cards. These cards were in order at the start of one of the tricks, but became mixed during the trick, so I was again arranging them in order. To do this I laid the cards out first in piles of fifty, and then put each pile in numerical order. After a few piles were laid out, the brakeman slapped the conductor on the back and exclaimed: "Oh, he's all right! It's some sort of a new-fangled solitaire he's playing."

The chairmen of entertainment committees are as interesting a class of people as I have ever met. They are almost invariably chosen because of their popularity, and also, seemingly, because of a couple of ideas common to them all. The first is that problems concerning the entertainment will work out automatically before the appointed day, and the few remaining details can be easily taken care of then. The second idea commonly held is that a chairman must not address the gathering in his natural manner. The one completely lacking a sense of humor must be funny. The quiet man must make all introductions in an inflated eloquent style. The following examples are typical:

The chairman had asked his two assistants to arrange to bring one entertainer each. The entertainment was given by the Men's Club for the Boy Scouts. One man brought a most interesting travelogue lecturer, and the other man had arranged with me. The chairman was told our respective programmes and our names as we were introduced to him. He failed to inquire which was the lecturer and which was the magician, and it did not occur to any one to tell him. When the audience, the combined Scout troops of the city, were seated, the chairman, the lecturer, and I took seats on the platform. As is often the case with a modern mountebank, all appurtenances for my tricks were in my pockets, and the lecturer likewise had no distinguishing marks. The chairman believed, unknown to us, that I was the lecturer. He merely said in introducing me: "Boys, this is Mr. Mulholland, who will talk to you." When my tricks were finished the chairman, still believing the other chap to be a magician, said: "Well, boys, you surely are in luck to-night, for I know you haven't had

enough magic. I didn't know the first gentleman knew tricks, too. Now I introduce another magician, Mr. Brown." The boys lost most of Mr. Brown's talk because they were concentrating on his gestures, expecting a trick to happen at any moment.

When introducing a magician, many a chairman, whose humor is not a gift of nature, prophesies the instant disappearance of all valuables held by the audience. This idea of warning every one to hold tight to his wealth because a magician is present is something for which I cherish hatred.

Lack of humor is not nearly so bad as lack of preparation. The man who extemporaneously gives a detailed outline of his organization during his introduction usually leaves stranded both the audience and the entertainer. In this introduction one chairman left us all wondering how the programme was to start. "Ladies and Gentlemen: To-night we Valleyrock residents are gathered together in the Valleyrock Community Church. As so many of you know, a number of men of the town formed a men's club several years ago. This club is connected with the Valleyrock Community Church, and so we call it the Valleyrock Community Church Men's Club. The club holds several entertainments a year and at one of the entertainments ladies are invited. To-night is that night. It is the Valleyrock Community Church Men's Club Ladies' Night Entertainment. I am sure that you will enjoy the evening, for I am told that all the entertainers are quite good. Oh, yes-and one more word-may we see you all again next year."

People get pleasure from our performances, and we enjoy meeting people. The people change, but the work varies but little. To-night I make my annual appearance before a young people's club of a local church. My tricks will all be different from those I performed last year, and the club will have many new members, but the magician's job will be the same. I shall use the same methods, and the audience will respond in the same ways, as at the other performances. In fact, my methods to-night will be those of the mountebank conjurer of hundreds

of years ago, and just as surely to-night's audience will react as did those audiences of the past. And I wonder, were it possible for one of my medieval predecessors to be present on this occasion, if he would not shake hands with me across the years,

and join his loathing to mine as our ears catch the familiar words:

"Ladies and Gentlemen: Before introducing our entertainer, let me warn you with just this word of advice-watch your watches!-Mr. Mulholland."

M

Y friend approached me with these words: "How are you?" Before I could reply, he exclaimed: "I am on my way to attend the public death of Principus, the great actor, at the stadium. Come, we will go together, for it is sure to be an interesting spectacle." And he added: "He was the greatest actor in the world."

