” she said. “There was a chance, and I was for -taking every chance.” - -She always took every chance when it was a matter of human relief. And -if she had gone things would have been different on the Peace Ship, for -she and not Madame Schwimmer would have been in command. She saw quite -clearly the managerial tendencies of Madame Schwimmer, but she saw also -her abilities. She was not willing because of doubts to throw over a -chance to strengthen the demand for peace, and she undoubtedly trusted -to her own long experience in handling people to handle Madame -Schwimmer. But she did not go. - -It was a tragedy of hasty action, of attempting a great end without -proper preparation. Mr. Ford would never have attempted to build a new -type of automobile engine as he attempted to handle the most powerful -thing in the world—the unbridled passions of men organized to come to a -conclusion by killing one another. - -The Peace Ship was a failure; but so were the under-cover official -efforts the President and his sympathizers then steadily pushed. Things -grew blacker. The day when we would go in seemed always nearer to me. In -February of 1916 my depression was deepened by hearing Mr. Wilson -himself admit it. My friends Secretary and Mrs. Daniels had been so -gracious as to include me among their guests at the Cabinet dinner they -were giving in honor of the President and the new Mrs. Wilson. - -We were all standing in the Daniels drawing room waiting their arrival. -I was talking so interestedly with somebody that I had forgotten what it -was all about, when I was conscious of a distinguished pair in the -doorway. It took me an instant to remember what we were there for, and -that this was the President and his lady. How they looked the part! - -At the dinner table the President was gay, telling stories, quoting -limericks. Later, when it came my turn to talk to him and I told him how -charming I had found Mrs. Wilson’s animation and lively wit, he rather -eagerly fell to talking of her and, to my amazed delight, of the -difficulties of courting a lady when each time he calls the house is -surrounded by secret service men! - -Dropping his gaiety, he told me a little of the situation at the moment. -“I never go to bed without realizing that I may be called up by news -that will mean that we are at war. Before tomorrow morning we may be at -war. It is harder because the reports that come to us must be kept -secret. Hasty action, indiscretion might plunge us into a dangerous -situation when a little care would entirely change the face of things. -My great duty is not to see red.” - -I carried away from that dinner a feeling of the tremendous difficulty, -of the tremendous threat under which we lived, and of a man that had -steeled himself to see us through. It strengthened my confidence in him. - -But of all this I could say nothing on my Chautauqua circuit, even when -I began to realize that, more than anything else, these people were -interested in the War. - -One of the most convincing proofs I received of this came from things I -overheard at night. We ended our circuit with a siege of terrific -heat—the kind of heat that made sleep impossible. The best room you -could get was generally on the second-floor front. You pulled your bed -to the window, and lay with your head practically out; but if you could -not sleep you would certainly be entertained, for on the sidewalks below -there would gather, around nine-thirty or ten, a little group of -citizens who had come downtown after supper “to see a man.” Shopkeepers, -laborers, traveling men, lawyers, and occasional preachers and hotel -keepers would sit out talking war, preparedness, neutrality, Wilson, -Hughes, for half the night. - -“Look at them,” said a talkative Congressional candidate. “Four years -ago I could have told how practically every one of the men in this town -would vote in November. I can’t do it today. Nobody can. They are freed -from partisanship, as I could never have believed. They are out there -now thrashing over Wilson and Hughes, and not 25 per cent of them know -which it will be when election day comes.” - -More and more I came to feel that you could count on these people for -any effort or sacrifice that they believed necessary. One of the most -revealing things about a country is the way it takes the threat of war. -Just after we started, the call for troops for Mexico came. It seemed as -if war were inevitable. There was no undue excitement where we traveled, -but boys in khaki seemed to spring out of the ground. - -I shall never forget one scene, which was being duplicated in many -places in that region. We were in an old mountain town in Pennsylvania. -Our hotel was on the public square, a small plot encircled by a row of -dignified, old-fashioned buildings. In the center stood a band-stand, -and beside it a foolish little stone soldier mounted on an overhigh -pedestal—a Civil War monument. We were told that on the square at -half-past nine in the evening a town meeting would be called to say -good-bye to the boys who were “off to Mexico on the ten-thirty.” “How -many of them?” I asked. “One hundred and thirty-five,” was the answer. -And this was a town of not over twenty-eight hundred people. - -As the hour approached, the whole town gathered. It came quietly, as if -for some natural weekly meeting; but a little before ten o’clock we -heard the drum and fife, and down the street came a procession that set -my heart thumping. Close beside the City Fathers and speakers came a -dozen old soldiers, some of them in faded blue, two or three on -crutches, and behind them the boys, one hundred and thirty-five of -them—sober, consciously erect, their eyes straight ahead, their step so -full of youth. - -The procession formed before the little stone soldier, who somehow -suddenly became anything but foolish; he took on dignity and power as -had the boys in rank—boys whom, if I had seen them the day before, I -might have called unthinking, shiftless, unreliable. The mayor, the -ministers, a former Congressman, all talked. There was a prayer, the -crowd in solemn tones sang “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” There was a curt -order; the procession re-formed; the old soldiers led the way, and the -town followed the boys to the “ten-thirty.” - -Nothing could have equaled the impression made by the quietness and the -naturalness of the proceedings. Beside the continuous agitations and -hysteria to which the East had treated us in the last two and a half -years, this dignity, this immediate action, this willingness to see it -through, gave one a solemn sense of the power and trustworthiness of -this people. It was a realization that I should have been willing to pay -almost any price to come to. Certainly it more than paid me for my -forty-nine nights in forty-nine different beds. - -Eight months later this impression of the steadiness of the people under -the threat of war was deepened. After my Chautauqua circuit, which I had -supposed to be a temporary adventure, the lecture bureau asked to book -me for a month of lyceum work, most of it in the Middle West. Late in -January of 1917 I started out. - -I was on the road when the break with Germany came. Our evening papers -of February 3rd had the digest of the President’s speech to Congress. -The next Sunday morning there was the full text. I went out to walk -early that morning, and one of the first things I saw was a lively row -in front of a barber shop. Inquiring, I found that a big Swede had -expressed sympathy with the Kaiser, and was being thrown into the -street. At the hotel, my chambermaid, the elevator boy, the table -waiter, did not wait for me to introduce the subject. Everybody was -talking about what the break meant—war of course. They were ready, they -said. - -As the days went on, I found that was the opinion of everybody. One -morning I landed at a railway junction town, with no train until late -afternoon. It was a forlorn place at any time, but deadly now, with the -thermometer around twenty below. A friendly ticket agent warned me that -the only hotel was no place for ladies, and sent me off into the -territory beyond the railroad shops to a dingy-looking house which, he -said, was kept by a woman who was clean and decent. It was anything but -inviting on the outside, but travelers who are choosers are poor sports. -The woman gave me a room and, following the only wisdom for the lecturer -who would keep himself fit, I went to bed. It was four o’clock in the -afternoon when I came down. The woman of the house, whom I had found in -the morning rubbing out clothes, was in a fresh gingham dress, sitting -in the living room reading the Chicago _Tribune_. Beside her lay a copy -of the _Record Herald_. I found that this woman since the beginning of -the trouble in Europe had been reading full details in these admirably -edited newspapers. She had not been for a war, she said, until they went -back on their word. - -“That settled it for everybody out here. Now,” she said, “there is -nothing else to do.” - -I do not know how often I heard those words in the days that followed. -When the President said of America in closing his address to Congress on -April 2, 1917, “God helping her she can do no other,” he was only -expressing that to which the majority of the people of the West, as I -heard them, had made up their minds. - -Closely watching, I personally felt utterly remote. There was nothing -for me to do. In the pandemonium of opinion nothing I could say or do -would hinder or help, and so I went on with my daily rounds. - -I was speaking at a big dinner in Cleveland early in April when a -telegram was handed to me, signed by the President. It appointed me a -member of what he called the Woman’s Committee of the Council of -National Defense. - -I did not know what the appointment meant, but when your Government is -trying to put through a war, whether you approve or not, I had long ago -concluded that as for me I would do whatever I was asked to do. And so I -sent at once an acceptance of what I took as an order. Two weeks later I -received my first instructions. They came from the head of the -committee, Dr. Anna H. Shaw. - - - - - 16 - WOMEN AND WAR - - -What is it all about? That is what we asked ourselves when on May 2nd, -answering the call of our chairman Dr. Anna Shaw, we met in Washington. -And where were we to sit? We were but one of many anxious, confused, -scrambling committees for which a place must be found. Our predicament -was settled by finding a room somewhere on Pennsylvania Avenue—a dreary -room with a rough table and not enough chairs to go around. My first -contribution to winning the War was looting chairs from adjacent -offices. My success gave me hope that after all I might be at least an -errand boy in the war machine. - -It was not long, however, before the Woman’s Committee was a beneficiary -of the civilian outbreak of patriotic generosity which had swept -Washington. “You may have our house, our apartment,” people cried. A -fine and spacious old house close to Connecticut Avenue facing the -British Embassy was offered us, a much more comfortable and dignified -headquarters than I think we expected under the conditions. We remained -there throughout the War. - -But what were we there for? The Administration had called us into being. -What did it expect of us? It was quickly obvious that what it wanted at -the moment was an official group to which it could refer the zealous and -importuning women who wanted to “help,” the various organizations -already mobilizing women for action. Considerable rivalry had developed -between them, and it was certain to become more and more embarrassing. -Our committee had been cleverly organized to spike this rivalry, -including as it did the presidents of the leading national groups of -women: the National Suffrage Society, the Women’s Federation of Clubs, -the National Women’s Council, the Colonial Dames, the National League -for Women’s Service. Everybody in the list represented something except -myself. I was a lone journalist with no active connection with any -organization or publication. I was conscious that that was against me in -the committee though apparently it had not been in the minds of -President Wilson and Secretary Baker. - -We were not an independent body, but one of the many subsidiaries of the -Council of National Defense, the managing head of which was the present -president of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company, Walter -Gifford—a man of intelligence, sense, amazing self-control and patience. -This I had reason to know, as I frequently represented the committee -before him. - -The fact that we had to go to men for orders irritated Dr. Shaw from the -start. She felt we ought to be able to decide for ourselves what women -should do, or at least she, the head of the committee, should sit on the -Council of National Defense. I think Dr. Anna never quite forgave the -Administration for subjecting us to the directions of man, whose -exclusive authority in world affairs she had so long disputed. - -Our mandate had been to consider women’s defense work for the nation. -But what were we to do with the results of our consideration, our -recommendations? Our conclusion was that we must find a way to get them -to the women of the country. To do that, we must coordinate the various -agencies represented in our body, enlist others, create a channel for -the Government’s requests and orders. It meant organization. Here we -were strong, for Dr. Shaw and Carrie Chapman Catt were the most -experienced and successful organizers of women in the country. Moreover, -they could command not only the organizations which they had created -but, through their partners on the committee, other great national -groups. To me the way that organization came into existence so quickly -and so quietly was magic, unaccustomed as I was to organization in any -form. It was not long before every state, every county, practically -every community, had a branch of the Woman’s Committee of the Council of -National Defense. Before the year was up there were states which in -twenty-four hours after receiving our requests could pass them down to -their remotest corner. - -From the start the committee worked—Dr. Anna saw to that. She and Mrs. -Catt settled down in Washington. For myself I canceled two book -contracts, determined to do what I could, indefinite as the task seemed. -We met regularly; we kept office hours; we were keen to make something -of our job. - -The committee took it for granted that we were to handle the food -problem already looming so large. By midsummer we had our organizations -everywhere, planting and hoeing. On top of this came dehydration, and we -had many hot discussions about the best method. I remember a morning -when the committee gave itself over to reminiscences of helping -grandmother string apples for drying, of the way mother dried corn and -berries. - -Then came canning—the larder was to be full. We were pretty well under -way and rather proud of ourselves, thinking this was a special job, when -Herbert Hoover came back from feeding Europe and was put at the head of -the American Food Administration in a building of his own, practically a -dictator of the food of America. Obviously Mr. Hoover was the one man in -the world who could properly manage the huge and many-sided job; but it -caused considerable heartburning in the Woman’s Committee that gardening -and canning and drying should not be left entirely to us. Were we not -already in the field? Had we not an organization which was rapidly -extending to the last woman in the country? Were they not digging and -planting and canning and saving? But in spite of Dr. Anna’s bristling -opposition we were soon put in our place, made an auxiliary. It fell to -me to act as liaison officer, which amounted to nothing more than -finding out at food headquarters what they wanted from women and passing -it on. - -What we soon had contrived to become, thanks largely to Dr. Anna and -Mrs. Catt, was a free channel through which we could pour speedily and -uninterruptedly any request which came to us from any department of the -war machine. We developed a disciplined army with other things to do -than knitting and bandage making, gardening and canning, essential and -important as these were. - -Our most useful service, as I see it, was a growing activity in -preventing the machinery of daily life from rusting in the storm of war. -Take the women going in droves into industry. For the most part they -were as untrained as the boys drafted into the Army, as willing as these -to take it, throw themselves away. - -Jane Addams had said to me at the beginning of the War: “Everything that -we have gained in the way of social legislation will be destroyed. It -will throw us back where we were twenty-five years ago.” - -That did not seem to me to be necessary nor indeed to be the way things -were already going. Take this woman in industry for whom Miss Addams was -especially alarmed. Recruiting for munition factories had been pushed -before we went into the War by the National League for Woman’s Service, -of which Maude Wetmore, a member of the Woman’s Committee, was chairman. -As early as March, 1917, the league was at work in the Department of -Labor. Soon after war was declared the President and the Secretaries of -War and Labor called for general support of labor laws for women as well -as for men. Mrs. J. Borden Harriman was soon made chairman of a -committee on women in industry of the Council of National Defense. About -the same time our committee created a department to handle the problem -and was given a tenth member from the ranks of organized women—Miss -Agnes Nestor of Chicago, a leader in the glove workers’ union. We were a -little concerned about the new appointee, but Miss Nestor from the start -was one of the most useful members of the committee—wise and patient in -understanding all problems though naturally concentrated chiefly on her -own, which were grave enough, because of the rapid multiplication of -agencies with their unavoidable rivalries and jealousies. - -The determination not only to protect woman in her new capacity but -educate her, thrust her ahead, was strong. Representatives of organized -women met in Kansas City in June demanding new standards for war -contracts. The upshot was that Florence Kelley was made a member of the -Board of Control of Labor standards for Army Clothing. Things went -rapidly after that. A woman’s division was created in January in the -United States Employment Service with Mrs. H. M. Richard at its head. -About the same time Mary Van Kleeck was made head of a woman’s branch in -the Ordnance Service and our Agnes Nestor, who had by this time become -generally recognized for her intelligence and steadiness, was appointed -on the newly formed advisory council to the Secretary of Labor in war -labor legislation. - -Agnes Nestor and Mary Anderson, the present head of the Women’s Bureau -of the Department of Labor, demonstrated as I had never seen it the -education to be had in a labor organization which seeks by arbitration -and more arbitration and still more arbitration to improve its situation -without weakening the industry by which it lives, one that appeals to -force only as a last resort, never as a mere threat. - -What all this amounts to is that through the activities of women in and -out of industry there was a steady clarification and strengthening of -our position. - -The chief service of the Woman’s Committee in the matter was seeing that -full information of what was going on was sent broadcast. Miss Nestor’s -reports reached women in quarters where labor standards had probably -never been heard of. In our bulletins we kept up a constant stream of -news items of what women were doing in industry not only in this country -but in others. To make our vast horde conscious of the needs of sisters -at the machine, eager to support what the Government had decided was -right and just for her protection, was our aim. We did our part in -proving that even in war determined women can not only prevent backward -movements but even move forward. - -Similar to what we did for the woman in industry was the help we were -able to give to the Children’s Bureau. Julia Lathrop, its head, told us -how its work was falling behind: playgrounds in many places given up, -maternity work shut down. Could we help to stem this backward flow? We -turned our machinery at once to the support of the bureau. Women in -districts where its work had never been known were aroused to establish -nursing centers, look after maternity cases, interest themselves afresh -in what was happening to children. It was a work of education as well as -of renewal. - -Julia Lathrop told me one day just before the committee went out of -existence that the work of her bureau had been extended more in the few -months that we had been promoting it than it could have been with their -machinery in as many years. - -As the effectiveness of our national channel began to be understood, -naturally enough all sorts of requests came to help out in putting over -this or that scheme, to grant favors for this or that friend. While the -majority of such efforts were entirely legitimate, there were some of -dubious character. - -I recall an amusing illustration of the latter. Just after war began to -take its toll the Gold Star Mothers were organized, and our committee -was asked to prepare an official arm band with a gold star or stars. The -idea had not been noised about before a gentleman high in the counsels -of the nation came to us with the request that we make the badge not of -black as decided but purple—purple velvet. His reason was that a friend -of his, a manufacturer of velvet, had on hand some thousands of yards of -purple velvet which he would like to dispose of. We did not see our way -to change our choice of color and material. - -A request which led to a peck of trouble for me came from the two -persons in the country I least expected to look to us for help—Loie -Fuller and Sam Hill, friends of Queen Marie of Rumania. If I remember -correctly they wanted us to bring her over in the interest of the Allied -cause. We compromised by promising to send her a message of sympathy. I -was commissioned to see that it was properly illuminated, and through my -affiliation with the Pen and Brush Club of New York, a group of women -writers and artists, a really beautiful parchment roll was turned out. -We were so pleased with it that we had one made for Queen Elisabeth of -Belgium. - -But how were we going to get them to the Queens? Mr. Gifford of the -Council was unsympathetic. No one would have dared suggest to Mr. -Lansing that the State Department interest itself. The War Department -could not be expected to carry them. Those messages lay about the -Woman’s Committee for weeks a burden and finally a joke, a burden and a -joke which was thrown on my shoulders when in January of 1919 I went to -Paris for observation for the _Red Cross Magazine_. Surely in Paris -there would be some way of delivering them. It was Robert Bliss of our -Embassy who came to my help in the case of Queen Marie, and much to my -relief passed the roll on—to a representative of the Rumanian -Government, I understood, although I never had any diplomatic assurance -that it really landed on the desk of the Queen. - -As to the message to Queen Elisabeth, Mrs. Vernon Kellogg, who was -_persona grata_ with the Queen, was in Paris and, knowing that she was -going back to Brussels, I hastened to her with my roll, told her my -predicament, begged her to take it off my hands, which she kindly did. -And that was the last I heard of the messages to the Queens. - -By the end of our first year I was persuaded that the making of a -permanent Federal agency lay in the Woman’s Committee. I took my notion -to the Secretary of the Interior, Franklin Lane, who had proved a -helpful friend of the committee in moments of strain. - -“Why,” I asked, “could not the present Woman’s Committee be continued -after the War in the Department of the Interior? Why could it not be put -under a woman assistant secretary and used as a channel to carry to -women in the last outposts of the country knowledge of what the various -departments of the Government are doing for the improvement of the life -of the people? You know how limited is the reach of many of the findings -of the bureaus of research, of their planning for health and education -and training? Why not do for peace what we are doing for war?” - -Secretary Lane was interested, but in the committee itself there was -little response. Dr. Anna pooh-poohed it. It was too limited a -recognition. What she wanted was a representative in the Cabinet, and -she was unwilling to take anything else. - -It is possible that Dr. Anna did not want to encourage ideas concerning -women from a woman as lukewarm as I had always been in the matter of -suffrage. She wanted a committee as actively interested in pushing ahead -the cause of votes for women as it was in defense work, in protecting -women and children. From her point of view the cause was as vital as -protecting women in industries, indeed essential to that problem. - -There was only one other woman on the committee as lukewarm as I in the -matter of suffrage, and that was one of our most valuable and -distinguished members—Mrs. Joseph Lamar of Atlanta, the widow of Justice -Lamar of the Supreme Court of the United States. Mrs. Lamar and I saw -eye to eye as a rule in the work of the committee, and we both felt it -should keep out of suffrage work. Not so easy for old-time national -leaders like Dr. Anna and Mrs. Catt, with militant suffragists picketing -the White House, begging for arrest; but they showed admirable -restraint. Indeed, I believe that restraint to have been in the long run -the soundest politics. It certainly helped in bringing both Houses of -the Congress to accept the Nineteenth Amendment in the early summer of -1919, giving nation-wide suffrage to women. - -Dr. Anna’s attitude towards me was quite understandable. She was -familiar with and resented, as she told me quite frankly, certain -activities of mine which had conflicted with both her convictions and -her arguments—activities which had been a surprise and a regret to many -of those whose opinions I valued highly. - -I had always resented the pains that militant suffragists took to -belittle the work that woman had done in the past in the world, -picturing her as a meek and prostrate “doormat.” They refused, I felt, -to pay proper credit to the fine social and economic work that women had -done in the building of America. And in 1909, after we took over the -_American Magazine_, I burst out with a series of studies of leading -American women from the Revolution to the Civil War, including such -stalwarts as Mercy Warren, Abigail Adams, Esther Reed, Mary Lyon, -Catharine Beecher, the fighting antislavery leaders—not omitting two for -whom I had warm admiration, if I was not in entire agreement with them, -Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. - -I thought I made a pretty good showing, but I found it was not welcome. -And on top of that I settled my position in the minds of Dr. Anna and -many of her friends by a series of little essays which I finally brought -together under the title of “The Business of Being a Woman.” That title -was like a red rag to many of my militant friends. The idea that woman -had a business assigned by nature and society which was of more -importance than public life disturbed them; even if it was so, they did -not want it emphasized. - -Feeling as I did, I could not fight for suffrage, although I did not -fight against it. Moreover, I believed that it would come because in the -minds of most people democracy is a piece of machinery, its motive power -the ballot. The majority of the advocates for women’s suffrage saw -regeneration, a new world through laws and systems; but I saw democracy -as a spiritual faith. I did not deny that it must be interpreted in laws -and systems, but their work deepens, broadens, only as the spirit grows. -What I feared in women was that they would substitute the letter for the -spirit, weaken the strategic place Nature and society had given them for -keeping the spirit alive in the democracy, elevating it to the head of -the procession of life, training youth for its place. But what chance -had such ideas beside the practical program of the suffragist? - -My arguments again had no emotional stuff in them. They carried no -promise of speedily remaking the hard life most women were living, had -always lived. The suffragists pictured a society renewed, regenerated, -stripped of corruption and injustice, all done by a single stroke—giving -votes to women. They would never betray the trust—the old fiction to -which they held so tenaciously that women are by nature “better” than -men and need only the chance in politics to clear society of its -corruption. I could not agree. - -It is not to be wondered that Dr. Anna suspected me, had a certain -resentment at my being a member of her committee. In spite of all this, -as the months went on she and I became better and better friends. She -was so able, so zealous, so utterly given to her cause that I had always -had genuine admiration for her. Now I found her a most warm-hearted and -human person, as well as delightfully salty in her bristling against men -and their ways. - -An event in the history of our committee was a grand evening gathering -in one of Washington’s theaters. We all sat in state on the platform, -and in the boxes were several members of the Cabinet with President -Wilson himself, for a part of the evening at least. Dr. Anna made a -capital speech, little antimasculine chips flying off her shoulder every -now and then, to the particular delight of the President. - -“Dr. Anna,” I told her the next day, “you are one of the most -provocative women I have ever known, an out-and-out flirt.” But we were -good enough friends by this time for her to laugh. I am not sure but she -was a bit flattered. - -When the work of the committee was over and she was sending out her -final report, thanking each of us officially for our part in what I -always think of as her achievement, she included in mine a hand-written -personal letter which I shall always treasure as a proof of the bigness -and the beauty of the nature of this splendid woman. - -Evidently she remembered how she had sputtered at me sometimes. “You -talk too much, Miss Tarbell.” True—I always do if I have a listening -audience. “I hate a lukewarm person,” she declared when I persisted in -balancing arguments. She did; she had never known for a moment in her -life the frustration, the perplexities of lukewarmness. - -But now she wrote thanking me for what she called “my consideration and -kindness” toward what she called her “blunders and mistakes.” Just what -she meant, I do not know. It was enough for me that she should end with -“sincere and affectionate regard”—enough because I knew she understood -what I had never put into words, that for her I had never had anything -but a sincere regard—a regard which our associations had turned to real -affection. - -The only professional work I did in this period was a few weeks of -lecturing, a contract which I had made before we went into the War. - -I have spoken of the quietness and steadiness with which people through -the country seemed to me to be taking the call for troops in 1916 when I -was on the Chautauqua circuit—of the conviction I had as I saw them in -the Middle West on the declaration of war in April of 1917, that they -had already made up their minds, were ready to go. - -But I confess I was unprepared for what I everywhere met early in 1918, -traveling chiefly in the South, the Middle West, and the Southwest. The -country was no longer quiet, no longer reflective. On every street -corner, around every table, it was fighting the War, watchfully, -suspiciously, determinedly. All the paraphernalia of life had taken on -war coloring; the platforms from which I spoke were so swathed in flags -that I often had to watch my step entering and leaving. I found I was -expected to wear a flag—not a corsage. At every lunch or dinner where I -was a guest all declarations were red, white, and blue. - -When you are on a lecture trip one of your few resources is the -newsstand. I had the habit of searching the postal-card racks for local -points of interest—local celebrations. But now all these had -disappeared. The racks were filled with pictures of soldiers in all of -their scores of operations, humble and otherwise—not only on parade, but -on “spud duty.” There were thrilling pictures of cavalry charges, of -marches across country, of aeroplanes directing field maneuvers, -touching scenes in hospitals, cheering ones of games, endless -sentimental ones to be sent to the boys. - -A change had come over the literature of the newsstands. Serious -magazines I had never before seen in certain southwestern towns were -there now. “Anything that pertains to patriotism is a good seller,” a -railroad station news agent told me. “Why, look at the books we carry!” -And there they were, Hankey, Empey, Boyd Cable, disputing attention with -“Slashaway, the Fearless,” “Gunpowder Jim,” “The Mystery of Demon -Hollow.” - -The libraries of scores of towns made a specialty of war books. At -Council Bluffs—an old, large, rich, and cultivated town of course—I -found on an open shelf beside the librarian’s desk Hazen’s “Modern -European History,” John Masefield’s “Gallipoli,” “The Old Front Line,” -André Chéradame’s essays, Hueffer’s “Between St. Denis and St. George,” -and a score of others. They all showed signs of much reading. - -As for the newspapers, they were given over to the war. It was my duty -to make sure that they were giving the releases of our committee fair -attention. They were—the local women were attending to that. Editors -might and did grumble because Washington was swamping them with -information and suggestions which often they felt were “old stuff,” -repetition; but they sweated to do their part. - -The editorial attitude was not characterized by excessive respect for -great names, particularly if the great name was that of an enemy. I was -in Texas when the Zimmermann note was given out by the President. -Nothing could have been more amusing than the contemptuous attitude of -the average Texan citizen whom I met. Some of the country newspapers did -not even take the trouble to print the gentleman’s name, but called him -“Zim.” You received the impression that a German-Japanese attack on our -Southwest border would be a very simple matter for Texans to clean up. -All they asked, I was told, was for Uncle Sam to keep his hands off. -They would take care of it. There was little anger but much contempt. - -Everywhere the boys were the absorbing interest. In the Southwest and -along the Atlantic coast I practically lived with them. They crowded -every railroad station, hustled into every train. There was rarely a -night that I was not wakened by their demanding beds in already -overflowing sleepers. Troop trains passed you en route, all sorts of -slogans scribbled in chalk on the cars. From wherever they came they -were sure to announce that they were bound for Berlin. - -It is of course beside the truth to say that all young soldiers were big -and cheerful and spirited and brave; but the total impression was -certainly one of bigness, of freedom, and of exultation in the -enterprise. One came to have a fierce pride in them, an impatience of -any criticism of what they did, a longing to fight for them, since one -could not fight beside them. - -Crossing the Apache Trail in March of 1918, we picked up three silent, -rough youths who had come from somewhere out of the desert, and were -making for camp to enlist. They were fascinating traveling companions, -shy, watchful, suspicious, discovering for the first time the ordinary -arrangements of railroad life. I remember a wonderful young savage with -whom I traveled for a day. We were depending on eating houses for food -and woke up to find our train six hours late. This meant no breakfast -until possibly eleven o’clock. Of course the boy was famished. He ate -ravenously and then bought right and left sandwiches, pie, hard-boiled -eggs, an armful of packages. You could almost hear him saying to -himself, “They are not going to catch me again.” They had put one over -on him, but next time he would be ready for them. - -The interest of the boys in what was before them was unflagging. They -were not afraid to talk about the worst. When the _Tuscania_ went down, -those bound for sailing points were not fazed in the least by the danger -of the passage; but more than once I felt that the tragedy had whetted -their desire to get at the enemy. - -The interest of older men in the young soldier was inexhaustible. They -were like the little boys in that. Little boys could not resist a -soldier. It was startling to see a baby of three years slip away from -his mother, walk down the aisle to where a soldier boy was sitting, -watch him silently with wide-open eyes, get a little bolder, stretch out -his hand and stroke his clothes, get a little bolder still and ask him -if he might put on his cap. - -Soldier or not soldier, however, the men talked war, talked it all the -time when they were not reading their newspapers. How the news filtered -to them in certain remote spots, it was hard to understand. In crossing -the Apache Trail I was startled to see a man rise from the desert, as it -seemed, and ask if we had any more news about “them big guns,” if -anybody had found out “how they do it.” We gave him all the papers we -had, and the passengers freely aired their theories of the mystery. - -With the inexhaustible interest went a fierce determination to see that -every suggestion of the Government was carried out. When the Third -Liberty Loan opened I was traveling in a section where there were many -German settlers. - -“What is their attitude?” I asked a woman active in the work of our -committee. - -“We have but one family in this town,” she said. “After being waited on -by five of our leading citizens they took $10,000 of Liberty Bonds.” - -I do not know whether these citizens carried ropes in their hands when -they made the call, but I did see in one town a detachment of citizens -parading with ropes on the pummels of their saddles and banners marked -“Beware.” - -It had been agreed by all concerned that I talk on what was doing in -Washington as I had been seeing it. Now and then I was “lent” by my -sponsor to aid in a drive of one kind or another. Once I spoke from the -platform of “Oklahoma Billy Sunday,” a picturesque and highly successful -revivalist who patterned his campaigns after those of his great -namesake. A liberty loan drive was on, and no gathering, not even a -revival, certainly not a lecture, was allowed in the town which did not -share its time with the grim banker heading the local committee. He -opened the meeting and left me shivering with what might happen to those -who differed with him about the size of their purchase. Then came -boisterous singing and praying, broken to let me tell my story. How dull -and uninspired it sounded, sandwiched between this goading and -inflaming! - -I realized more and more as I went on that I did not really know much -more of my subject than they did in Bisbee, Arizona, or Little Rock, -Arkansas, so persistently did they tap every source of information; but -I certainly knew fewer things that were not so. It was inevitable that, -stirred to their depths by the continuous flow of all this young life -towards the battle fields of Europe, they should “see red,” hate, -suspect. I could neither give them the inside information they craved -nor stir them to the hate of which they had absolute need, I sometimes -felt, to keep up their courage. - -“Are you a pacifist?” a stern citizen on a Missouri railway platform -asked me one morning as I was leaving a town where I had spoken the -night before, and where I had deplored the will to hate I was sensing. - -“Well,” I parried, “I am for winning this war.” - -“Did you sign this?” He pulled out a prewar list of names, a peace -society list where my name appeared. It was headed by Jane Addams—“that -woman,” he called her. - -“I am proud to be classed with ‘that woman,’” I said indignantly. “She -is one of the world’s greatest, and if the world could or would have -heeded her counsels you boys would not be dying in France.” - -There was no time for argument or arrest, for my train came. I took it, -followed by the black looks of more than one listener. - -But it was the boys that were doing this. They had given of their blood, -and their hearts went with the gift. They were all like an old fellow -that I heard cry out one day, “I can’t bear to think of one of Ours -gettin’ hurt.” - -It would be idle of course to pretend that in the territory over which I -traveled between the break with Germany and the Armistice—in twenty-five -different states, something like twenty-five thousand miles—there were -no indications of revolt; but, as I saw them, they were infrequent and -never in public. Now and then I came upon a man or woman who dared to -say to me when he had me in a corner: “I am a pacifist. We must find -another way.” With which I so heartily agreed. But that man or woman -would not have said that on the street corner without danger to his -life. - -People generally did not have much interest in what was to happen after -the War was ended. They took it for granted that Germany would be driven -back. That was what they were working for. But how the adjustments were -to be made—that did not deeply concern them. What they wanted was to -have it over and get the boys back. That done, they were willing to -forget, pay the bill—but there must be no more of this senseless -business in the world. Even the most violent occasionally confided that -to you. - -All these observations—of which I talked, I am afraid too much, to the -members of the committee when I came back—strengthened my conviction -that, whatever it cost, there was no doubt that the country would insist -on seeing it through. That conviction was never stronger than when the -Armistice was suddenly signed. - - - - - 17 - AFTER THE ARMISTICE - - -The War was over and the United States was setting the brakes on its war -machinery, setting them so hurriedly in some cases that they created -situations almost as destructive as war. There was nothing left now for -the Woman’s Committee of the Council of National Defense but to clean up -and move out. Dr. Anna stayed by while an admirable executive secretary -and a small clerical force put things into order, reported what had been -done, thanked everybody for his or her cooperation. - -By the end of the year my desk had been cleared and I was preparing for -a new job, to go to France for the _Red Cross Magazine_. My old editor, -John S. Phillips, had been in charge there for some months, making a -really significant and stimulating journal. He wanted a fresh eye on the -rehabilitation work the organization was carrying on in France. He -thought I might furnish it. I agreed to try. - -Crossing the ocean in January, 1919, gave one some notions of what war -had done to the accustomed orderly procedure of life. I was to sail to -Bordeaux at a fixed hour; but no ship as yet went on time, though -passengers were expected to arrive on time and to sit for hours as we -were locked in the waiting room at the dock. At least it gave you an -opportunity to eye as a whole those who were to be your fellow -passengers. Everybody on my ship was evidently connected with some -problem of restoration, the most interesting being the French bent on -rehabilitating families they feared were stripped of everything. They -were even taking food. As we waited a woman who guarded two enormous -hams explained to me that her mother had begged her to bring a _jambon_. -She had not had a _jambon_ for so long. It was a new idea to me. I knew -that sweets would be welcome to my friends, and I had armed myself with -chocolates and bonbons; but a _jambon!_ Why should I not take one to my -dear Madame Marillier? Securing a permit to leave the dock, I hunted up -a neighboring market and after much negotiation persuaded a wholesale -dealer to sell me a ham, almost as big as I was. It was a problem to get -it into the ship, but it was more of a problem to get it off, get it to -Paris. I had queer ideas of what I might need in the way of luggage, and -in my equipment was a pair of enormous saddlebags into which I had -thrown high boots, heavy blankets, sweaters, woolen tights and hose—just -in case. Crowding them all into one bag, into the other I put my -_jambon_. In the long and tedious railroad journey from Bordeaux to -Paris, I was packed in with a group of fine serious young Quakers going -over to help a reconstruction project, and that terrible piece of -luggage jumped from the rack and almost brained one of my companions. I -cannot recall all the adventures of that ham, but I know that I was -never more relieved than when I laid it at the feet of my old friend. - -“What in the world?” she exclaimed (or its equivalent). And Seignobos -said, “Oh, these Americans.” - -I was not long in Paris before I felt keenly that many of the French -were saying, “Oh, these Americans!” We seemed to swarm over everything, -to absorb things. At least this was true in the quarters where, at the -urgency of my friends Auguste Jaccaci and William Allen White, I had -gone to live—the Hôtel de Vouillemont just off the Place de la Concorde. - -Walking down the Rue de Rivoli to the Red Cross Headquarters was like -walking the streets of Washington in the vicinity of the governmental -departments active in the prosecution of the War. All the familiar faces -seemed to have been transported to Paris, as indeed great numbers of -them had. Mingling with them were officers and men on leave, many -seeking desperately to drown ghastly memories in any form of pleasure -that would bring forgetfulness, more of them intent on sightseeing, -buying gifts to take home. I found the pleasantest duty my Red Cross -uniform brought me in Paris was when stalwart doughboys accosted me. -“Say, sister, won’t you help me find something to take home to my -mother—my girl?” Before we were through with the shopping I had the -family history but never a word about the war—that was done with. They -wanted to forget it and go home. They resented the delay. - -“We have paid our debt to Lafayette. Now who in hell do we owe?” This -was the legend I saw once on a camion crossing the Place de la Concorde. -I was told it was torn down by a scandalized officer and forbidden to be -used in the future. But it expressed the doughboy’s opinion, as I got -it, better than anything else I saw or heard. - -Not only the scenes in my quarter but the conditions of living shattered -all my preconceived notions of hardship. I had been prepared for -hardtack, but once at Vouillemont I found that if I took the trouble to -market and bring in my purchases I could supplement the unbalanced meals -with almost anything I wanted. The prices were high to be sure—sixteen -cents each for eggs—two to four dollars a pound for butter—a dollar and -a half for a little jar of honey. Many extras could be bought more -cheaply at the American Commissariat. William Allen White was buying at -the Commissariat the prunes on which he seemed principally to live, but -marketing gave me the opportunity I wanted for finding out what the -alert Parisian shopkeepers were thinking and saying. I sounded out that -opinion daily until it was cut off by the conviction running through the -town that America no longer sympathized fully with the French, that she -was not going to force Germany to pay the sixty-five billion dollars the -people felt they should have. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Christian Duvivier_ - - _Red Cross Headquarters, Paris, France, 1919_ -] - -The Americans living around the Place de la Concorde assured me that -Paris was not changed; not for them perhaps, but when I went among my -old French friends, most of whom had stuck it through the War, changes -stared me in the face. I had hurried to my old quarter on the Left Bank. -Great gaps in the circle around the Panthéon and in the Boulevard -Saint-Michel skirting the Luxembourg told the story of what the quarter -had endured. The _laiterie_ where once I had bought eggs and milk and -cheese was gone, the space carefully boarded. I hunted among the -neighbors for the cheerful Madame whom I had so enjoyed. She had died -with the building, they told me. - -There were little neglects in the once carefully kept apartments of my -friends that affected me all out of proportion to their importance. The -door into Madame Marillier’s _chambre à coucher_ would not close. - -“Nothing has been mended in Paris, you know, now for three years,” my -friend explained. - -It was literally true: nothing painted, nothing mended, little replaced. -Craftsmen and tradesmen were in the trenches or in their graves. So many -of those whom once you had known, the people who had served you or had -been your comrades, were in their graves. Madame Marillier, pointing to -a long roster of names on her desk in the salon, said: “Look, these are -our dead. Read them. You will remember some of the names.” And I did, -men whom I had known twenty-five years before, and whose brilliant talk -I had listened to at her Wednesday night dinners. - -They could not bring back their dead; but after all the horror life was -to go on, and they were bravely doing their best to give it something of -its character before the War. - -One thing they were counting on was the return to their homes and to the -museums of their treasured _belles choses_. When I went out to dinner -with French acquaintances who had possessed beautiful things, often -pictures catalogued as national treasures, empty frames stared from the -walls. The canvases had been cut out and sent to a safe place, generally -somewhere in the South; but they would soon have them back, and that -would help. - -Not only in Paris but wherever invasion was threatened there had been an -immediate effort to hustle the best loved treasures out of reach. At -Amiens, they told me, they had “sent away” the famous _L’Ange pleurant_. -It was back when I was there in March, and people were coming from all -the towns near by to see it, to gloat and weep over it. - -I was concerned with the fate of the “pretty girl of Lille” that -exquisite wax bust attributed by some to Leonardo da Vinci; and when I -made Lille my headquarters for a few days I at once made inquiries. The -gallery was closed, but there had just been received many boxes of -pictures which the Germans were carrying off when stopped on their -retreat. The authorities were not adverse to having an accredited -journalist see with his own eyes what had happened, and I was permitted -to visit the gallery. The boxes were there standing against the wall, -still unopened, and on each was clearly printed the name of the picture -and of the German museum to which it had been assigned—beautiful -evidence of the amazing efficiency with which the Germans had conducted -their looting. - -“Why, there,” I said as I went about, “there is the ‘pretty girl of -Lille’!” - -The curator winked at me. “Do you think so?” he said. “That is what the -German Emperor thought when he went through the museum. It is a replica. -The pretty girl is in a safe place and she will stay there until I am -sure they won’t come back.” (“They” was the term I heard almost -universally applied to the Germans in the devastated regions.) - -Everywhere was the same joy over the safety and the return of their -_belles choses_. I think I have never been in a group where gratitude -mingled with sorrow was stronger than when my friend Auguste Jaccaci, -who had been in Paris throughout the War at the head of the beautiful -work for Belgian and French children lost or orphaned by the War, asked -me to go with him to the opening of a room in the Louvre, closed of -course through the dark period. It was one of the smaller galleries, but -in it had been gathered new possessions, things bought in the War, -others left by wills, a collection of choicest pieces. They were -welcomed by the leading connoisseurs of the city: the directors of the -Louvre and the Luxembourg, a few artists, a few great ladies. Everybody -was in black and went about with unsmiling but touching appreciation, -hardly believing, it seemed to me, that again he or she was free to -rejoice in beauty. It was like coming home after the long funeral of a -beloved member of a family. - -But I was more concerned with the everyday conditions under which humble -people were living, particularly in the territory so lately occupied. -That was where the Red Cross could now be of the most practical help, it -seemed to me. It took but little looking about to see that nothing we -could provide would come amiss, either to those who had been caught and -so remained through the War or to those who were now coming back, -generally under the protest of the authorities. - -I had not imagined that a bombardment could so strip a community, a -countryside, of all the little conveniences of life. At Lens—once a -great manufacturing and mining town, now a vast mass of red brick dust, -hardly a wall left—I went about looking for signs of life, for I had -been told that a few people had weathered the horror and were to be -found living underground. Coming on what seemed to be a path running -over a pile of debris, I followed it into an opening; and there, in what -was left of a basement, sat a woman sewing. There was a fire on the -hearth. She got up to greet me—a child ran out, a little girl with -tousled head, dirty and ragged. “You must pardon the way we look. We -have been here for many months. We haven’t a comb. No pins, nothing. But -we are happy they have gone.” - -Every now and then I came upon little groups who had found shelter in -enemy trenches throughout the War. In a small town southeast of Laon, in -the region occupied at the beginning of the War and held until the final -retreat, I came upon a half-dozen children who had been brought up in -the trenches. A couple of French sisters had come back to the region and -were trying to civilize them. “You have no idea,” they told me, “how -difficult it is to teach them to use handkerchiefs.” This was an apology -for running noses. But, if ignorant of all civilized ways, these -youngsters were remarkably healthy. They had had the food of the -invaders, and they had lived in the earth very much like young animals. -While they knew nothing of books they knew everything about war: guns, -batteries, shells, uniforms. On the latter they had positive ideas. They -had never seen a Red Cross uniform before, and they criticized it -openly: “pas chic”—by which I suppose they meant “bungling.” And I must -confess mine was. - -Continually as I went about I asked myself how it could be that every -pin, every needle, every spool of thread, every comb, had gone. Larger -articles you understood, but these little things! The silence of the -devastated regions was even more perplexing than this stripping. I drove -to the Belgian border several times, and it was a long time before I -could make out why it was so still. Finally it occurred to me that I saw -and heard nothing alive, no cat, no dog, no hen. All these creatures had -completely disappeared. And when they began to be brought back the -rejoicing was like that of the return of the beautiful things to the -cities. One would live again perhaps. - -At Vic-sur-Aisne where the American Committee for Devastated France was -carrying on its fine practical work, among the many, many, things it was -doing was attempting to restock with poultry. The daughter of an eminent -New York family had an incubator in her bedroom where she told me she -soon hoped to have a flock of chicks. The day that I was there a hen -which had been imported laid an egg. It was an event in the countryside. -I saw peasant women wipe away tears that day as they looked at that hen -and her egg. They would live again. - -I shared this feeling later when spring began to come, and in going over -torn battlefields I saw the primroses. One day I heard a skylark sing -and sing until it came out of the blue and dropped like a stone to the -ground. It was like a voice of promise from heaven. - -What saved one’s reason within this immense devastation—so completely, -incredibly horrible—was the intelligent and energetic way in which -restoration was going on. Highways had been opened from Paris to Lille -and on to Brussels. They included such shattered towns as Albert, Arras, -Béthune, Lens, Armentières. I could go comfortably, and did, to Ypres, -Cambrai, Saint-Quentin, Laon, Rheims—to all important points in -northeastern France and along the border. It was when you disobeyed -orders and explored unopened territory that you got into trouble. I -tried Messines Ridge and landed in a shell hole. It took twenty small -Annamese, located by my doughboy chauffeur at work on a clean-up job a -mile or so away, to lift out our car and carry it a quarter of a mile to -something like safety. The angry berating of an English officer—the -English being responsible in that territory—still rings in my ears. - -The most heartening sight was the steady, slow redemption of the -mutilated land. As a rule the job of clearing away the first layer of -war debris was given to German prisoners and soldiers from French -colonies. It was a horrifying mess of abandoned tanks, artillery, guns, -shells, hand grenades—not all duds, unhappily, as daily accidents -demonstrated. With the debris cleared away, the heavy task of leveling -the land followed. It was often deeply riddled, as over the Chemin des -Dames, where the underpinning of hard white limestone lay shattered on -the top—the soil far below. After the leveling came the tractors plowing -the land, and finally the seeding. Along the highways outside of most of -the big wrecked towns I saw between Paris and Lille were short stretches -in one or another stage of this orderly redemption. - -French, English, and Americans were all connected with the restoration. -What really mattered, I felt, was the work of the French: first, it was -their business; then, they understood their people—what they could and -could not expect them to do. They were most successful in getting -individuals to do the things they had always done in the way they had -always done them. The American workers, marvelous as they were, wanted -to reform the French modes of life. They were keen on sanitation and -chintz curtains; the Frenchmen were keen on community tractors; the -Frenchwomen, on community sewing machines. - -After I had seen one little group of Frenchwomen gathered by an -energetic duchess in a wing of her battered château making over old -clothes for ragged refugees, who had had literally nothing new for -years, I thought I knew what the Red Cross could best do for the -devastated regions. - -The Red Cross had on hand at the end of the war millions of garments, -the output of thousands of little sewing and knitting circles scattered -from ocean to ocean and from Great Lakes to Gulf. Innumerable shirts, -drawers, pajamas, scarfs, sweaters, were piled in storehouses—the most -extensive that I saw being at Lille. My cry was: “Turn them over to the -French sewing circles so rapidly forming and if possible send a sewing -machine with them. You can be sure that the Kalamazoo pajamas, the -Topeka shirts, everybody’s sweaters, will be refitted for children and -men and women who at present have not a decent shirt to their backs, or -decent drawers to their legs.” A desultory distribution was already -making, but I wanted it general and systematic. It was consoling to have -found at least one thing, obvious as it was, which I felt I could -energetically back. - -Practical help was the more worth while because so intelligently turned -to use. The few returning to the towns from which they had been driven -often showed amazing resourcefulness and courage. They wanted to rebuild -their homes, set up their shops; but when they came to the town where -they once had lived it frequently was impossible to find the spot which -they supposed they owned. At Cantigny, an utterly devastated flat ruin -the day I saw it, a Frenchman and his wife appeared and quietly went -about trying to locate the site of their home. They went away in -disagreement as to where their street had run. - -At Péronne I talked with a carpenter who had set up his shop. He told me -he had had difficulty in finding his old location, but he thought he was -on the right spot—at least the authorities told him he might settle -there. By pulling scaffoldings from tumbledown houses and bringing in -corrugated iron from near-by trenches he had made himself a waterproof -shelter, arranged a workbench and already was earning a little money -helping the authorities here and there in the cleaning up. A piece of -constructive work he had taken on was salvaging doors. Here he had found -a solid doorframe, there a panel; and, putting these together, he was -producing a stock. He was certain it would not be long before he would -have customers for them. - -All this put heart in me in the same way the first primrose, the first -skylark, had done. There was an indomitable something in men then, as -there was in nature, something that made them live and grow. - -Paris and the Peace Conference taxed my faith more severely than the -devastated regions. My brother back in the United States wrote me that -the job the Conference seemed to have set itself was as big as creating -the world. Men were not big enough for that, and one was aghast that -they felt so equal to it—or, if not that, were willing to give the -impression of feeling equal. - -What scared me was that so many battered people accepted this notion of -what the Conference could and would do. From all over the globe they -brought their wrongs and hopes and needs to be satisfied. Many of them -also brought along ideas for the making and running of the new -world—ideas in which they felt the quality of inspiration. The success -of the Conference would depend in the mind of each of these suppliants, -upon his getting what he was after. - -But at the very outset they were balked by their failure to reach the -one man who they believed had not only the will but the power to satisfy -their grievances and hopes—the Messiah of the Conference, Woodrow -Wilson. - -There was always somebody in the complex and all-embracing organization -of the Conference to hear, sift, report their case; but again and again -they could get no notion of what was happening to it. Insistence on an -answer, on knowing how things were going, often closed doors which at -first had welcomed them. I felt this deeply in the case of the -Armenians. My interest in them had been aroused by a delegation at the -Hôtel de Vouillemont. In the number was a woman with one of the most -beautiful and tragic faces that I had ever looked on. It was not long -before this woman was putting her case before me in excellent English, -for she had had all the advantages of a European education. She and her -companions had all suffered from the cruel and relentless atrocities -which had paralyzed their country. Now their hope was that the United -States would take the mandate for Armenia. Before I realized it I had -become a determined advocate of that solution of their problem. I feel -sure that, if we had gone into the League of Nations, I should have felt -called to work for a mandate for Armenia. - -The saddest thing was to see the gradual fall of their hopes, to know -the day had come when, whatever had been the original reception, they -could no longer get the ear of principals or experts. Balfour was said -to have shouted at an aide as he threw the memoranda of the Armenians in -the corner: “Do not bring me another of these things at this Conference. -I know all I want to know about this cause, and I will not read any more -memoranda.” - -Something of this kind was happening in delegation after delegation, and -as hope went out of the suppliants resentment took its place. Soon many -of the disappointed were joining the no small number that from the start -had come to Paris, so far as I could see, to do their best to ruin the -Conference. From every country came political opponents of the chosen -delegates and of the settlements which they were seeking; from no -country were there more of these than from the United States, and -certainly from no country were there so many whose chief weapon was -malicious gossip. - -There was nothing for these political malcontents to do but talk, and -that they did whenever they could find a listener—in cafés, on street -corners, at French dinner tables—dinner tables becoming more and more -unsympathetic as it began to be rumored that the full measure of -punishment they asked was not to be given Germany. These groups -naturally absorbed the bewildered people who were getting no answer to -their supplications, who were being put off from day to day. It was easy -to persuade them that the Peace Conference was a failure. - -What startled me as the days went on was the passing of the will to -peace which had been strong, even taken for granted at the start. Hate -was replacing it. Again and again I recalled in those days a shrine I -had once seen in Brittany called “Our Lady of the Hates”—one of those -frank realistic shrines where symbolic figures portray the devils which -torment men and prevent peaceful living. That shrine haunted my dreams -when the confusion and bitterness seemed daily more confounded. - -The social revolutionists at the Peace Conference never reached the -point of building barricades as I had seen them do in Paris twenty-five -years before; but they did make it rather lively on May 1st and -inconvenient for many people who wanted to do their part in keeping the -world moving in an orderly fashion—their humdrum part of delivering -milk, looking after the sick, keeping things clean. They threatened such -dire calamity if they were not allowed to meet and obstruct circulation -in certain central places that the Government, usually stupid in such -matters, shut down on their ambition so completely that of course they -collected in these forbidden places and did their best to cause -bloodshed. - -I remember one young thing who thought the time had come and meant to be -in the center of carnage. She went out early in the morning and posted -herself on the steps of the Madeleine and sat there all day in a state -of honest, genuine enthusiasm ready to sacrifice herself as well as -everybody in sight. But there was no real fray—only some discouraging -little street rows, with theatrical attempts to make capital out of -them, and a few pitiful dead, little useful people with dependents -taking a holiday and eager to see. - -It was a great day for American doughboys. They had been ordered to stay -indoors, to give up their firearms, and to do nothing that in any way -would invite disaster. Their answer was like that of the would-be -revolutionist for they streamed by hundreds over the monuments and -cannon of the Place de la Concorde. There was not a monument or a point -of vantage around that Place that any human being could climb to that -was not occupied by these youths. If there was to be a revolution, they -were going to be there to see it break out. - -That which contributed more than anything else, it seemed to me at the -time, to the suspicion and commotion around the Peace Conference was -that it fed the onlookers (the press included) so little actual -information to chew on. The delegates and committees sat behind closed -doors, only spoke when a conclusion was reached, a document adopted. The -public wanted to sit in a gallery and hear the discussions leading to -conclusions and documents, and—being shut out—speculated, gossiped, -believed the worst, spread false and damaging reports. - -It took out its resentment by creating a four-headed monster—Wilson, -Clemenceau, Lloyd George, and Orlando—preparing to dragoon the world -into a fresh crop of unholy alliances and commitments and to refuse -justice to multitudes of small and weak peoples and causes. It was -prepared beforehand to doubt whatever the Conference did. - -In the confusion and discouragement the one concrete thing I found was -the International Labor Conference. At the beginning of the century one -of the hopes of pacifists like Dr. Jordan, Jane Addams, and their -associates had been the International Association for Labor Legislation, -organized in 1900. It had been carried on without much help from labor -itself until the War came; then labor set up a loud demand for -international action. The undertaking added to that Americanization of -the Place de la Concorde and the Rue de Rivoli which had struck me on my -arrival. Many men and women I had known when I was working editorially -and otherwise on labor relations turned up. It was like home to see Mr. -Gompers barging up and down the Rue de Rivoli and to run onto Mary -Anderson and Rose Schneiderman in the garden of the Tuileries. - -I was lucky enough to fall in at the start with Dr. James T. Shotwell, -the active head of the labor committee of the American delegation. Dr. -Shotwell’s intelligence and patience were of the utmost help, I have -always felt, in getting the final agreement adopted, early in April in a -full session. Certainly it was due to his generous explanations that I -was able to follow what was going on. - -At the same time I had the satisfaction of finding old-time French -friends interested and active in the undertaking—most important of these -Albert Thomas, who from the start was one of the vital influences in the -Conference. Then my old friend Seignobos was actively interested. -Shotwell in his “At the Paris Peace Conference” describes him as “a -little old man, talking fast and furiously, very well satisfied with our -labor business, which he seems to hold in higher regard than we do.” -Seignobos did hold it in high regard, hoped much for its future. I -suspect he too was glad to find something in the complicated peace -negotiations he could put his hands on, see through. - -One of the most unexpected of my experiences in these days was the -revival of past episodes in my life. The friends I had known so well in -Paris back in the nineties, such as had escaped death or disability, -were constantly turning up in important positions. Most influential -among them all was the Englishman Wickham Steed, now the editor of the -London _Times_, a person who ranked with ambassadors, but who was good -enough to take notice of his old Latin Quarter friends. - -Another of my intimates of those days was Charles Borgeaud, who had come -up from Geneva with the Swiss plan for a confederation of nations, a -sound and excellent document, which I suppose was filed away with the -multitudes of plans which flooded the Conference in those days. I was so -excited by seeing about me so many of these old acquaintances and -friends that I attempted to get them together for lunch one -day—Seignobos, Madame Marillier, Steed, Louis Lapique, all that I could -put my hands on. The result gave me a melancholy sense of what -twenty-five years can do, particularly a twenty-five years ending in -such a catastrophe as they had all been going through, to take the edge -off once keen friendships. - -A more satisfactory revival of past and gone associations came from -meeting numbers of former professional friends who were filling one or -another post. Here were William Allen White and Auguste Jaccaci; here -was Ray Stannard Baker, the head of the American press delegation, one -of the few Americans having an easy entree to the President himself, -conducting his difficult post with fine judgment and an absolute -fairness which silenced the tongues of some of the most bumptious