I turned and went with him, for I had heard of this affair. Indeed, it seemed as if the whole city were hurrying in that direction; nevertheless, we managed to squeeze ourselves into the subway. As we jogged slowly up-town, with many stops and waits, my friend told me a little more about Principus, whose death was convulsing the entire nation. "He was a great lover," said my friend; "he always played the part of the hero. Now he is dying; with a showman's instinct, and also in order to provide for his family, he has determined to die in public, comforted during his last moments by the groans of his admirers.”

It was a peaceful evening; the roof-tops of the city towered upward into the sky stained by the sunset and lighted by a few pale stars. The great actor lay dying in a field ordinarily given over to prizefights or baseball, and rented for this occasion; the seats which rose in concrete tiers all about him were entirely filled, while crowds of men and women at the gates gazed with gloomy interest at the ushers, who gazed back at them with a lofty expression.

After some delay, due to the crowds, we bought our tickets, and also two small straw mats to sit on, and ascended to our seats. Next to us sat an Englishman, an acquaintance of my friend's. "How do you do?" he said; "this is extraordinary."

The death-bed was in the centre of the field, under a bright light, and surrounded by doctors, nurses, reporters, and newspaper photographers. We were a little late; when we arrived, the mayor had already been there: assisted by the doctors, he had given Principus the first injection of strychnine, after which he had retired amid applause. Thereafter the dying man had received visits from the Fire Commissioner, a committee from the Actor's Equity, three State senators, and a Mr. Cohen, of Hollywood. The President of the United States had been invited, and had sent a small cake.

The audience gazed at the dying man with anxious enthusiasm. Now and then a sigh, like a gust of wind on a hill, rippled up and down the aisles where venders of lemonade, peanuts, sausages, and pennants moved about, calling their wares. On the pennants, which were arranged with black mourning borders, were printed the names of the most important plays in which Principus had taken the part of hero. Spectators bought their favorites, and waved them at the dying man.

"Ah!" they cried. "Oh!" "Principus."

"Don't let them kill you."

And they shouted advice, interspersed with jeers at the doctors.

Suddenly, in the row in front of us, a man stood up, and turned around to glare

at me. "I am a friend of his," he exclaimed with energy. "I am also a member of the Rotary Club of Syracuse, N. Y. Who are you pushing?"

"Nobody," I answered firmly; and after some hesitation he sat down again. The Englishman gave me a gloomy glance. "The trouble with America," he said, "is that you do nothing original. This reminds me of the ancient festivals at Rome under Diocletian. You are always borrowing something. Why don't you strike out for yourself?"

He had hardly finished speaking when a woman rose in her seat in a far corner of the stadium, gave a scream and fell forward on her face. At once there was a rush for her, she was lifted up, examined by some police matrons, photographed, and her name and address taken; after which she was carried out, with an expression of satisfaction on her face. A moment later, in another part of the great circle, another woman repeated this performance. She also was photographed and carried out, looking very pleased. As a result of this incident, all over the stadium women rose screaming, and fell in various attitudes, some with their noses pointed to the sky, others on their stomachs. These, however, were left where they fell, and presently got up again and sat down, waving their flags.

"You Americans," said the Briton, "you are like everybody else. Why should I watch this sort of thing, which was done very much better by the Druids in England centuries ago?" And leaning forward with a strained expression, he shouted: "Look here, are you going to die, or not?"

The sick actor lay gazing at his public with weary eyes. In the bright light above his bed, he looked pale and thin; I wondered how it felt to die. The doctors moved anxiously about the bedside, conferring with the nurses and with each other; but they did not seem to agree with each other, or to notice the cheers with which the audience greeted each bulletin, regardless of its content.

An hour later extras were for sale in the aisles. "Woman Swoons at Principus Death," shouted the newsboys. "All about the big death." These editions

already had photographs of the first woman to faint, whose pet name was Pinky. The Englishman bought one. "We also," he observed, "have women in England.

"They have also been known to faint." The man in front of us looked back at him angrily. "This is the largest death," he said, "there has ever been."

"It is a triumph," agreed my friend. All at once a hush fell upon the stadium. All eyes were directed at the doctors; huddled around the bedside of the dying actor, they made it plain by their expressions that a crisis had arrived. The audience held its breath; the lemonadevenders were silent. At last the head doctor stepped back, and held up his hand. Pale, but with a noble look, he exclaimed: "He will live."