and -political-minded correspondents. - -“How can you bully so straight a chap as Ray Baker?” a correspondent -anxious for a special privilege said disconsolately in my hearing one -day. - -There were hours when it seemed like a gathering in the office of the -old _American Magazine_, so natural and intimate it was. - -But these hours were not very many. My business was to furnish at least -an article a month for the _Red Cross Magazine_ and to follow the -progress of the efforts to bring about a peace settlement including a -league of nations. There were days when it seemed to me an inexplicable -confusion, a bedlam; but, as a matter of fact, as the days went on I -became satisfied by studying the communiqués, following the press -conferences, reading the reliable English and French papers and the -daily digests of what the papers of the United States were saying -(posted at our press quarters), that a practical plan for international -cooperation was taking form and that gradually more and more of the -delegates of the thirty-one nations represented were consenting to it. -To get something they would all sign seemed to me creative statesmanship -of the highest order. For each of these nations had problems of its own, -political, economic, social, religious, which must be considered before -its representative dared sign. Thirty-one varieties of folks back home -sat at that peace table, and they all had to be heard. In final analysis -it was the failure patiently to listen to the political objections -coming from the United States and trying openly to meet them which kept -us out of the largest and soundest joint attempt the world had ever -seen, to put an end to war. For that is what I believed the Covenant of -the League of Nations to be when I heard the final draft read and -adopted at the Plenary Session of the Conference on April 28. - -But no one could have studied the truly august assembly adopting the -Covenant without realizing the threats to its future in its make-up. -They lay in the certainty of a few that the problem was solved—there -would be no more wars. President Wilson, the noblest and the most -distinguished figure of them all, seemed to believe it. But there were -men putting down their names who did not believe it, who sneered as they -signed; and still more dangerous were the stolid ones who accepted -without knowing what it meant. Clemenceau had told his people what the -Covenant meant—“sacrifices,” sacrifice for all; he was the only man at -the Peace Conference whom I heard use the word, and yet the key to the -peace of the world is sacrifice, sacrifice of the strong to meet the -needs and urges of the weak. If the League of Nations, led as it has -been by the great satisfied nations, had grappled with that truth at the -start, it is possible we should not now be seeing signatories take up -war to satisfy their needs and urges. - -These doubts weighed heavily upon me as I left the Plenary Session. But -in the group of exultant Americans who that day saw the world made over -I had no desire to voice them. There was only one of my friends to whom -I could confide my fears—that was Auguste Jaccaci, a doubting Thomas -with profound faith in some things (I never quite made out what): beauty -and a directing God, I think. The night after the signing of the -Covenant, Jac and I sat long in troubled silence over our coffee and -_petit verre_, for neither of us could believe that the signing of a -paper by however many nations could in itself bring immediate peace to -the world. - -Still I believed with all my heart in the attempt. My business now as a -journalist and a lecturer, I told myself, was to explain the intent of -the Covenant, what it set out to do, also to warn that it must be given -time to work out its salvation. - -Before leaving America for the Peace Conference I had signed a contract -to go for ten weeks of the summer of 1919 on a Chautauqua circuit in the -Northwest. By this time I had an understanding with my sponsors that I -should be allowed to talk on what I had seen and heard at the Peace -Conference. I now hurried home to fill that contract. I had hardly -landed before I realized how bitter was the political attack on the -Covenant. Would audiences in the Northwest listen to its defense? - -But I did not allow this worry to intrude itself into my lecturing. In -fact it was not in me to worry, once on the road, for I quickly -discovered I was making what would probably be the most interesting trip -of my life. And so it turned out. The country was incredibly exciting -and of endless variety. I joined a circuit already ten weeks old in -northern Utah. We skirted the Great Salt Lake and traveled from one -Mormon settlement to another. It amuses me now to remember how surprised -I was to discover that Mormons were like Gentiles, that I at once felt -towards them exactly as I did towards different religious sects at home. -True, the attempt of taxi drivers, hotel clerks, baggagemen, to convert -me when they caught me idle in their vicinity was a bit disconcerting at -first, but I soon began to expect it and to find interest in their -arguments. - -After Utah came the lava country of southern Idaho along the Snake -River. We climbed over the mountains into Oregon, went down the -Columbia, over to the sea, up the coast to Portland, Tacoma, Seattle. We -were in the Yakima apple country and in the berry fields of Puyallup, -and everywhere in cherry orchards, such cherries as I had never -imagined. - -For a week we junketed around Vancouver Sound in primitive little -steamers. We pitched our tents in lumber towns built on stilts, crossed -fire-devastated mountains into the Coeur d’Alene region of northern -Idaho, where one still heard reverberations of the labor struggles which -had so agitated us on _McClure’s_ and the _American_. Then Montana—miles -of plateaus and plains, the air thick with smoke, the earth sprinkled -with ashes, for the mountains were on fire. - -This magnificent and varied country carried with it a varied and -compelling human story. Each new town turned up some bit of human -tragedy or comedy. These people were pioneers, or pioneers once removed. -They knew all the dangers, the hardships, the defeats, and conquests of -pioneering. Their talk was of what they or their fathers had lived and -seen. Whatever it had been, their hope was unquenchable. Every town we -entered was the finest in the Northwest, the finest even when you knew -that shifting trade and industry was cutting the very feet out from -under it. - -This was the land of Borah, but never in all those ten weeks, talking on -the League of Nations, did I receive from press or individuals anything -but respectful hearing. I was the first person who had come into their -territory from the Peace Conference, and they wanted to hear all I had -to give. They would do their own appraising. - -As the days went by, I sensed a growing bewilderment at the fight -against the League. These people had listened for years to people they -honored urging some form of international union against war. They had -heard Dr. Jordan and Jane Addams preaching a national council for the -prevention of war, President Taft advocating a league to enforce peace. -In many of the towns there had been chapters of these societies. - -On our circuit there was a superintendent who reminded me every time we -met that back in the 1890’s he had spent practically all his patrimony -going about the Northwest preaching a league of nations. It irked him, -he said, that I should be receiving money for talking what he -twenty-five years before had talked without price, purely for love of -the cause. And no wonder! - -With such a background, was it strange that many people in the Northwest -should have been puzzled that the Congress of the United States was -seemingly more and more determined that we should not join this first -attempt of the civilized world to find substitutes for war in -international quarrels? - -Seeking reasons for this refusal, I felt the one which had most weight -with people was the guarantee that France was asking from England and -the United States to come to her aid in case of unprovoked attack by -Germany, that is, a guarantee which was to remain in force until the -League of Nations was a going concern. - -I found that most people were against this. They wouldn’t run the risk -of having to help France again. I was for granting the guarantee -provisionally and for a limited period. I believed such a guarantee -would quiet what I felt to be one of the real dangers of the after-war -situation, the near hysteria of France. Americans proud of their -generous part in saving France from what looked to them like calculated -annihilation said: “Why these hysterics? The War is over. The nations -are going to enforce peace. The devastated region is to be restored at -Germany’s expense. Forget it.” - -How could America understand the years of horror France had just -suffered, the devastation of centuries of loving labor, the wiping out -of three and a half million of her best youth? And most serious of all -perhaps, how could America realize what France so clearly realized, that -the Great War was but the latest expression of centuries of -determination on the part of Central Europe to reach the sea? It must -have an ocean front even if this could be obtained only by crossing the -dead body of France. - -I had spent some hours at Châlons-sur-Marne just before I returned. -Nobody in that town was so alive to me as Attila. Fifteen hundred -years before, he had led the forces of Central Europe so far and had -been stopped; but Central Europe had come back again and again, driven -by the urge for the sea. Again and again France had saved herself, but -she knew now she could never do it without the help of those who -believed her culture one of the earth’s great possessions. She must -have guarantees. But how could the United States understand that -centuries of experience were behind France’s fear? They had not met -Attila at Châlons-sur-Marne—I had. - -All of this I talked in more or less detail until in midsummer my lips -were closed for two weeks by William Jennings Bryan. Mr. Bryan for many -years had been the brightest star of the Chautauqua platform. The -management of the circuit liked to introduce him for whatever time he -could give and they afford. It meant that the regular performer must -either step down or divide his period. The evening was the proper hour -for Mr. Bryan, for only then could the men come. Now I spoke in the -evening. “Cut your time to forty minutes, and go on a half-hour -earlier,” were my instructions. I, of course, obeyed. - -Now Mr. Bryan was presenting a two-hour discussion of what he considered -the ideal political Democratic platform at that moment. In his planks he -included joining the League of Nations but turning down the guarantees -to France. At our first joint appearance he rose to condemn guarantees -an hour after I had pleaded for them. When he was told of the conflict -of opinion he at once looked me up, and in effect told me that I must -not present views opposed to his on a platform where he was speaking. He -in no way tried to influence my opinion, only to shut it off. I insisted -that it was good for the audience to hear both sides. “The audience came -to hear me,” said Mr. Bryan; “it is important they know my views.” He -did not want them confused as they might be, he said, if I began the -evening by airing mine. - -Of course Mr. Bryan did not say, “You are of no political importance, -and I am of a great deal,” but that was what he meant. It was quite -true, and I bowed for the time being to the demands of politics, but -only for the moment. The two weeks over, I began again to talk -guarantees with more interest on the part of my audience because of what -Mr. Bryan had been saying and also, I suspect, less agreement. - -By the time the circuit ended, the League was in a bad way in Congress. -A bitter partisan war had broken out and Woodrow Wilson ill, his Scotch -stubbornness the harder because of his illness, would not budge an inch. -It was a sickening thing to watch. The only consolation was that the -rest of the world wanted peace enough to make the sacrifices and run the -risks a League undoubtedly demanded. - -Wilson’s enemies gloated: he was beaten, stripped of his glory; the -world would forget him, was already forgetting him. They were wrong. - -In the months that followed the final collapse of the League as far as -the United States was concerned, I was much in Washington; and nothing I -saw was more moving than the continual quiet popular tributes to Woodrow -Wilson. On holidays and Sundays groups were always standing before his -home, watching for a glimpse of him. Let him enter a theater and the -house rose to cheer, while crowds waited outside in rain and cold to see -him come out—cheer him as he passed. - -On November 11, 1921, the body of America’s Unknown Soldier was carried -from the Capitol where it had lain in state to its grave in Arlington—a -perfect ceremony of its kind. The bier was followed by all we had of -official greatness at that moment: President Harding and his Cabinet, -the Supreme Court, the House, the Senate, officers of the Army and Navy, -and General Foch our guest of honor. At the end, following all this -greatness but not of it, came a carriage. As the packed ranks between -which the procession had passed in silence saw its occupants, Woodrow -Wilson and Mrs. Wilson, a muffled cry of love and gratitude broke out, -and that cry followed that carriage to the very doorway of their home. -It was to be so until he died. He was the man they could not forget. - -They will not forget him in the future. He is the first leader in the -history of society who has treated the ancient dream of a peaceful world -as something more than wishful thinking, the first who was willing to -stake all in drawing the nations of the world together in an effort to -make that “just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations” -for which Abraham Lincoln pleaded. - -In Paris in 1919 Woodrow Wilson actually persuaded the leaders of the -majority of the earth’s nations to help him build and set up a machine -for such a peace. The complaint is that it has not done all it -attempted. But how can any person who knows anything of man’s past -efforts to create machinery for the betterment of his life suppose that -this, the most ambitious international undertaking ever made, would from -the start run without friction or breakdown, would never need -overhauling, even rebuilding? - -That is not in the nature of things. The League has lived for eighteen -years now. Its weaknesses have developed with experience, so has its -usefulness. Its services to the world have been innumerable if not -spectacular. If its failures have been spectacular, they have not -destroyed the structure; rather they have demonstrated certain points at -which it must be rebuilt. - -The world will not forget the man who led in this effort to achieve -enduring peace. That is what I was saying in those bitter days and have -been saying in all the melancholy ones since. - - - - - 18 - GAMBLING WITH SECURITY - - -My ten weeks of daily talking on the Peace Conference and the Covenant -of the League of Nations ended the War for me. Also, it forced me to -consider anew the problem of security. It was nearly four years now -since I had put an end to it by severing my connection with _The -American Magazine_. But the years had been so full of the War, the -scramble to do something that somebody thought was needful, and at the -same time to keep the pot boiling, that I had not realized what had -happened. It meant for me, as I now saw, the end of an economic era. - -I sat down to take stock. Here I was sixty-three with only a small -accumulation of material goods. I must work to live and satisfy my -obligations. To be sure I had my little home in Connecticut which in the -fifteen years since I had acquired it had not only grown increasingly -dear to me; it had also taken on an importance which I had not foreseen. -It had become the family home. Here my mother had come to pass the last -summers before her death in 1917; here my niece Esther had been married -under the Oaks; here my niece Clara and her husband Tristram Tupper, -battered by war service, had come in 1919 to live in our little guest -house. Here Tris had written his first successful magazine story. Here -their two children passed their first years. Near by, my sister had -built herself a studio to become her home. A hundred associations gave -the place a meaning and dignity which I had never expected to feel in -any home of my own, something that only comes when a place has been -hallowed by the joys and sorrows of family life. - -I had carried out my original intention of never letting it become a -financial burden; so, adrift as I now was, I not only could afford my -home but felt that it was the strongest factor in my scheme of security, -for here I knew I could retire and raise all the food I needed if free -lancing petered out. - -I was quite clear about the work I wanted to do. It was to continue -writing and speaking on the few subjects on which I felt strongly, and -of which I knew a little. These subjects had made a pattern in my mind. -If men would work out this pattern I felt that they would go a long way -towards ending the world’s quarrels, quieting its confusions. First and -most important were the privileges they had snatched. I wanted to see -them all gradually scrapped, cost what it might economically. They were -a threat to honest men, to sound industry, to peaceful international -life. - -I wanted to help spread the knowledge of all the intelligent efforts -within and without industry and government, to put an end to militancy, -replace it with actual understanding. And then I wanted to do my part -towards making the world acquainted with the man who I believed had best -shown how to carry out a program of cooperation based on consideration -of others—that was Abraham Lincoln. - -There was a man, I told myself, who took the time to understand a thing -before he spoke. He knew that hurry, acting before you were reasonably -sure, almost invariably makes a mess of even the best intentions. He -wanted to know what he was about before he acted, also he wanted all -those upon whom he must depend for results to know what he was about and -why. Whatever he did, he did without malice, taking into account men’s -limitations, not asking more from any one than he could give. More than -anybody I had studied he applied in public affairs Frederick Taylor’s -rules for achievement of which I have spoken above. The more people who -knew about Lincoln, the more chance democracy had to destroy its two -chief enemies, privilege and militancy. I proposed to take every chance -I had to talk about him. - -[Illustration: - - © _Jessie Tarbox Beals_ - - _Posing as a gardener, 1925_ -] - -This was the program on which I was so set that I was willing to follow -it even if it did take away from me the comforts of a regular salary. - -Giving up the salary troubled me less than finding myself without the -regular professional contacts which I had so enjoyed for twenty years, -and on which I found, now I was free, that I had come to depend more -than I would have believed. - -Not belonging to an editorial group meant that when I dropped my pen at -lunch time I no longer could join a half-dozen office mates full of -gossip of what the morning had brought: the last Tarkington manuscript; -something of Willa Cather’s; a letter from Kipling; that new person from -Louisville, George Madden Martin, with a real creation, Emmy Lou; that -new person from Wisconsin, Edna Ferber, with a bona fide human being in -hand, Emma McChesney; or it might be Dunne’s last “Dooley,” or Baker’s -last adventure in “Contentment,” or gossip from the last man in -Washington, perhaps direct from the White House, and always surely from -our liberal friends in Congress. This was the stuff of our lunch-table -talk. We gloated or mourned, and our eyes were always on what was coming -rather than what had been. - -I no longer had an office next door to these friends. My study had -become my workshop. Now I must pay my own secretary’s bill, my own -telephone calls, buy my own stationery. I gasped when I found what these -extras amounted to. Freedom, I saw, was going to be expensive as well as -lonesome. - -However, for nineteen years I have kept to my decision. How little I -have contributed to my program in these nineteen years! The chief piece -of writing I planned to do I have never finished. That was bringing “The -History of the Standard Oil Company” up to date. I had dropped the story -in 1904, but the dissolution of the company in 1911 left me with the -melancholy conviction that sooner or later I should have to estimate the -trial and put down how the new set-up was working. I talked two or three -times with George Wickersham, the Attorney General who brought the suit, -and he always cautioned me not to hurry, to let the decision have a -chance to work out. I think we decided that about ten years would do it. -But the War put a different face on oil. It suddenly became a matter for -government control. It was no longer a private business. It was life and -death for the Allies. Oil was as necessary to them, Clemenceau wrote to -Wilson, as the blood of men. Everything that rolled or sailed or flew -must have it. The great struggle of the nations with navies, England at -the head, to command oil at its source, followed the War. The earth was -ransacked for it in a terrific predatory hunt. In this effort of the -nations to command oil supplies great names arose challenging that of -Rockefeller—Sir Henri Deterding, Marcus Samuel, William Knox D’Arcy. The -Standard Oil Company no longer ruled the oil world. There were the Royal -Dutch and the Shell making up finally the Royal Dutch Shell; there was -the Anglo-Persian. All of the dramatic and frequently tragic goings-on -had to settle down into something like orderly procedure before the -history I had in mind could be written. - -The time came, along in 1922, when Mr. Wickersham said, “You had better -go at it.” But it was not Mr. Wickersham’s dictum that hurried me to -undertake to tell the story of what had happened since 1904. It was an -entirely unexpected piratical attack on the two-volume edition of the -history which had been exhausted for some time. My publisher, wisely -enough, was waiting for the promised third volume before reprinting. -When it became known in the trade that the book was no longer on the -market a report was spread that the Standard Oil Company had bought and -destroyed the plates, and the price soared. Down in Louisiana Huey Long -paid one hundred dollars for a set, so I was told. - -As I frequently received inquiries as to where the books could be found -or where a purchaser could be found for a set, I turned the -correspondence over to my secretary, a canny woman, who established a -trading relation with a dealer in old books; and the two of them were in -a fair way to do a nice little business when their hopes were blasted by -the appearance in a New York bookstore of an entirely new edition of the -work—a cheap edition, selling for five or six dollars. My publishers -made an immediate investigation and found that it had been printed in -England, probably from German plates. - -As the third volume was not ready, there was nothing for the publisher -to do but reprint the two, which he very promptly did. On the appearance -of the reprint the pirated edition disappeared from the market. This -episode set me to work promptly at the third volume. - -But I needed a financial backer if the work was to be put through -promptly. I found it unexpectedly in the editor-in-chief for whom the -first two volumes had been written—S. S. McClure. _McClure’s Magazine_, -which had been suspended for a few years, had been revived, Mr. McClure -in charge. He felt that bringing Standard Oil history up to date was a -logical and might be an important feature for the periodical. - -For me there was satisfaction in trying to revive the old editorial -relations. I had always missed the gaiety and excitement Mr. McClure -gave to work, and, too, I had always felt a little anxious about, what I -suspected was happening to him in a group which, even if it was made up -of the very best of the town—men and women of ability and loyalty, -naturally eager to prove that they could make a _McClure’s Magazine_ as -good as ever had been made or better—could not, I was convinced, -understand Mr. McClure, get out of him what he had to give like his old -partner and friend John S. Phillips. So I was willing to give all I had -to help in the revival of the old periodical. - -I had my book well in hand, some twenty thousand words written, when the -new _McClure’s_ was suspended and the third volume on the Standard Oil -Company was cast out before publication had begun. - -Perhaps it was just as well, both for _McClure’s_ and for me. Repeating -yourself is a doubtful practice, particularly for editor and writer. I -feel now there was no hope of my recapturing the former interest in the -former way. The result would have smelt a bit musty. Indeed, though I -hate to admit it, I think there has been a slight mustiness about all I -have done in the nineteen years since I started “on my own”—that is, not -on assignment—built as it has been on work done before the Great War. - -Left with twenty thousand words on hand and no editor, I was obliged to -make a quick turn in the interest of security and took on the first -piece of work that offered. For one reason or another I have never been -able to return to that third volume and it looks now as if it were a -piece of work for my ninth decade since it failed to mature in the -seventh and eighth! - -If I failed to carry out my plan for tracing the maneuvers of the master -monopoly after the Government had taken it apart in 1911 and after it -adapted itself to the new and extraordinary situations forced by the -Great War, I did trace what could be done in a corporation whose parts -all had been built more or less on privilege, and which itself enjoyed -high tariff protection, when a man took hold of it who believed that -ordinary ethics did apply to business. This study was shaped around the -life of Judge Elbert H. Gary. - -It was no idea of mine, this life of Gary, and when it was proposed to -me by that energetic and resourceful editor Rutger Jewett I promptly -said, “No.” But Mr. Jewett was insistent. He had talked the matter over -with Judge Gary, who had told him he would open his records and answer -my questions if I would do the book. - -That meant, I supposed, that he had confidence in my ability to be -fair-minded, whatever my suspicions. His judgment was formed on my -handling of certain efforts to improve and humanize the conditions of -labor in the mills, factories, and towns of the United States Steel -Corporation. The Corporation under his direction had been a pioneer in -safety and sanitation work. It had developed a pension system, improved -communities, improved its housing, built schools and hospitals where -there was no community to take care of these needs. It was the broadest, -soundest record that I had found in my gathering of material for the -articles _The American Magazine_ had published under the title of “The -Golden Rule in Business.” I knew from my talks with Judge Gary that -there was nothing going on in the Steel Corporation in which he was more -deeply interested. - -Moreover, I knew he was a man I could talk with freely. More than once, -when he as spokesman of the Corporation was under attack for arbitrary -dealings with labor, I had gone to him for his side of the case; and -although I might not agree, and frequently did not, I always came away -enlightened and with a rather humiliated feeling that I had shown myself -an amateur in a conversation where he was very much the expert. - -But was I equal to finding out the truth of things in this enormous -industrial labyrinth which he ruled? Moreover, if Judge Gary had been an -industrial plunderer, should I be willing so to present him? I had no -heart for a repetition of my experience with H. H. Rogers. - -Another reason for hesitation was that I knew if I did undertake it, and -was as fair as I knew how to be, I should at once be under suspicion by -groups with whose intentions for the most part I sympathized. They were -unwilling to consider Gary in any light save that of Scapegoat Number -One. An attack—yes—they would welcome it. An attempt to set down his -business life as he had actually lived it—no. That was whitewashing. - -Finally I took the matter to Judge Gary himself. “I do not know that I -want to write your life,” I told him. “If I find practices which seem to -me against public policy as I understand it I shall have to say so. I -appreciate your efforts to make working conditions for labor as good as -you know how to make them, but it does not follow that I can stand for -your financial policies. It is not your humanitarianism but your ethics -I suspect.” - -“Well,” Judge Gary laughed, “if you can find anything wrong in our -doings I want to know it. I had George Wickersham in here for a year or -more going over the whole set-up telling me what he thought we ought not -to do, and I followed every suggestion he made. The Government has had -its agency here for two years examining our books, and they gave us a -clean bill of health. The Supreme Court has refused to declare us a -monopoly in restraint of trade. Do your worst, and if you find anything -wrong I shall be grateful.” - -I felt more of an amateur than ever after that. I also concluded that it -would be sheer cowardice on my part to refuse the job which I really -needed. I had not been long at my task, however, before I was heartened -by the certainty that, from the formation of the Corporation, Judge Gary -had made a steady and surprisingly successful fight to strip the -businesses which he was putting together of certain illegal privileges, -as well as to set up an entirely new code of fair practices—the Gary -Code, it was jeeringly called in Wall Street. - -Orders went out neither to ask nor to accept special favors from the -railroads. Full yearly reports of the financial condition of the -Corporation, whether good or bad, were sent out. These reports reached -the public as early as they did the directors themselves, putting an end -to the advance information which many insiders were accustomed to using -for stock selling or buying. Various forms of predatory competition were -attacked from the inside. Judge Gary not only laid down his code, he -followed it up, preached it zealously to his board. - -Another unheard-of innovation was his support of President Theodore -Roosevelt’s attempts to control business. It had become an axiom of Big -Business to fight every effort of the Government to inspect or regulate. -When Gary took the opposite course, applauded Roosevelt’s efforts, -declared that he was doing business good, doing him good, he was treated -as a traitor by many colleagues. - -Well, this seemed to me as good business doctrine as I had come across -in any concern—much better, more definite and practical as a matter of -fact than I got from most corporation critics. But how far was this -followed up in practice? Before I was through I made up my mind that -Judge Gary’s code was applied just as completely and as rapidly as he -could persuade or drive his frequently doubting and recalcitrant -associates to it. But that took time, took frequent battles. Indeed, -more than once he had come close to losing his official head, fighting -for this or that plank in his platform. The Gary Code and the effort to -put it into practice reconciled me to my task. - -Judge Gary was an easy man to work with because he was so interested in -following his own story. He had been too busy all his life to give -attention to the route by which he had come. Now he enjoyed the looks -back. Finding that he was willing to take literally his promise to open -records and answer questions, I laid out a little plan for covering his -life chronologically. It pleased him, for he was the most systematic of -men. It gave him delight to remember. “How a man’s mind unravels!” he -exclaimed one day when he had suddenly recalled something long -forgotten. - -Our interviews were carried on always at 71 Broadway. He kept his -appointments exactly. Rarely did he keep me waiting, and if by necessity -he did he always apologized. If I came late I was made to feel clearly -that that was a thing not to be done. - -While Judge Gary was prepared to be frank in his talks with me he was -not prepared to be misquoted. He evidently had learned that even with -the best intentions a reporter may distort what a man has said out of -all resemblance to what he meant. He guarded against this by always -having at our interviews a secretary who took down in shorthand all that -he said, all that I said. I made longhand notes, dictating them as soon -as I went back to my desk. I do not remember that a question of -misunderstanding of meaning ever came up. - -Convinced that the Gary Code was genuine, not mere window dressing for -the public, nothing interested me more than how a man in his fifties who -had been for twenty years a successful corporation lawyer was willing to -preach to Wall Street as he had done. I finally concluded the truth to -be that Elbert Gary had never outgrown his early bringing up. He had -never gotten over a belief in the soundness of what he had learned in -Sunday school and of what later he had taught through most of his -manhood in Sunday school. The difference between him and some of his -fellows in business brought up in the same way was that he insisted that -the Sunday-school precepts of honesty, consideration for others, fair -play, should be preached on week days as well as Sundays, in the board -room as well as the church. If he ever sensed that his preaching was -both comic and irritating to Wall Street—which I doubt—he never gave -sign of such a perception. - -I soon found that I need not hesitate to bring him all sorts of -criticisms of his doings as I unearthed them in studying the public’s -reactions to the Steel Corporation’s operations. They never fretted or -irritated him; rather he enjoyed analyzing them for my benefit. He never -dismissed radical opinions as nonsense. In the year I was working with -him there was never a public radical meeting in New York—and there were -a good many of them that year—that he did not read all the speeches, and -comment on them intelligently and with good humor. - -“We must know about these things,” he said. “We must know all about -Lenin, all about Mussolini. They are great forces; they are trying new -forms of government.” His knowledge prevented him from being scared. - -Above all Gary enjoyed stories of his struggles to establish his own -preeminence and his own code in the Steel Corporation. At the start he -had several of the strong men in the Corporation against him; but he had -won out, and it gave him the greatest satisfaction to show me letters of -congratulation, to quote former opponents as saying, “You were right, I -was wrong.” Particularly he enjoyed the very good terms on which he -stood with Theodore Roosevelt, whose unpopularity in Wall Street -surpassed even that of the second Roosevelt. - -He still talked with emotion of the decision of the Government to bring -suit against the Steel Corporation under the Sherman Law. He thought he -had satisfied it that the Steel Corporation was not a monopoly in -restraint of trade, that it was what Mark Twain called a good trust; and -when the Attorney General’s office decided that there might be a -question about the quality of this goodness Gary was terribly disturbed. -There were advisers who thought he ought to try to settle the suit -outside, but he would not have it so. The Government had doubts, and he -must satisfy them. He believed that the law did not apply to the Steel -Corporation; he believed that the Corporation was not contrary to a -sound business policy, a menace to the country. That must be settled -once for all. Of course he was jubilant over the outcome: it justified -his conviction. - -Judge Gary had done a great job, and he knew it; but, interestingly -enough, it never made him pompous. As a matter of fact he was simple, -natural, in talking about it. Along with this really simple enjoyment of -his own conflict he had a nice kind of dignity and a carefulness of -conduct which were not entirely natural to him. To be sure he had always -been a good Methodist, a good citizen, a hard-working lawyer; but at the -same time in all these earlier years he had led what was then called a -gay life. He had liked a fast horse, liked to hunt and see the world. He -was curious about all kinds of human performances, looked into them -whenever he had the chance. When he became the head of the Steel -Corporation he could no longer sing in the choir—he had to go to the -Opera and sit in a box. He no longer drove fast horses. He wanted to -fly, and the board of the Steel Corporation passed an ordinance against -it—too dangerous. When he traveled it was more or less in state, and he -couldn’t slip out with a crowd of men at the stopping places to see the -town. - -It was hard on him, but he felt deeply that he owed it to the Steel -Corporation to be above reproach. Not a little of this carefulness was -due, I think, to the effect on the public, the exhibits that several of -the new steel men had made of themselves after the Corporation was -formed in 1901 and their offices were centered in New York. They were -rich beyond their wildest dreams. The restrictions of the home towns -were gone, and they broke loose in a riotous celebration which -scandalized even Mr. Morgan. Gary joined in nothing which approached -orgies. He was too hard a worker and always had been, and he saw with -distress the effect the high living of certain of the steel men was -having on the public. It was a danger, he felt, equal to the speculation -in steel stock by officers of the corporation. To counteract it he -gradually became more and more a model of correctness. - -I came out of my task with a real liking for Judge Gary and a profound -conviction that industry has not produced one in our time who so well -deserves the title of industrial statesman. But I had to pay for saying -what I thought. Under the heading of “The Taming of Ida M. Tarbell” my -favorite newspaper declared that I had become a eulogist of the kind of -man to whom I was sworn as an eternal enemy. But Judge Gary was not the -kind of captain of industry to which I objected. On the contrary, he was -a man who, at the frequent risk of his position and fortune, had -steadily fought many of the privileges and practices to which I had been -objecting. - -However, one is judged largely by the company one keeps. Judge Gary -belonged to an industrial world where the predatory, the brutal, the -illegal, the reckless speculator constantly forced public attention. -That there was another side to that world, a really honest and -intelligent effort in the making to put an end to these practices, few -knew or, knowing, acknowledged. I could not complain. I knew how it -would be when I started. But I must confess that more than once, while I -was carrying on my work, I shivered with distaste at the suspicion I -knew I was bringing on myself. The only time in my professional life I -feel I deserve to be called courageous was when I wrote the life of -Judge Gary. - -My active interest in the industrial life of the country brought me -unexpected adventures. The most instructive as well as upsetting was -serving on a couple of those Government conferences which twentieth -century Presidents have used so freely in their attempts to solve -difficult national problems. An Industrial Conference called by -President Wilson for the fall of 1919 was the first of these. Mr. Wilson -felt clearly at the end of the War that our immediate important domestic -problem was to establish some common ground of agreement and action in -the conduct of industry. What he wanted evidently was a covenant by -which employer and employee could work out their common problems as -cooperators, not as enemies. There was need of action, as any one who -remembers those days will agree. The whole labor world was in an uproar, -and one of the periodical efforts to organize the steel industry was -under way. Mr. Gompers, the head of the American Federation, sponsoring -the strike, had had little or no sympathy with a contest at the moment -but had been pushed into it by the adroitness of the radical elements -boring from within throughout the War. - -“These disturbances must not go on. It should be possible to make plans -for a peaceful solution,” Mr. Wilson said. - -And so a Conference was called. In spite of my refusal to serve on his -Tariff Commission, President Wilson had evidently not given me up. As a -matter of fact our acquaintance and mutual confidence had grown during -the War. - -He now named me as one of four women representatives, the others being -Lillian Wald, head of the Nurses’ Settlement in New York City, Gertrude -Barnum, assistant director of the investigation service of the United -States Department of Labor, and Sara Conboy of the textile workers’ -union. - -The Conference was an impressive and exciting body of some fifty persons -divided into three groups representing the public, labor, the employers. -I, of course, sat in the first group, where I found as my colleagues a -bewildering assortment of men from various ranks of life. There were Dr. -Charles Eliot, Charles Edward Russell, John D. Rockefeller, Jr., Judge -Gary, John Spargo, Bernard Baruch, Thomas L. Chadbourne, Jr., and a -score or more less known to the public, though not necessarily less -influential. - -At the head of the labor group was Samuel Gompers. Among his colleagues -were some of the most experienced labor leaders in the country. - -The members of the employer group were chosen from among men who had -been particularly helpful in directing their industries during the War. - -There were many interesting characters on the body. Two that I -particularly enjoyed were Henry Endicott, who with the Johnsons had -established the famous shoe towns near Binghamton, New York, and a -delightful pungent character from Georgia—Fuller E. Callaway—who in -twenty years had built up from scratch mills and a village with homes -and schools—everything to give life and a chance to hard-working mill -people. Mr. Callaway’s story of what he had done in Georgia was one of -the very few joyous contributions to a gathering doomed to be a dismal -failure. - -A body could have scarcely had a heartier welcome from the public than -we did. People seemed to feel we should find a way to end the fighting; -that was what we were there for, Secretary of Labor Wilson told us in -his keynote speech. If we could produce a document which would secure -the rights of all those concerned in an industry, it would find a place -in the hearts of men like the Magna Charta, the Bill of Rights, the -Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United States and -the Emancipation Proclamation. He brought us all to our feet—all save a -few who were too interested in political strategy to entertain a high -purpose. - -We were there to plan for the future of industry. But almost at once we -discovered that it was not peace or the future of industry that was in -Mr. Gompers’ mind. Also, we discovered that the master politician of the -body was Mr. Gompers. We were hardly organized before he called upon us -to appoint a committee to report on the steel strike. - -Dr. Charles Eliot, outraged, rose in all his very genuine majesty and -reminded the body that we were not there to attend to the troubles of -the present but to plan that such troubles might be avoided in the -future. But the steel strike was on the table, and we left it there when -we disbanded, a menace and an irritation. - -It was not Mr. Gompers’ resolution, however, which ruined the -Conference. It was the inability of the representatives of labor and -employers to agree on a definition for collective bargaining. The -Conference as a whole contended that such a definition must be a leading -plank in the platform we were there to make, but there were to be many -other planks. Committees were at once formed to frame them. Almost every -member of the Conference, too, had some particular resolution that he -wanted to incorporate. I know I did. But most of us never found an -opportunity to present our notions. Collective bargaining and what it -meant were always getting in our way. The employer group and a -considerable number of the public group believed that the definition -which the labor group offered meant a closed shop. Judge Gary openly -charged this. But labor was quite as strong in its suspicion that the -definition which came from the employer group encouraged company unions, -at that moment flourishing in numbers that alarmed them. Suspicion -governed both groups. - -This went on for two weeks; then Secretary Lane, the acting chairman of -the Conference, appealed to a very sick President, and from his bed -Woodrow Wilson begged us not to allow division on one point to destroy -our opportunity: - - At a time when the nations of the world are endeavoring to find a - way of avoiding international war [he wrote], are we to confess that - there is no method to be found for carrying on industry except in - the spirit and with the very method of war? Must suspicion and - hatred and force rule us in civil life? Are our industrial leaders - and our industrial workers to live together without faith in each - other, constantly struggling for advantage over each other, doing - naught but what is compelled? - - My friends, this would be an intolerable outlook, a prospect - unworthy of the large things done by this people in the mastering of - this continent; indeed, it would be an invitation to national - disaster. From such a possibility my mind turns away, for my - confidence is abiding that in this land we have learned how to - accept the general judgment upon matters that affect the public - weal. And this is the very heart and soul of democracy. - -But it was too late. The labor body walked out, except a few railroad -men, wise and experienced in negotiations. A group of employers followed -them. It was defeat. There was nothing for the President to do but -disband the Conference. He did ask, however, that the public group of -some twenty-five carry on. Now this group included a number of -extraordinarily able men. From them had come some of the wisest and -broadest suggestions that had been placed before the Conference. They -could have presented an impressive program, but they had been -outmaneuvered. They lost heart; they refused to go on. The only remarks -I made at that Conference, bewildered as I had been by the political -maneuvering, were when I saw the public group prepared for the cowardly -business of denying the President’s request. “Let us stick to it, do our -best, make some report,” I pleaded. - -But I do not think anybody heard me. I had an impression as I talked -that most of them were calculating when they could get a train to New -York. - -My next adventure in Government service came two years later as a member -of President Harding’s Unemployment Conference. The country had been -caught in the first great postwar depression, and nobody was ready for -it. Nobody knew, indeed, how widespread the unemployment was. Mr. -Harding called a conference to deal with the problem without attempting -to find out. The result was that on one hand you had an opposition -belittling the numbers, on the other hand you had the responsible -sponsors of the Conference probably exaggerating them. Nobody knew. And -how easy it would have been to find out, by the same method the country -had used in the War when, by a cooperative effort, the