A few cheers broke out, but they were immediately drowned in a storm of hisses. Men and women rose to their feet; flags were waved, peanuts, sausages, and pop bottles were hurled at the doctors and at the dying man. "We want to see him die," shouted the crowds who had bought tickets for this event. Led by the two women who had been photographed, they broke into jeers and catcalls.

"Cowards," they shrieked; "idiots." "Let us have some new doctors." The dying man raised himself wearily; he seemed to be searching for the sky, already dark with night. His eyes scanned with amazement the stormy sea of faces around him and above him. The desire of so many people for his death descended upon him in an overwhelming compulsion, fell upon him in an irresistible wave; with a sigh he lay down and died. At once flash-lights went off, a procession was formed with Pinky at the head, and pieces of the bed were broken off for souvenirs. Several men threw their hats into the air; and an old woman who happened to fall down in the excitement, was trampled upon.

"We also die in England," said the Englishman bitterly. "Can't you be original?"

And he went home, first stopping to buy a small piece of cotton cloth from the death-sheet of Principus, the world's greatest lover.

LEA

EAD us not into temptation. This phrase, which is repeated every day by millions of people, is not clear. What does it mean?

Professor Charles C. Torrey, a threedimensional scholar (Hebrew, Greek, Early Church History), once furnished me with a possible explanation, though conjectural. "I don't believe, myself, that the original (Aramaic) meant what our too literal Greek means. There is another passage, Matt. 26: 41 (and Mark 14:38, Luke 22:46), which I think should be taken in connection with the words in the Lord's Prayer. 'Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation' is too general, too weak, for the situation; as more than one commentator has remarked, though no one has suggested any other meaning of the words (no other is possible in the Greek). I think that the original was: 'Awake, and pray not to be overcome in the trial (which is at hand),' i. e., pray for strength to stand against the coming test -which, in fact, proved too much for them. In the Lord's Prayer we certainly have the same verb, in the causative stem; meaning (as I think) 'Let us not be overcome by temptation.'

I have just received an interesting letter from Charles W. Keppel, Columbia, '27:

I have been working on the sentence in the Lord's Prayer, "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," in the attempt to get satisfactory meaning out of it. I write to ask if the following seems convincing to you.

"Lead us not into temptation" may mean either, "Let us not be tempted," or "Let us not be overcome by temptation." I am in favor of the latter interpretation, because Christ, in Matthew XXVI, 41, says, "Watch and pray that ye enter not into (that is to say, that ye do not act upon) temptation," and in Luke XXII, 32, says, "I have prayed for thee that thy faith fail not." In both cases there is no thought at all that temptation may be withheld. The attitude is that it will come as certainly as rain will come, VOL. LXXXII.-24

only when it does, may one be prepared to thwart or shed it.

An analysis of the sentence would make it seem sensible to substitute an "and" for capitalizing "1" in "lead"), thereby making "but" (leaving out the first "and," and the two petitions distinct. For they should be distinct. People may be in two conditions. One is when they have an opportunity to avoid or commit sin; the other is when they have already sinned. What I think Jesus wanted was to have people feel that in whichever state they happened to be, there was a special and pertinent utterance for them in the prayer.

I asked Professor Torrey to comment on this letter:

I agree with this man's interpretation, as you know, but am unable to demonstrate its

correctness.

Greek, the reading of which is perfectly cerIt cannot possibly be obtained from the tain, both in the Lord's Prayer and in Matt. 26:41. The Greek means exactly what is expressed in our English version; and there never was any other Greek reading. So also Luke 11:4.

But both Matt. and Lk. were translated

from the Aramaic language, and there is some ground for thinking that the verb in the original may have permitted not only the rendering found in our Greek but also the one suggested by your correspondent, "be overcome." This, however, is mere conjecture, based on slender evidence.

I cannot see that "and" is an improvement over "but." Either one makes good sense, to be sure, and the second clause can be understood in more than one way.