number of -draftable men was counted in twenty-four hours at a limited expense! - -This was an impressive Conference because of the make-up, and it was a -mighty well conducted Conference: the chairman, Secretary of Commerce -Hoover, kept it in hand from the start—and this in spite of the fact -that there were all the elements of conflict found in the Industrial -Conference and some extra, for here we had rivalry between the labor -groups themselves, particularly that thorny problem of trade -jurisdiction. But Mr. Hoover was enormously skillful, and we came out -with a program which, if it had been carried out with the machinery -which the Conference devised, would have brought the country to 1929 in -a very different state of preparedness. - -After our dismissal I put together in a lecture what I conceived to be -the practical conclusion of the Conference. As my text I used one of the -first principles laid down, “The time to act is before a crisis becomes -inevitable.” This text was an official and authoritative recognition of -the unpalatable fact that business always moves in cycles—that a boom -will be followed by a slump, that common sense demands preparedness. - -How prepare? The Federal Government, state, county, community down to -the smallest, was to have in reserve plans and money for work it wanted -done that was not absolutely essential at the moment. When a slump -started, this reserve was to be called out. - -Private industry was by no means let off. In good times it was to lay up -a surplus with which to keep plants and laboratory alive and ready for -action as soon as there was a return of orders. The employee was to be -protected by employment insurance. The individual householder was to -keep back certain needed repairs and improvements for the day of need. -That is, everybody was to be ready with his life preserver. - -For two years I talked with the conviction of one who has a scheme he -believes sound, and I was listened to with more or less enthusiasm, -until it was obvious the slump was passing. It was a bad dream well -over—good times had come. Why lay plans for the future? By 1926 there -were no longer audiences to listen to a talk on preparing for -unemployment. Apparently everybody, even President Hoover, who had been -the all-efficient chairman of the Conference, forgot all about the -program. - -On the whole my little excursions into public service were discouraging -and disillusioning; but they did convince me that I was right when I -gave as one of my reasons for not going on to President Wilson’s Tariff -Commission the fact that I was not fitted for the kind of work a -commission or conference requires. - -I was an observer, a reporter. What interested me was watching my fellow -members in action: the silent wariness of Secretary Hoover; the amused -and slightly contemptuous smile of Charlie Schwab when he heard a woman -had been put on the coal committee; the unwillingness of representatives -of rival mining unions to do anything to relieve the immediate suffering -of West Virginia miners, sufferings so useful in their campaigns; the -stubborn look on the faces of those who fought over jurisdiction in an -effort to reach an adjustment which would permit hungry men to take up -work waiting for them; the quick political lineup; the clever political -plays; the gradual fade-out of the objective, its replacement by party -ambitions. - -All together it was a revealing study of the reason there is so little -steady progress in the world. These failures joined to the refusal to -have anything to do with the League of Nations put an end to my hope -that the War had taught us much of anything. We were not ready for the -sacrifices necessary for peace, nor had we grasped the natural methods -by which things grow. We believed we could talk, petition, legislate, -vote ourselves into peace and prosperity. We had not learned that toil -and self-control are three-fourths of any achievement, and that toil and -self-control begin with the individual. - -I went on with my talking in these years with a troubled mind. Continue -this way, and we would destroy democracy. We had allowed, often -encouraged, groups of self-interested individuals to have their way. -That meant transformations in government machinery, new types of -leaders, a multiplication of the children of privilege we had always so -feared, the substitution of humanitarianism for ethics, sympathy for -justice. - -I was discouraged, but I never lost faith in our scheme of things. I -never came to believe that we must change democracy for socialism or -communism or a dictatorship. You do not change human nature by changing -the machinery. Under freedom human nature has the best chances for -growth, for correcting its weaknesses and failures, for developing its -capacities. It is on these improvements in men that the future welfare -of the world depends. So I believed, and so I argued as I went about, -though sometimes, I confess, with a spirit so low that my tongue was in -my cheek. - -Such was my growing disillusionment when in 1926 I was asked to go to -Italy to report on the Fascist State of Benito Mussolini, now four years -in power, a scandal to the democracies at which he openly jeered, but an -even greater one to the Socialists and Communists who once had thought -him on the way to being the strongest radical leader in Europe. - -I knew little of what had gone on in Italy after the end of the War. I -knew the parliamentary system had broken down; I knew there had been two -years of guerrilla warfare after the Peace Conference, a period in which -it was nip and tuck whether the next ruler of Italy would be Communist -or Fascist. The Fascists under their leader Mussolini had won out. I had -been amazed, and had never ceased to be amazed, that the dramatic march -on Rome which ended in changing a parliamentary form of government into -a dictatorship had been carried out without bloodshed. An astonished -world had seen tens of thousands of unorganized and in part unarmed men -march from every point in Italy to Rome, call for Mussolini, get him by -order of the King and then march home again—not a brick thrown, not a -head broken. It was the most amazing transfer of government I had known -of. - -But I had never given much attention to what had followed. I had never -asked myself if it was inevitable that a dictator should arise in Italy. -I had never asked who was this man Mussolini or what was this corporate -state which was emerging. - -Uneasy as I was over the way things were going in the United States, I -vaguely felt when I was asked to go look all this up that possibly there -were lessons there. Possibly I might learn something from Italy’s -experience about the process by which manacles are put on free -government. However, the real reason I went to Italy was because I was -offered so large a sum that I thought I could not afford to refuse. - -My friends did their best to discourage my going. Down in Washington a -worried undersecretary who gave me my passport and letters of -introduction told me pessimistically that I probably should be arrested. - -“But why?” I asked. - -“Well, that is what is happening now to all our Americans. They drink -too much, talk too much. The chief reason, as far as we can make out, is -that they have to arrest them because they are attacking the government. -We do the same thing here now and then, you know.” - -In Paris my best friends, among them Mr. Jaccaci, so much of an Italian -that he talked the dialects of several provinces, told me with all -seriousness that I should be searched. I must not carry letters to -members of the opposition, nor books hostile to Mussolini. Now I was -armed with things of that sort, collected in Washington, New York, and -Paris. I did not propose to give them up without a struggle. - -I was told I should find no newspapers excepting those sympathetic to -the regime—a serious handicap, as I always count largely on newspapers. -I must always use the Fascist salute. I took this so seriously that I -practiced it in my Paris bedroom. I must not speak French. I was -counting on that, as I speak no Italian. That is, I started off to Italy -with a large collection of “don’ts” coming from people I considered -informed. If I had not had a natural dislike of giving up an undertaking -I never would have carried out my assignment. - -However, at the end of the first day in Rome, a very exciting day, I -awakened to the fact that nobody had searched my bags for incriminating -documents, that I had talked French all day, and that I hadn’t noticed -anybody using the Fascist salute, and, most important, that I had found -at every newspaper kiosk all the French and English papers side by side -with the Italian. It gave me confidence. As a matter of fact in the four -to five months that I was in Italy I did practically what I had planned -to do, and nobody paid any attention to me. My mail was never interfered -with, so far as I know. That is, none of the dire prophecies of -interference to which I had listened at the start came true. - -I do not mean to say it was always easy to get to the people with whom I -wanted to talk; more than once, when I succeeded, I found the person -fearful of quotation. I do not mean to say that I found no revolts. Down -in Palermo, in corners of Milan and Florence and Turin, as a matter of -fact almost everywhere, I ran across bitter critics of the new regime -such as I hear every day in this year of 1938 of the President of the -United States; but on the whole even good parliamentarians were -accepting Mussolini. “He has saved the country,” men told me. “We don’t -accept his methods, we don’t believe in dictatorship; but it is better -than anarchy.” - -Making my headquarters at Rome, I went over the country fairly well, -particularly the industrial sections. I visited Turin with its -hydroelectric developments, its great Fiat factory, its artificial silk, -all plants of the first order. I spent some days in Milan, visited the -great Pirelli plant, at the moment making underground cables for -Chicago. I saw what was left of the cooperatives at Bologna. I climbed -into that plucky little independent Republic of San Marino. Mussolini -had been there just before I arrived. They were all for him. He worked -and made people work. That is what had made San Marino. - -I went south into Calabria, over into Sicily—always looking for the -effects of the new regime on the life of the people. There was no doubt -sensible things were going on—redemption of land, extension of water -power, amazing efforts at wheat production; and the people were -accepting the regime with understanding, realists that they were. - -The first thing that springs to my mind now when I recall those months -in Italy is a long procession of men, women, and children bent in labor. -They harvested fields of rice, wheat, alfalfa, laying grain in perfect -swaths; they sat on the ground, stripping and sorting tobacco leaves. -Tiny girls, old women crowded narrow rooms, embroidering with sure -fingers lovely designs on linen, fine and coarse; they cooked their -meals before all the world in the narrow streets of Naples; they carried -home at sunset from the terraces or slopes of mountains great baskets of -grapes, olives, lemons—young women straight and firm, their burdens -poised surely on their heads, old women bent under the weight on their -backs. They drove donkeys so laden that only a nodding head, a switching -tail were visible; they filled the roads with their gay two-wheeled -carts, tended sheep, ran machines, sat in markets, spun, weaved, molded, -built—a world of work. - -Mingled with these pictures of labor were equally vagrant ones of these -same men and women at play: holiday and Sunday crowds filling the -streets, the roads, the cinemas, the dancing pavilions, the squares of -little towns that traced their history back clearly more than two -thousand years. In those squares, gay with flags and streamers and light -and booths, in the evenings, throngs held their breath as to the notes -of soft music the lithe figures of the ropewalkers passed high overhead -with slow and rhythmic steps. - -It was hard to realize when I looked on them that six years earlier -these same people had been as badly out of step as they were perfectly -in step at the present moment, that instead of rhythmic labor, there was -a clash of disorder and revolt. Men and women refused not only to work -themselves, but to let other people work. Grain died in the fields, -threshing machines were destroyed, factories were seized, shops were -looted, railway trains ran as suited the crew. Sunday was a day, not of -rest, amusement, prayer, but of war; fêtes were dangerous, liable to be -broken up by raids. Instead of the steady balance, orderly action, so -conspicuous today, were the disorganization, anger, violence of a people -unprotected in its normal life: a people become the prey of a dozen -clashing political parties and not knowing where to look for a Moses to -lead it out of their Egypt. How could it be, one asked, that in so brief -a time a people should drop its clubs and pick up its tools? - -There was only one answer: Mussolini. Already he was a legend, a name -everywhere to conjure with. I used it myself after I had talked with -him, on scared gentlemen to whom I had letters of introduction, and who -feared quotation: “But Mussolini saw me—talked with me.” Nothing too -much trouble after that. - -But what kind of man was this dictator? - -“You must go and see Mussolini,” our able and friendly Ambassador Henry -P. Fletcher told me one morning while I was working on the Embassy’s -voluminous records of what had gone on in Italy since the end of the -War. I balked. - -“I am not ready with the questions I want to ask him.” - -“Oh,” said Mr. Fletcher, “just go down and have a chat with him.” - -With my notion of Mussolini gathered largely from English and American -as well as hostile Italian sources, the word seemed utterly incongruous. -Could one chat with this bombastic and terrifying individual who never -listened, told you what to think, to say? Impossible. But of course I -went. - -The most exciting and interesting hour and a half I spent in Italy was -in an anteroom watching twoscore or more persons who were waiting to be -received, watching them go in so scared, come out exultant, go in -inflated, come out collapsed. There was no one of them but was anxious, -even the Admiral of the Fleet then at Ostia. He walked nervously about -while he was waiting, adjusting his uniform, and when his turn came -strode in as if marching in a parade. - -Nothing I saw in Italy, as I have said, was more interesting to me. -Though I must confess that all the time there was an undercurrent of -nervousness. What I was afraid of was that my French would go to pieces, -provided he gave me a chance to speak at all—of which I had a doubt. -What if I should forget and say “vous” instead of “votre excellence”? -Should I be shot at sunrise? - -It was all so different from what I had anticipated. I must have misread -and misheard the reports of interviews to have had such an unpleasant -impression of what was waiting me. As I crossed the long room towards -the desk Mussolini came around to meet me, asked me to take one of the -two big chairs which stood in front of his desk—and, as he seated me, -was apologizing, actually apologizing, in excellent English for keeping -me waiting. As he did it I saw that he had a most extraordinary smile, -and that when he smiled he had a dimple. - -Nothing could have been more natural, simple, and courteous than the way -he put me at my ease. His French, in which he spoke after his first -greeting, was fluent, excellent. I found myself not at all afraid to -talk, eager to do so. If he had not been as eager, I think I should have -done all the talking, for luckily at once we hit on a common -interest—better housing. His smiling face became excited and stern. He -pounded the table. - -“Men and women must have better places in which to live. You cannot -expect them to be good citizens in the hovels they are living in, in -parts of Italy.” - -He went on to talk with appreciation and understanding of the various -building undertakings already well advanced, some of which I had seen in -different parts of the country. He talked at length of the effect on -women of crowded, cheerless homes. “A reason for their drinking too much -wine sometimes,” he mused. - -He was particularly interested in what prohibition was doing to working -people in the United States. “I am dry,” he said, “but I would not have -Italy dry [_sec_].” And he amused me by quickly changing _sec_ to -_seche_. “We need wine to keep alive the social sense in our -hard-working people.” - -Altogether it was an illuminating half-hour, and when Mussolini -accompanied me to the door and kissed my hand in the gallant Italian -fashion I understood for the first time an unexpected phase of the man -which makes him such a power in Italy. He might be—was, I believed—a -fearful despot, but he had a dimple. - -I left Italy, my head alive with speculations as to the future of the -man. There was a chance, and it seemed to me a very good one, that he -would be assassinated. Three dramatic attempts were made on his life -while I was there, attempts known to the public. There may have been -others, the authorities kept quiet. As I was sailing there came a rash -attack on him at Bologna, the assassin being torn to pieces, so it was -said, by an enraged crowd. For months after my return I watched my -morning paper for the headline, “Mussolini Assassinated.” - -Of course there was a chance—so far as I could see, it was what -Mussolini himself believed he could realize—to bring Italy to an even -keel economically, by thrift, hard work, development of resources and by -a system of legitimate colonization in the parts of the earth where he -could obtain land, by treaty or by purchase. - -And there was a third possibility to one at all familiar with the course -of dictators in the world, particularly with the one with whom you -instinctively compare Mussolini—Napoleon Bonaparte—that the day would -come when he would overreach himself in a too magnificent attempt, an -attempt beyond the forces of his country and so of himself, and he would -finally go down as Napoleon went down. - -Are Ethiopia and the alliance with Franco and the rebels of Spain to be -to Mussolini what Spain and Russia were to Napoleon? - -I was glad to breathe the air of the United States. It was still free, -whatever our follies. There was at that moment no dictator in sight—no -talk of one. But it was not Mussolini or the Corporate State which -mattered to us: it was what was back of them. Why had parliamentary -government broken down in Italy, the Italy of Garibaldi, of Cavour, -Victor Emmanuel? Why had a dictator been able to replace it with a new -form of government? Could this happen in the government of Washington -and Lincoln? Those were the questions of importance to Americans. There -was where there was something to learn. - - - - - 19 - LOOKING OVER THE COUNTRY - - -My chief consolation in what I looked on as the manhandling of -democratic ideals and processes in all ranks of society, public and -private, was Abraham Lincoln. In spite of his obvious limitations and -mistakes he had won the biggest battle for freedom we have yet had to -fight. He had done it by taking time to figure things out, by sticking -to the conclusions he had reached so long as, and no longer than, they -seemed to him sound, by squaring his conduct always with what he -conceived to be just, moral principles. The more I knew of him, the -better I liked him and the more strongly I felt we ought as a people to -know about how he did things, not ask how he would solve a problem -tormenting us, but how he would go to work to solve it. - -Feeling as I did and do about him, I have kept him always on my -workbench. There has never been a time since the War that I have not had -a long or short piece of Lincoln work on hand. The result has been five -books, big and little, and a continuous stream of articles, long and -short. - -The only fresh water in this Lincolnian stream was in a book I called -“In the Footsteps of the Lincolns.” Beginning with the first of the -family in this country—Samuel, who came in 1637—I traced them mile by -mile from Hingham, Massachusetts, where Samuel started, down through -Massachusetts, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, the Shenandoah Valley, the -wilderness of Kentucky, southwestern Indiana, into Illinois, to the -final resting place. I ran down the records that had been left behind, -copied the inscriptions on gravestones, went over houses in which they -had lived, looked up the families into which they had married, the -friends they had made. When I finished my journey I felt that I had -quite definitely and finally rescued the Lincolns from the ranks of poor -white trash where political enemies had so loved to place them. - -I have the satisfaction of knowing that this seven-generation pilgrimage -of the Lincoln family has been added to the itineraries which -enthusiastic students include in the cult of Lincoln now growing so -strong in this country. I have never had an honor which pleased me more -than a certificate from this group naming me Lincoln Pilgrim Number One. - -My conviction that we needed in all our difficulties to familiarize -ourselves with good models, sound laboratory practices led me to publish -in 1932 a life of Owen D. Young. Mr. Young had impressed me as being -just what I called him, “A New Type of Industrial Leader.” And how we -needed one! I had first heard of him in connection with what was called -the President’s Second Industrial Conference. After what I regarded as -the cowardly retreat of the members of the President’s first conference -Mr. Wilson had called a second with the same objective, a distinguished -body of men, among them Owen D. Young. - -The sessions of this conference were all secret—a contrast to the noisy -publicity which had surrounded the first gathering, and which had been -partly responsible for its failure, the political-minded conferees being -able in this way to speak to the country when they made speeches to -their fellows—a privilege they valued more than trying to understand and -cooperate with their fellows. - -It was not long before I began to hear rumors of the satisfactory way -the second conference was going and to hear the name of Owen D. Young as -the man who as much as anybody else was leading to a broad, fair program -of recommendations. His fairness, based on his experience in industrial -relations, came as a surprise to not a few of the members of the -conference, for Mr. Young represented the General Electric Company. - -Secretary Wilson, who was then at the head of the Federal Labor -Department, declared that Mr. Young had no fear and no prejudice as a -conferee, that he worked with an open mind. Attorney General Gregory -said of him that there was no man on the conference who was so -progressive in his philosophy of industrial relations. These opinions -from the inside of the conference, followed by its admirable published -report, with which I learned Mr. Young had had much to do, set me to -following his work in labor matters so far as it reached the public. - -I was deeply impressed by the showing he made as a negotiator on the -Dawes and Young committees called to settle the thorny problem of what -reparations Germany should make to the Allies—the first sitting in 1924 -and the second, in 1929—Mr. Young being the chairman of the latter. - -He proved himself a negotiator of unusual quality. He knew the facts. He -kept his head under all circumstances. He had the warmest kind of human -sympathies as well as what one of his colleagues called “a superior -emotional sensitiveness,” which made him steer clear of danger points -before anybody else realized that they were near. - -Such were the qualities, I told myself, needed in a leader to handle the -infinitely difficult tangle in labor relations that was more and more -disturbing industry. - -All I could do was to say so in print, and that I tried to do in a book -that came out in 1932 and had the misfortune to collide with a -Presidential boom for Mr. Young which misguided friends were cooking up -contrary to his wishes. It was the last thing that he wanted. He had the -good sense to see that there were vastly important things for the good -of the public to be done inside his industry. He wanted to go on with -them. He was doing a good job and should have been left with it, I felt. -But numbers of admirers and interested politicians continued to cry for -him for President until finally Mr. Young came out flat-footed to say -that under no circumstances would he accept a nomination. - -But here was my book coming out while this outcry was going on, and -naturally enough political-minded reviewers took it as intended for a -campaign biography. The point I had been trying to make, that here was -somebody with rare ability to lead in the labor struggle, was entirely -lost. I still believe that if we could have had him active in these past -years so disheartening for peaceful industrial relations, the years -which have set back so far the hope of genuine understanding cooperation -inside industry, we should have been saved the peck of trouble that we -are now in. - -It was out of the stuff gathered in these various undertakings that I -was depending for security. But the return from the books and articles -of a free lance is more or less uncertain, particularly when they come -in so sober a form as mine and are always shaped to fit a self-made -pattern. - -I saw that I must have an annual sure if modest money crop, and I found -it from 1924 on in lyceum work. My two seasons on the Chautauqua -platform had encouraged the lecture bureau to add me to its list of -“talent,” and it was arranged that I go out from four to six weeks a -year beginning around Lincoln’s birthday when dinners and celebrations -called for speakers, and running on into March—usually five engagements -a week, the local committees choosing the subject from the half-dozen I -offered. - -These bookings covered the country from North to South and East to West, -long and erratic journeys. Frequently I occupied two different beds a -night, and now and then three. It was brutal, exhaustive business, but I -learned to climb into an upper berth without a fuss, to sleep on a bench -if there was no berth, to rejoice over a cup of hot coffee at an -all-night workmen’s lunch counter, to warm my feet by walking a platform -while waiting for a train. By the end of the first season I had -developed a stoical acceptance of whatever came. This, I argued, saved -nervous wear and tear. I think now a certain amount of indignant -protest, useless as it would have been, might have put more zest into my -travel, as well as my talking. - -It was not only hard but lonesome business. From the day I started out I -felt myself a detached wanderer, one who had laid aside personality and -become a cog in the mechanism called a lecture bureau. My one ambition -was to fill the specifications of the schedule and have it over with. It -was not until I said good-bye to the last committee and was headed home -that I felt the joyful rush of reviving personality. - -This is putting an unfair face on my experiences. These long railroad -journeys, these nights waiting in dreary stations were not without their -rewards. I carry no more beautiful pictures in my mind than those -flashed on me riding across this country: glittering snow mountains with -stars hanging over them as big as a moon; miles of blossoming redbuds -rising from the mist along an Oklahoma stream; the lovely rounded forms -of the Ozark Mountains stretched as in sleep across Missouri; amethyst -deserts; endless rolling prairies yellow with wheat or white with snow. -These journeys took me at one time or another into every state in the -Union, and there is no one of them in which some bit of remembered -beauty does not take the curse off the almost universal disorder, even -squalor of their towns and cities as I saw them going in and out by -rail. - -These long rides, these night waits, brought unforgettable looks into -human lives. Strange how travelers will confide their ambitions, unload -their secrets, show their scars to strangers. Never have I been more -convinced of the supreme wisdom of the confessional of the Catholic -Church than by the confidences poured into my ears in these brief and -accidental meetings. Memorable and poignant though these experiences are -of the country’s beauty as well as of its human tragedy and comedy, they -are little more than a blur. The rapid and crowded succession of events -left no time to follow up, digest, get at the meaning, the solution. -This was particularly tantalizing when it came to the actual filling of -the engagement, for here you were for a time in close contact with a few -people, your committee, and you had an hour or more facing an audience -representative of a community. - -The committee represented authority. It was my business to follow its -instructions, please it if I could. Its chairman was the first person I -sought on arrival—that is, the first after checking up on how and when I -was to get away from the place at which I had just arrived. - -To be sure, I had careful routing, but was the train by which I was -ordered to leave still running? Had there been a flood or blizzard or -accident to make a detour necessary? Sometimes it was an exciting -detour. More than once I had to go fifty or a hundred miles by car over -flooded or snowbound roads which the pessimistic declared impassable, -and which only an adventurous youth for a good round sum would undertake -to negotiate. In one of these hold-ups I traveled two hundred miles in a -freight car behind an engine, the first to go over the snowbound road in -a week. More than once on these exciting detours I felt that probably I -should not come out alive; but I always did and always found, however -late my arrival, my audience was waiting me. As a matter of fact those -little adventures were highly stimulating after hours and hours of the -benumbing comfort of trains. - -When I knew how I was to get away, I looked up the committee. So far as -I was concerned, the point at which I most frequently found a serious -conflict in a committee was the subject on which I was to talk. That was -supposed to have been settled—I had their letter for it. But not -everybody wanted me to talk on so-and-so. Usually I found it was because -somebody feared I might be too radical. They didn’t want anything said -on their platform which would antagonize the well-to-do conservative -sponsors of the course or encourage the town’s social and economic -rebels. - -I remember times when, after an exciting discussion behind the scenes, I -stood in the wings waiting for the signal to come onto the platform -while behind me the discussion went on. Only at the last moment did the -chairman say begrudgingly, “Well, talk on so-and-so.” But the chief -objector meeting me after the lecture said, “I would so much have -preferred to have heard you on so-and-so.” - -But the indecision of the committee was not the only trying experience -before I was actually on my feet and at my job. There was the -introduction. You never knew exactly what was to happen. As a matter of -fact the introduction should and frequently does give opportunity for -repartee, for anecdote—an easy way for putting yourself at once on terms -of friendliness with your audience. But I was never happy at that kind -of thing. On the Chautauqua circuit the fashion has been for the speaker -to go out as soon as the music was over, take his stand and begin. -Nobody said, “This is So-and-So who will speak on so-and-so.” Nobody -told them anything about you—you stood up and said your piece. - -The ritual on the lyceum platform was different. There they made the -most of me, as a rule. It sometimes seemed to me that each successive -committee had a different way of presenting me. Sometimes I marched out -with the master of ceremonies, a man or woman, and was placed in an -armchair while the chairman made remarks about me which were often -bewildering. I have been introduced as the author of George Kennan’s -Siberian books and of Edna Ferber’s Emma McChesney stories. I have heard -a long explanation of why I had never married. Once I was called a -notorious woman by the speaker, he evidently thinking that the word was -flattering. Often I had a bodyguard made up of important women of the -community—a tribute to my sex. - -One of the most peculiar fashions, as well as the most trying, was -having a scene arranged behind the drop curtain. The stage was turned -into a pleasant sitting room, and a half-dozen of the leading women of -the town in their best gowns were seated about in informal fashion. When -we were all ready the curtain went up. There would be music, and then -the chairman would tell them who I was, and why I was supposed to be -worth their attention. While this was going on the audience was locating -the different persons of importance on the stage and criticizing the -setting and the costumes. - -One going as a lecturer to the most remote parts of the country that -support a lecture course may think he will be a treat, but if he has any -sensibility he will soon discover that, far from that, he usually has a -critical audience. It is interested in what he has to say, treats him -with courtesy and respect; but it has also had experience with scores of -lecturers in past years and compares his matter and his manner with -theirs. I have been in towns in the Middle West where they had heard -Thackeray and Dickens read, had listened to Emerson and Bronson Alcott, -and had heard every popular lecturer in all the years since their day. - -Your real opportunity to judge of the intelligence and alertness of the -community comes while you are speaking. Look for an hour or more into -the faces of a group of men and women who, whatever they may think of -you, are courteous enough to give you their attention, and you know soon -what certain individuals think of what you are saying. Always I found -myself speaking to someone who I knew heartily disagreed with me, -someone I felt I would like to convince. Always I knew that there was a -man waiting to challenge me. Usually these challenges came from -Socialists or Single Taxers. If an opportunity was given to ask -questions after my talk (something which I always encouraged), they were -the first on their feet. The community knew them and knew what their -questions would be, and frequently laughed at them. But a really good -audience enjoys seeing a speaker heckled a bit and the speaker, if he is -really interested in his business, is glad to take the heckling. I know -nothing better for a lecturer who is going over the same arguments night -after night than to know that there will probably be somebody in his -audience who will seize the first opportunity to pick on a weak point, -challenge his generalization, his facts. If that happens you always go -away from your lecture better equipped than you came to it. - -In the twelve years in which I regularly made an annual lecture trip—I -gave up the work in 1932, finding it too much for my strength—in all -those twelve years I everywhere found the liveliest absorption in -national policies. People told you how they felt about an undertaking, -how it was working out in their particular community—important, for here -you had the test of the pudding in its eating. It was what I saw of the -workings of prohibition in the 1920’s that drove me to do one of the -most unpopular things I ever did—that was to tell bluntly how I saw it -working in hotels from one end of the land to the other, disheartening -evidences of its effect on the young, the unexpected dangers it brought -to a woman traveling alone at night, both in stations and on trains. I -set down what I had seen over a wide range of territory, what I had -heard from the mouths of men and women who had been ardent -prohibitionists, and who were appalled by the things that were happening -particularly to youth in their own communities. - -I had never been a prohibitionist in principle. My whole theory for the -improvement of society is based on a belief in the discipline and the -education of the individual to self-control and right doing, for the -sake of right doing. I have never seen fundamental improvements imposed -from the top by ordinances and laws. I believed that the country was -gradually learning temperance. But if prohibition could be made to work -I was willing it should be tried. But what I saw in these years had led -me by 1928 to feel that something unexpected and very disastrous was -going on, and that it must be faced, not hidden. It was the most -important observation that my crowded lecture days yielded, but as I say -it brought me bitter criticism and now and then an intimation from some -indignant woman of power and parts that I had sold myself to the liquor -interests. One lady even intimated that if she had known that my pen was -for sale she would have bid for it. This kind of criticism, however, is -one of the things that one who says what he thinks must be prepared to -meet. It is very difficult to believe that those who disagree with you -are as convinced of the right of their point of view as you are, that -they are not being bribed or unduly influenced, have no selfish purpose -as you are sure you have not. - -Two generalizations topping all others came out of this going up and -down the land in the years between 1920 and 1932. The first is the -ambition of our people to live and think according to what they -conceive to be national standards. They adopt them whether they suit -their locality or not, and often in adopting them destroy something -with individuality and charm. For the traveler it begins with the -hotel, spick and span, and as like as two peas to the one in -A-ville—B-ville—and so on. Over the way is a sturdy stone building -dating from the days of the coach and four. You may sigh for its great -rooms and for a sight of the old lithographs sure to be on the wall, -but you know it is run down. The town cannot support two, and it -prefers the smart and comfortable commonplace to modernizing its fine -old inn. - -Look out your hotel window and you will see opposite a smart, little -dress shop, a duplicate of one you have been seeing everywhere you have -halted, a duplicate of many a one you have seen on New York avenues. -Next door is a standardized beauty parlor, and the pretty girl who waits -on you at the table, the daughter probably of some solid and -self-respecting townsman, has the latest coiffure and blood-red nails. -She is struggling to look as she supposes girls do in Chicago or New -York. - -When the committee takes you out to drive it is to show their one high -building, a high building on a prairie with limitless land to occupy, or -a country club as fine as the one in the nearest city. The pride is in -looking like something else, not themselves. The growth of this progress -in imitation can be traced in the change that has come over the local -postal card. All my life I have been a buyer of postal cards, largely on -account of my mother, to whom I always sent pictures of the localities -through which I was passing. Mother died in 1917, but up to this day I -rarely go through a station that I do not say to myself, “I must find a -card for Mother”—and turn away with a pang. In the years between 1920 -and 1932 the postal card grew steadily less interesting. Once there were -pictures of a near-by fort, the earliest house, a local celebrity, a -rare view, but now it is all of high buildings and new blocks. They give -of course the pictures of the Zoo and the parks, and even the Zoo and -the parks pride themselves, like the country club, on their resemblance -to those of the nearest large city. - -The growing evidence that nationalization is blotting out local -individuality, destroying the pungent personality of sections, states, -communities, struck me with new force after the months I spent in Italy -in 1926. In Italy I had found that, however deeply unionism might be -written in the hearts of some men, you were a Roman, a Perugian, a -Venetian, a Neapolitan before you were an Italian. The long arm of -Fascism was reaching into the provinces and the towns, but it did not as -yet disturb their ways of life. Mussolini had shown, up to that date, -rare knowledge of his Italians. He had left them their ways. Sure of -them, they did not worry so much about the change in government. Most of -them could see about them the proofs of two thousand years of change; -they could show you records and scars of a long succession of emperors, -kings, consuls, dictators. It did not seem to make a vast difference to -them what the government was if they could go on being themselves. - -Perhaps our national ambition to standardize ourselves has behind it the -notion that democracy means standardization. But standardization is the -surest way to destroy the initiative, to benumb the creative impulse -above all else essential to the vitality and growth of democratic -ideals. - -The second of my two generalizations was slower in its making. It came -when I began to scratch below the surface of the imitative life so -conspicuous. Then I found a stable foundation of people who stayed at -home and went about their business in their own way and without much -talking. These were people who in spite of droughts and dust storms -stuck to their farms, making the most of good years, saving enough to -carry them through the evil ones, adding a little, year by year, to -their possessions in town and country, supporting schools, churches, and -incidentally lecture courses. They were people who believed in freedom -to work out their own salvation and asked from the state nothing more -than protection in this freedom. It was the business of government, as -they saw it, to keep off the plunderers and let them alone. - -Democracy to them was not something which insured them a stable -livelihood. It was something which protected them while they earned a -livelihood. If they failed it was their failure. If the Government did -not protect them from transportation plunderers, manipulations of money, -stock gambling in goods which they raised to feed the world, it was the -Government’s failure. Then they had the right to change the Government, -hold it up to its duty. That was their political business. - -This was about what I found, the country over. When once I had learned -to look beyond the restless imitative crowd, to hunt out people who were -going about their business steadily, and for the most part serenely, I -began to breathe more freely and to say: “Well, perhaps, after all, the -men and women of this country as a whole do know what they are about. -They do know what democracy means, and in the best way that they can -under many hampering circumstances they are trying to live it.” - -Some such conclusion I always brought back with me from my annual swings -around the country, my dozens of nights in dozens of different -places—the high spot of which always was the hour of searching the faces -of the men and women who came to listen to what I had to say, and who, I -knew, sized me up for just about what I was worth. I might be fooling -myself but not them. - - - - - 20 - NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN - - -Here then is the record of my day’s work still unfinished at eighty. -Nobody can be more surprised than I am that I am still at work. Looking -forward at life at thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, generally finding myself -tired and a little discouraged, having always taken on things for which -I was unprepared, things which were really too big for me, I consoled -myself by saying, “At seventy you stop.” I planned for it. I would -burrow into the country, have a microscope—my old love. I knew by this -time that was not the way for me to find God, but I expected to have a -lot of fun watching the Protozoa and less anguish than watching men and -women. - -But I discovered when seventy came that I still had security to look -after. I could make it by seventy-five, I thought, but I did not. And I -have come where I am with a consciousness that, so long as my head holds -out, I shall work. More important, I am counting it as one of my -blessings. In spite of the notion early instilled into me that the place -of the aged is in the corner resignedly waiting to die, that there is no -place for their day’s work in the scheme of things, that they no longer -will have either the desire or the power to carry on, I find things to -do which belong to me and nobody else. - -It is an exciting discovery that this can be so. Old age need not be -what the textbooks assure us it is. Shakespeare is wrong. Cicero, dull -as he is in comparison, is more nearly right. More, it can be an -adventure. My young friends laugh at me when I tell them that, in spite -of creaking joints and a tremulous hand, there are satisfactions -peculiar to the period, satisfactions different from those of youth, of -middle life, even of that decade of the seventies which I supposed ended -it all. - -I have been finding it a surprising adventure, if frequently -disillusioning and disturbing, to review my working life, to pick out -what seems to be the reason for my going here and not there, for -thinking this and not that. It has been a good deal like renewing -acquaintance with a friend I had not seen since childhood. Probably the -reason for this is that I have never stopped long enough after any one -piece of work to clean up, valuate what I had done. Always a new -undertaking was on my table before I was finished with what went before. -Packing boxes and letter files of badly classified material still -clutter up my small space with the physical evidence of the -incompleteness of every piece of work I have undertaken. - -This explains why telling my story has been so full of surprises. “I did -not realize I felt that way,” I have told myself more than once. “I had -forgotten I did that.” “I cannot imagine why I thought that.” - -I took on self-support at the start that I might be free to find answers -to questions which puzzled me. After long floundering I blundered into -man’s old struggle for the betterment of his life. - -My point of attack has always been that of a journalist after the fact, -rarely that of a reformer, the advocate of a cause or a system. If I was -tempted from the strait and narrow path of the one who seeks for that -which is so and why it is so, I sooner or later returned. This was -partly because of the humor and common sense of my associates on -_McClure’s_ and _The American Magazine_, and partly because the habit of -accepting without question the teachings and conventions of my world was -shattered when in girlhood I discovered that the world was not created -in six days of twenty-four hours each. That experience aroused me to -questioning, qualifying even what I advocated, which no first-class -crusader can afford to do. - -I have never had illusions about the value of my individual -contribution! I realized early that what a man or a woman does is built -on what those who have gone before have done, that its real value -depends on making the matter in hand a little clearer, a little sounder -for those who come after. Nobody begins or ends anything. Each person is -a link, weak or strong, in an endless chain. One of our gravest mistakes -is persuading ourselves that nobody has passed this way before. - -In our eagerness to prove we have found the true solution, we fail to -inquire why this same solution failed to work when tried before—for it -always has been tried before, even if we in our self-confidence do not -know it. - -We are given to ignoring not only the past of our solutions, their -status when we took them over, but the variety of relationships they -must meet, satisfy. They must sink