In Browning's poem, "The Ring and the Book," the old Pope makes a fine allusion to this difficult phrase, which drew from Stevenson this comment:

It is lawful to pray that we be not led into temptation; but not lawful to skulk from those that come to us. The noblest passage in one of the noblest books of the century is where the old Pope glories in the partial fall and but imperfect triumph of the younger hero.

369

Another passage in the Gospel which no one has ever satisfactorily explained is Pilate's famous question:

What is truth?

fanely," that even God himself could not answer Pilate's question.

I find among my papers a very interesting letter from the late Professor Henry A. Beers, written in August, 1924. He had

A logical explanation, and possibly a spiritual one as well, came to me as I meditated upon it. It is this: when a person asks a question, he ordinarily manifests two things: that he does not know the answer, and that he invites an explanation. If this is applicable to the case of Pilate, then he manifests, first, that he does not know what truth is, in its broadest, purest sense, and, secondly, that he manifests a desire, or it may be merely an interest, to hear truth expounded by so spiritual a teacher as Jesus. But I believe this desire to hear Jesus was curtailed by his previous wincing under Jesus' trenchant observation, "Sayest thou this thing of thyself, or did others tell it thee of me?" Therefore, by subsequently rudely obstructing Jesus' reply, Pilate openly condemns Jesus and the Truth, and takes his seat with the scornful.

Does not this seem to conform with logic and also with the trend of human obduracy?

What was the expression on Pilate's face and the tone of his voice as he uttered that question? Bacon, in his famous essay, wrote "What is truth? said jesting Pilate." But he surely was not jesting. He may have been indifferent or impatient, but he was not jocose. Yet in the mystery plays, which Bacon knew as well as Shakespeare, Pilate was sometimes represented as a jester; and I myself feel certain that just as Shakespeare got his Herod (in "Hamlet") from the stage and not from the Bible, Bacon took his Pilate from the same source.

Pilate was a Roman, a practical politician, with a Roman's and a politician's contempt for abstract theory. He was a little nettled and possibly dismayed that Jesus, in this terrible emergency, should talk about truth. "You don't want the truth. Don't you see that you are in mortal peril? What you want is a practical scheme to get you out of this fix." For it is plain that Pilate admired the composure of Jesus, and wanted to save him from the mob.

Some one said, "though somewhat pro

It happened that I was occupying the same cottage at Chatham that I had occupied in 1917. The lady who owns the shebang has a library consisting of four volumes; two copies of the Bible, a book about Cape Cod, and the biography of a whilom missionary and sea captain. In 1917 I read the book of Job. This summer I was reading Isaiah when your commentary arrived. I have been intrigued like you, about those words of Pilate, "What is truth?" I do not believe, in spite of Bacon, that they were spoken in jest. It may be that the translation ought to run "What is the truth?" i. e. "What is the truth in this particular case? the truth which you say you have come into the world to teach?" But if the translation, as we have it, is idiomatically correct, may not Pilate have meant something like this: "You say you have come to preach the truth, but what is truth? Truth, my young friend, is a hard thing to discover. Here are the Jews who believe in Jehovah, and who want me to crucify you: and there are my countrymen who believe in Jove; and the philosophers and poets of Greece and their Roman followers who don't believe any popular mythology or theology. There is Plato e. g. and there is Lucretius who thinks the etc. I tell you, my young friend, truth is hard to come at."

universe a concourse of fortuitous atoms,

Every one ought to read "Jesus, Man of Genius," by J. Middleton Murry, although no one will agree with everything in the book, and I think the author will modify some of his statements. The Fourth Gospel cannot nowadays be airily dismissed, for there is good ground for believing that it was written before 75 A. D. and in Palestine. It is closer to Our Lord's personality than any of the Synoptics. I advise Mr. Murry to read his fellow countryman's (Lord Charnwood) fine book, "According to St. John." And Mr. Murry's attitude toward the mother of Jesus is absurd-"his mother and his brothers had gone over to the enemy" (p. 98). But it is a deeply reverent and in many respects a beautiful book, and whatever the author may call himself, he