or swim in a stream where a multitude -of human experiences, prejudices, ambitions, ideals meet and clash, -throw one another back, mingle, make that all-powerful current which is -public opinion—the trend which swallows, digests, or rejects what we -give it. It is our indifference to or ignorance of the multiplicity of -human elements in the society we seek to benefit that is responsible for -the sinking outright of many of our fine plans. - -There are certain exhibits of the eighty years I have lived which -particularly impress me. Perhaps the first of these is the cyclical -character of man’s nature and activities. If I separate my eighty -years—1857 to 1937—into four generations, examine them, compare my -findings, I find startling similarities in essentials. Take the effort, -to create, distribute, and use wealth. How alike are the ups and downs -that have marked that effort! - -I was born in the year of a major panic. The depression which followed -it was smothered in war. That war over, quickly there followed in 1866 a -serious depression—world-wide. In 1873 came a major panic. When this -first period came to an end in 1877 the country was still deep in the -clutch of the unhappy depression which followed that panic. - -Each of my three successive generations beginning in 1877, 1897, 1917, -has featured a “major” panic followed by five to seven years of -depression. Then has come a brilliant short-lived recovery ending in -what we euphoniously call today a recession. - -My fifth generation, just opening, promises well to duplicate its -predecessor. If I live ten years longer I no doubt shall see another -major panic, and one still more difficult for the productive individual -or group to handle because the practice of following the provident ant’s -example and storing up in the good time reserves to meet the bad has -been made a political offense. - -Each generation repeats its leaders. Each sees men endowed with superior -inventiveness, energy, and genius for business, inspired by love of -power and possession, launch selfish schemes—Carnegies, Rockefellers, -Goulds. If each of these strong men left something sinister behind, each -also contributed to higher living standards and hurried on the -nationalization of the country. The public without whom they could not -have lived a day saw in their greedy grandiose undertakings whatever was -for its benefit, and took it while ordering its government to control -whatever was sinister. - -And while they built and served and exploited, other men endowed with -far greater idealism than practical sense planned new forms of -government, new laws, advertised panaceas, all guaranteed to produce -security and justice. Each generation has had its Henry George, its -Bellamy, its Bryan, intent on persuading mankind that he had found the -way, could lead men to the good life. - -In each generation employer and employee have faced the decision—war or -cooperation. If war has been the answer in the majority of cases, there -have always been those who have gone ahead building up a great mass of -evidence of what men inspired by good will, free from suspicion and -self-interest, can do in industry by patient cooperative experiments. - -Side by side with these exhibits have gone magnificent governmental -attempts to correct abuses, to make man’s life in the Republic freer, -securer, more just, efforts to carry out the avowed purpose of the -government we started a hundred and fifty years ago. And these efforts -are alike in essentials—the New Deal of Franklin Roosevelt, the New -Freedom of Woodrow Wilson, the Square Deal of Theodore Roosevelt, the -fight for a larger freedom of opportunity of Grover Cleveland, the -struggle to wipe out slavery of Abraham Lincoln. - -Again and again in these generations have we seen the great airship of -democracy lift from the ground, stagger, gather itself together, soar, -sail, while those who had chosen the pilot and loaded in his cargo -watched the flight with confidence and exultation. This time their dream -had come true. - -But the ship has always come back, its journey unfinished, and doubters -have jeered at those who believed in it, cried out that it would never -fly, that freedom, equal opportunity were only foolish fancies; men, -they gloated, function only under strong single rulers. Dictatorship -alone makes efficient government—national power and glory. The state, -not the individual, is the end. - -There is no denying that these repeated failures or half-successes have -made cynics of many who have had a hand in the flights, or at least been -sympathetic watchers. - -It has been sickening to see hopes grow dim under the hammering of -reality, to see a generation lose its first grand fire and sink into -apathy, cynicism. One asks oneself if man has the staying power ever to -realize his ideals. One is inclined when this hour of futility comes to -agree with Arthur Balfour that human life is but a disreputable episode -on one of the minor planets. As far as I am concerned that smart and -cynical estimate never could stand a good night’s sleep. - -If I find little satisfaction or hope in examining and comparing one by -one my four successive generations, I find considerable in looking at -them as a whole. When I do that, I see not a group of cycles rolling one -after another along a rocky and uneven road but a spiral—the group moves -upward. To be sure it is not a very steady spiral, but I am convinced -that is the real movement. - -Could there be greater evidence that this is true than that the world as -a whole has today come to conscious grips over that most fundamental of -problems: Shall all men cooperate in an effort to make a free, peaceful, -orderly world, or shall we consent that strong men make a world to their -liking, forcing us to live in it? more than that, train us to carry it -on? - -It is well that the issue should be clear, so clear that each of us must -be forced to choose. - -Even more hopeful, if not so clear to many people, is the increasing -knowledge that we are getting of man as an individual and as a mass, -coming to us particularly from men of science. What we have yet to find -out, apparently, is what we can expect of man under this or that -circumstance, what words and what promises stir him, what persuades him -to cooperation or to revolt, why he follows a particular type of leader -at a particular time and how long he can be counted on. Once we know -better what we can get out of man under particular circumstances we can -plan our action with something like the certainty with which the -electrician plans his machine. He knows the nature of the current, what -it will do and not do. He puts no strain on it which experiment has -proved fatal. - -When we reach that knowledge and control of human forces we shall know -why the League of Nations works so badly, why we have before us the -terrible and apparently uncheckable shambles of Spain and China, why an -intolerable outbreak of racial and religious prejudice should shame us -at this period of our history, why we must be prepared to meet the -savage outbreaks of men and peoples still contemptuous of contracts, -unamenable to ideals of honor, peace, and conciliation. - -One consolation in any effort to socialize and democratize our plans of -life is that the mass of men want a simple world. In every country they -ask little more than security, preferably of their own making, freedom -to build in the way they like so far as possible. They will follow any -system or any leader that promises them that. Politicians would do a -better job for men if they wrote fewer constitutions, devised fewer -automatic cures, gave more attention to disciplining and training common -men and women the world over to honest labor, to cooperation with their -fellows, to sacrifice when necessary, keeping alive in them their -natural spark of freedom. - -How are we going to do it? That is the gravest question we face. In 1921 -I went to Washington to report Secretary Hughes’ Conference on the -Limitation of Armaments. It seemed to me that I had better do some -preliminary reading on the problems, so I went to a wise man at the -Carnegie Endowment for International Peace for advice. He turned out to -be a philosopher. - -“First,” said he, “read ‘Don Quixote’: he will tell you what they cannot -do. Then read Aesop’s Fables: that will tell you what they can do. But -above all read the King James Version of the Bible, which tells you that -peace on earth is promised only to men of good will.” - -There you have it. If we want peace we must make men of common sense, -knowing what can be done and what cannot be done, also men of good will. - -How are we to do that? I see no more promising path than each person -sticking to the work which comes his way. The nature of the work, its -seeming size and importance matter far less than its right relation to -the place where he finds himself. If the need at the moment is digging a -ditch or washing the dishes, that is the greatest thing in the world for -the moment. The time, the place, the need, the relation are what decide -the value of the act. - -It is by following this natural path that new and broader roads open to -us, moments of illumination come. There is the only reliable hope of the -world. It takes in all of us but puts it up hard to each of us to fit -the day’s work into the place where we stand, not crowding into -another’s place: no imitation, no hurry, growth always, knowing that -light and power come only with growth, slow as it is. - -Madame Curie so saw it. Asked what a woman’s contribution to a better -world should be, she replied that it began at home, then spread to those -immediately connected, her immediate friends, then the community in -which she lived; and if the work proved to meet a need of the world at -large it spread there. But the important thing was the beginning, and -that beginning, Madame Curie insisted, was in the home, the center of -small things. - -Work backed by such a faith makes life endurable. I doubt if I could -have come into my eighties with anything like the confidence I feel in -the ultimate victory of freedom, the ultimate victory of man’s -self-respect, if I had not groped my way through work into some such -faith. - -I know I should find this end of life less satisfactory if it were not a -working end, conditioned as it must be by certain concessions to years, -easements necessary if I am to keep vigor for my two or three hours a -day at my desk and, once accepted, becoming more and more enjoyable. - -No one can imagine what a satisfaction it is to me to find that I need -not go to conferences and conventions and big dinners. That job belongs -to youth. It alone has the appetite, the digestion, the resilience for -the endless talk and late hours of those functions, also the confidence -that salvation is to be reached through them. - -Still more satisfactory is the acceptance of the fact that I have not -the strength to run about on trains and give lectures. That, too, is the -job of young people, and the best I can hope for them in carrying it on -is that they will learn as much about people as I think I did. The -humility which that will engender will be all to their good. - -A discovery which has given me joy, and which had something of the -incredible about it, is the durability of friendship born at any period -in one’s life. I have enlarged in this narrative only on professional -friendships, those that belong legitimately to my day’s work, but this -discovery does not cover them alone but all the range from childhood to -now. - -Circumstances, time, separations, may have completely broken -communication. The break may have been caused by complete divergence of -opinion, differences as grave as those which caused the breaking up of -our old McClure crowd, as grave as the ghastly separations that war -brings; but you pick up at the day when the friendship was—not broken -but interrupted. - -One of the most beautiful personal demonstrations I have had of this -unbreakable quality in friendship was a birthday party which S. S. -McClure gave Viola Roseboro, John Phillips, and myself when he was -seventy-eight, and I close to it. Miss Roseboro had stayed with Mr. -McClure when the rest of us left him. That had never made a rift in -anybody’s relations with her, and now we all sat down together as once -we had sat down in the old St. Denis, the old Astor, the old Holland -House—lunching places that marked the stages by which _McClure’s_ worked -itself successively into better quarters, went uptown. And we talked -only of the things of today, as we always had done. We sat enthralled as -in the old years while Mr. McClure enlarged on his latest enthusiasm, -marveling as always at the eternal youthfulness in the man, the failure -of life to quench him. - -One of my great satisfactions has been a revival of curiosity. I lost it -in the 1920’s and early 1930’s. Human affairs seemed to me to be headed -for collapse. War was not over, and men were taking it for granted it -was. The failure of the hopes of previous generations had taught us -nothing. The sense of disaster was strong in me. What I most feared was -that we were raising our standard of living at the expense of our -standard of character. If you believed as I did (and do) that permanent -human betterment must rest on a sound moral basis, then our house would -collapse sooner or later. - -It was taking a longer view, looking at my fifty years as a whole, that -revived me. I thought I saw a spiral, was eager to prove it. - -Once more I am curious. It is an armchair curiosity—no longer can I go -out and see for myself; but that has its advantages. It compels longer -reflection, intensifies the conviction that taking time, having -patience, doing one thing at a time are the essentials for solid -improvement, for finding answers. Perhaps, I tell myself, I may from an -armchair find better answers than I have yet found to those questions -which set me at my day’s work, the still unanswered questions of the -most fruitful life for women in civilization, the true nature of -revolutions, even the mystery of God. It is the last of the three which -disturbs me least. The greatest of mysteries, it has become for me the -greatest of realities. - - - - - INDEX - - - Adams, Dr. Herbert B., 76 - - Addams, Jane, 273, 279, 305, 309, 310, 312, 313, 322, 334, 349, 354 - - Agassiz, Louis, 41, 42 - - Alber, Louis, 300 - - Alden, Timothy, 37–39 - - Aldrich, Esther Tarbell (niece), 264, 265, 359 - - Allegheny College, 34–47, 58, 64, 89, 142 - - American Federation of Labor, 82, 371 - - _American Magazine, The_, 255, 259, 261, 265–267, 270, 274, 276, 281, - 282, 288, 292, 293, 297–300, 306, 307, 327, 350, 353, 359, 365, 399 - - Anderson, Mary, 55, 323, 349 - - Anderson, Maxwell, 307 - - Anthony, Susan B., 31–33, 40, 327 - - Archbold, John D., 220, 221, 232 - - - Baker, Ray Stannard, 196, 197, 242, 258, 261, 266, 274, 279, 282, 292, - 299, 350 - - Barton Lincolniana, 170, 171 - - Beecher-Tilton scandal, 33 - - Bell, Alexander Graham, 44, 147, 181–184 - - Bellamy, Edward, 83, 401 - - Bentley, William, 38, 39 - - Berkman, Alexander, 126 - - Blanc, Madame (Théodore Bentzon), 100, 101 - - Bliven, Bruce, 307 - - Bloomer, Amelia, 31 - - Bonaparte, Napoleon, 130, 146–153, 155, 156, 159, 161, 164, 205, 384 - - Bonnet, Madame, 90, 103–106, 110, 112, 114, 116–118 - - Bonta House, 19, 205 - - Borgeaud, Charles, 131, 145, 350 - - Boyden, Albert, 258, 261, 262, 266, 300 - - Bryan, William Jennings, 355, 356, 401 - - Bugbee, Dr. Lucius, 35, 43 - - Burlingame, Edward L., 98–100 - - Burroughs, John, 308 - - - Catt, Carrie Chapman, 320–322, 326 - - Chautauqua Assembly, 65–72 - - Chautauqua Circuit, 300–305, 314, 329, 352–356, 388–397 - - Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle, 69–71, 81 - - _Chautauquan, The_, 64, 71–79, 81–83, 85–89, 94, 98, 179, 204, 211, 268 - - Cherry Run, 4, 5, 8, 10 - - Claflin, Tennessee, 32, 33 - - Claude, Monsieur, 97 - - Cleveland, Grover, 83, 149, 268–272, 402 - - Coppée, François, 122, 123 - - Corrigan, James, 237, 238 - - Craft, Amos Norton, 27, 28 - - - Dana, Charles A., 174–177 - - Darmesteter, James, 131 - - Daudet, Alphonse, 122, 126, 127 - - Delamater, Wallace, 79, 80 - - Dieulafoy, Madame, 101, 102 - - Doremus, Dr. R. Ogden, 65, 66 - - Duffus, Robert L., 307 - - Dumas, Alexandre, 122 - - Duncan, Andrew J., 60, 61 - - Dunne, Finley Peter (Mr. Dooley), 259–261, 265, 300, 361 - - - Edison, Thomas A., 64, 310 - - Ely, Dr. Richard T., 76 - - Emery, Fred Parker, 114 - - Emery, Lewis, Jr., 231–234, 236, 237, 252 - - - Fairchild, David, 183 - - Finley, Dr. John H., 70, 76, 77, 171, 172 - - Fisk, Jim, 22 - - Flagler, Henry, 217–220 - - Fletcher, Henry P., 382 - - Flood, Dr. Theodore L., 64, 72–75, 87 - - Ford, Henry, 287–293, 296, 309–312 - - - Gary, Judge Elbert H., 285, 364–374 - - Gautier, Judith, 102, 103 - - Gautier, Théophile, 102 - - George, Henry, 83, 401 - - Gifford, Walter S., 320, 325 - - Gilder, Jeannette L., 265 - - Gladden, Dr. Washington, 243 - - Gompers, Samuel, 285, 349, 371–373 - - Gould, Jay, 22, 25 - - Grayson, David, 197. _See also_ Baker, Ray Stannard - - Grosvenor, Gilbert II., 183 - - Grumbine, Annette, 46 - - - Hanna, Mark, 60, 61 - - Harding, Warren G., 375 - - Haskins, George, 44–45, 47 - - Hasse, Adelaide, 209 - - Hay, John, 162–164, 166, 169 - - Haymarket riot, 82 - - Hazen, Charles D., 114–116, 145, 330 - - Heinze, F. Augustus, 228, 229 - - Henderson, Josephine, 89 - - Henry, Mary, 89, 90, 98 - - Herr, Lucien, 132, 133, 145 - - Hess, Ida, 15 - - Hess, M. E., 15 - - “History of the Standard Oil Company, The,” 202, 206, 239–241, 244, - 258, 361–364 - - Hoar, George Frisbie, 190–195 - - Hoch, E. W., 249 - - Hoggson, Ella, 265 - - Hoggson, Noble, 265 - - Holland Land Company, 37 - - Hoover, Herbert, 321, 375, 376 - - Howe, Frederic C., 309 - - Hubbard, Gardiner Green, 147, 149–152, 180–182, 185 - - Hubbard, Mrs. Gardiner Green, 149, 150, 180, 181, 190 - - - Jaccaci, Auguste, 158, 159, 337, 340, 350, 352, 379 - - James, Henry, 45 - - Janssen, Pierre Jules César, 120 - - Jewett, Rutger B., 364, 365 - - Jordan, David Starr, 306, 307, 349, 354 - - - Kellogg, Clara Louise, 34 - - Kennan, George, 302, 391 - - - Langley, Samuel Pierpont, 183–185 - - Lapique, Louis, 145, 350 - - Lathrop, Julia C., 324 - - Lee, B. F., 49, 50, 53 - - Leigh, William R., 172 - - Lincoln, Abraham, 8, 11, 12, 59, 161, 175, 177–180, 186, 205, 282, 288, - 357, 360, 384–386, 402 - - Lincoln, Robert Todd, 59, 165–170, 172 - - Livermore, Mary A., 32 - - Lloyd, Henry D., 204, 209, 210, 214, 231, 233, 240 - - Lynch, Thomas, 286, 287, 291, 292 - - Lyons, Mrs. Emily, 165–166, 168 - - - _McClure’s Magazine_, 121, 124, 126, 141, 145, 147, 153, 154, 157–160, - 177, 184, 186, 187, 190, 195–198, 202, 206, 211, 212, 225–227, 231, - 240, 242, 254–259, 261, 262, 269, 282, 288, 297, 299, 353, 363, 364, - 399, 406 - - McClure, S. S., 118–123, 141, 146–150, 151, 154–156, 158, 160–165, 168, - 173, 175–177, 184, 188, 196, 199, 200, 202, 205, 206, 210–212, 215, - 239, 254–258, 363, 406 - - McClure’s Syndicate, 100, 103, 118, 155, 175 - - McCoy, Adrian, 73 - - McCullough, Esther Ann (mother), 1–3, 5–13, 16, 17, 20–22, 31, 32, 34, - 35, 63, 98, 116, 117, 144–146, 203, 357, 395 - - McCullough, Walter Raleigh (grandfather), 1, 3 - - McKinley, Abner, 60 - - McKinley, William, 58–62, 186, 187, 189, 207, 268 - - Mahaffy, Dr. J. P., 77, 78 - - Marillier, Madame Cécile, 132, 133, 135, 139, 141, 142, 145, 337, 339, - 350 - - Marillier, Léon, 131, 132, 138 - - Marx, Karl, 135 - - Mead, David, 37 - - Meadville, Pa., 38, 64, 72, 74, 76, 79, 141, 262 - - Medill, Joseph, 173 - - Miles, General Nelson Appleton, 186–190 - - Miller, Hugh, 27, 28 - - Miller, Lewis, 64, 65, 67, 69 - - Montague, Gilbert Holland, 240, 241 - - Morse, John T., 167, 168 - - Mussolini, Benito, 368, 377, 378, 380–384, 395 - - - Nestor, Agnes, 322, 323 - - Nicolay, John G., 162–166, 169 - - Norris, Kathleen, 266 - - - Oil City, Pa., 11, 117 - - Oil Creek, 4, 8, 13, 14, 244 - - - Pasteur, Louis, 120–122 - - Pasteur, Madame Louis, 120–122 - - Perry, J. Leslie, 175, 176 - - Petroleum Center, 14, 15 - - Phillips, John S., 103, 119, 141, 156–160, 165, 175, 197, 199, 202, - 205, 210, 211, 215, 229, 239, 254, 257–260, 262, 266, 274, 281, 292, - 297, 300, 336, 406 - - Pithole, 10, 19, 20, 204, 205 - - Poland Union Seminary, Poland, Ohio, 48–59, 62–65, 81, 85 - - Pure Oil Company, 204, 231 - - - _Red Cross Magazine_, 325, 336, 350 - - Reed, Jack, 266, 267 - - Robinson, A. Mary F., 131, 140 - - Rockefeller, Frank, 237, 238 - - Rockefeller, John D., 25, 211, 214, 215, 217, 219, 220, 233–240, 243, - 251, 362, 372 - - Rogers, Henry H., 10, 24, 25, 211–232, 234, 365 - - Roland, Madame, 85, 86, 93, 99, 100, 112, 124, 125, 130–132, 136–140, - 143, 144, 146, 148, 153 - - Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 67, 369, 402 - - Roosevelt, Theodore, 189, 190, 211, 229, 241, 242, 251, 252, 271, 272, - 275–277, 306, 366, 367, 369, 402 - - Roseboro, Viola, 13, 197, 198, 406 - - Rouse, Henry, 8 - - Rouseville, 9, 10, 14, 15, 19, 21, 24, 135, 213 - - - Sabin, Dr. Florence, 120 - - Schurz, Carl, 177, 178 - - Schwimmer, Madame Rosika, 309, 313 - - _Scribner’s Magazine_, 97, 98, 118, 124, 144, 145, 153 - - Seignobos, Charles, 132–136, 138, 145, 337, 349, 350 - - Shaw, Dr. Anna H., 318–322, 326–329, 336 - - Sherman Antitrust Law, 252 - - Shotwell, Dr. James T., 349 - - Siddall, John M., 211, 234–237, 258, 266, 299, 307, 308 - - Simon, Jules, 123 - - Sloane, William Milligan, 152 - - South Improvement Company, 23–25, 208, 214, 218–220, 227 - - Spofford, Ainsworth, 150, 151 - - Standard Oil Company, 10, 24, 25, 83, 202, 203, 206–212, 214–216, - 218–223, 225, 226, 228–232, 234, 237–241, 243, 244, 249–253, 267, - 268, 299, 362–364; - “History” of, _see_ “History” - - Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 31–33, 40, 327 - - Stanton, Theodore, 99 - - Steed, H. Wickham, 135, 136, 204, 350 - - Steffens, Lincoln, 198–202, 256, 258, 274, 282, 297, 298 - - - Tarbell, Franklin Sumner (father), 1–6, 8, 10–22, 24, 25, 27, 31, 32, - 34, 43, 46, 53, 63, 65, 88, 93–95, 98, 104, 116, 118, 144–146, 203, - 207, 213, 218, 245 - - Tarbell, Franklin Sumner, Jr. (brother), 12 - - Tarbell, Sarah A. (sister), 12, 24, 63, 98, 121, 144, 145, 359 - - Tarbell, William Walter (brother), 5, 12, 14, 46, 98, 118, 121, 145, - 203–205, 231, 345 - - Tariff Commission, 278, 279 - - Taylor, Frederick W., 292–295, 360 - - Tingley, Jeremiah, 41–44, 120 - - Titusville, Pa., 4, 17, 19, 20, 22, 23, 27, 30–32, 46, 64, 65, 72, 79, - 83, 89, 90, 97, 98, 117, 141, 146, 205, 218, 262 - - Tucker, G. Burr, 264 - - Tucker, Mrs. G. Burr, 264 - - Tupper, Clara Tarbell (niece), 359 - - Tupper, Tristram, 359 - - Twain, Mark, 67, 68, 157, 211–213, 265, 369 - - - Vacuum Oil Company, 220, 221 - - Vanderbilt, Commodore, 25, 33 - - Vincent, Dr. John H., 65–72, 114–116, 145 - - - Walker, Clara, 54, 55, 57, 61 - - Walker, Robert, 52, 57–62 - - Wallace, Lew, 71 - - Wallace, Susan E., 71 - - White, William Allen, 200, 259, 260, 282, 337, 338, 350 - - Whitney, Henry C., 173, 174 - - Wickersham, George W., 362, 366 - - Willard, Frances E., 32 - - Wilson, Woodrow, 167, 278, 279, 313–318, 320, 322, 328, 331, 346, 348, - 350, 351, 356–358, 362, 371, 374–376, 386, 402 - - Winthrop, Judge James, 39 - - Woodhull, Victoria, 32, 33 - - Woolf, Virginia, 40 - - - Young, Owen D., 386–388 - - - Zola, Emile, 122, 123 - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - ALL IN - THE DAY’S WORK - - - _An Autobiography_ - - _by_ - - _Ida M. Tarbell_ - - _author of “The History of the Standard Oil Company,” “The Life of - Abraham Lincoln,” etc._ - -“I don’t know how this book will come out,” Miss Tarbell explained to -reporters on her eightieth birthday. “I am putting down the things I -have seen, the men and women I have known in five stirring decades. -Always there have been exciting things going on, things that upset -me—wars, depressions, bloody rows.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - 3. 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