ANY years ago-to be exact, fifty years after the termination of the great World War .of 1914-I, John Smith, American, had the great romance of my life. My name is so common that I must begin by informing readers that I am that John Smith who received the thanks of the world and a life pension for discovering the palatable food capsule which solved the problem of the cost of living and the distribution of edible products. However, this story has nothing to do with the Smith capsule, with which you are all familiar from daily use. This is an account of my personal connection with certain historical events.

In these enlightened times few persons are ignorant of history, but I shall briefly outline the great events. During the peace conference in Paris in 1920, the world was suddenly shaken to its foundations by the simultaneous outbreak of socialistic revolutions in all the capitalistic countries. Everywhere the institutions that people had thought to be the very bed-rock of their so-called civilization were overthrown. By the year 1925 order had been brought out of chaos, and the Universal International Socialistic Democracy was established. In our new calendar 1925 became the year one.

REGAI CE PUB, L.

At first there was great apprehension of counter-revolutions in the interest of the disgruntled aristocrats and capitalists of the various states. It soon became apparent, however, that these adherents of the old régime were rather more of a nuisance than an actual menace. They could never agree among themselves, so that their repeated attempts to regain their lost powers always ended in futile ignominy, crushed by the ridicule of the world.

Most of the people who had been through the horrors of the Great War and greater Revolution were too happy in their enjoyment of what they fatuously assumed was the millennium to trouble much about the outcries of a contemptible minority. As the joyous flood subsided, and the new order became the normal standard of daily life, it became increasingly evident that even the opinions of a minority should be given a hearing in an age that claimed to have enthroned the abstract sense of justice, and to have discovered the moral law in the soul of man. Certainly we who look back in calmness and fairness on that period of extraordinary transition can extend some meed of sympathy to the downtrodden few whose only fault was that they had lived too long.

There were many pathetic cases. Think for a moment of the plight of

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those estimable ladies of the Middle Western States whose husbands had amassed fortunes, who had spent a lifetime in acquiring a taste for luxuries, who had painstakingly learned to speak an English that was never heard on land or sea, who had struggled for years to forget how to do anything for themselves, who had at last climbed to the top of the mountain, only to find that there was no mountain and that all their hard-earned assets had become liabilities.

"My God! don't we get our innings?" they cried.

The stronger struggled; the weaker curled up and died. There is no sadder page in history. It was through the efforts of an Anglo-American, one George Boggs, son of the chewing-gum king, that the unhappy minority at last obtained justice.

In the fifth year of our era a tract of land in central Europe was set aside by the International Congress for the exclusive use of the submerged classes. The territory was theirs in perpetuity, or, rather, as long as one of them or one of their descendants remained alive to claim it. Within its limits they could live as they pleased, making their own laws and having their own institutions, no matter how reactionary these might be. From this country they could exclude the rest of the world if they chose. But they, in turn, could not venture out of it without express permission from the International Congress.

Thousands of my readers have visited the famous ruins of Aristokia, but not all of them are old enough to have seen that wondrous city-state in the heyday of its glory. I saw it in all its transcendent picturesqueness. And it was there that I met romance. Her name was Gwendolyn, was and is, for she is now a very nice old lady, and we are still living together.

Before I become personal I must tell you a little more about Aristokia. It was organized much more like an exclusive country club of the past age than like a nation. Pedigree was the allimportant qualification for membership, or, rather, citizenship. A self-appointed board of Royal Blues passed on all seeking admission to Aristokia. From

among themselves, by secret vote, they elected an emperor, who reigned as absolute monarch for five years. His advisers were the Royal Blues and such others as he might appoint. In all matters of law, religion, and etiquette they were supreme.

Of course the Royal Blues were all the ex-kaisers, -kings, -emperors, -czars, and -princes of Europe, and their families; that is, the German royalties, for what royal family of Europe did not have German blood? These were the ne plus ultra of the nation. The hoi polloi was made up of non-German royalties, the lesser nobilities, the slightly illegitimate, and the army of expatriated American millionaires. There was no working class in Aristokia. All labor, whether menial or skilled, was contracted for from the outside world, and these workers lived in model villages just beyond the frontier.

The great problem for the Aristokians was that of income. Their personal fortunes were steadily dwindling as the various capitalistic enterprises in which their fortunes were invested were gradually mutualized or socialized and taken over by the International Government of the Workers of the World. They solved their problem with characteristic savoir-faire.

For three months each year they opened up Aristokia to the tourists of the world. These came in millions, paid admission to the country and to almost everything in the country, and lived in the hundred or so palatial hotels built for the purpose of housing them. They came to see the magnificent palaces and mansions, which most of you have known only as ruins; to visit the wonderful museum where were assembled all the crown jewels and royal relics of history; to gamble at the great casino, the only institution of its kind left in the world; to drink in the numerous cafés and saloons, quaint relics of the past; and they came, I must admit,-for even a social revolution cannot destroy the snobbishness and love of ermine and purple inherent in human nature, they came to gape at the great ones, and to see the aristocrat in his native haunt. To many the imperial opera, theater, and art galleries were added attrac

tions, for without question art, perhaps a little formalized, but still great art, flourished in Aristokia as nowhere else.

Obviously there could be no social intercourse between the Aristokians and the "Nobodies," as they termed all outsiders. There was no exception to this rule. The penalty for infringement was immediate expulsion for the offender and the ostracism of his relatives during a certain period

of time.

Gwendolyn was an Aristokian, the most beautiful girl in Aristokia. How, then, did I meet her? To put it quite brutally and in the vernacular of a past age, Gwendolyn picked me up.

It was in the forty-fifth year of our era-that is, just forty-eight years ago that I arrived in Aristokia in the company of a motely crew of tourists from all the corners of the earth. It was the first week of the open season, and I had thought that by coming early I could avoid the rush, but already thousands were pouring in.

ished before my eyes. And what a halfcentury it had been, filled with more momentous changes than any that had occurred in a similar period of time in the world's history!

Try to conceive a world of kings, princes, nobles, wives, and courtezans; a world in which a gambling casino, a stock-market, saloons, and beer-gardens, generals, admirals, and millionaires were realities. Try to picture to yourself a state in which the institution of marriage existed in all its archaic potency: a world in which women did not vote and in which their equality with men was unrecognized; in which man must take the initiative in all matters of sex; a deliciously quaint world of marriages, scandals, divorces, and duels!

I had been fortunate in securing a fine front room at the Hotel Hohenzollern, owned by the family of that name. It was quite the best in Aristokia; but the prices! They were amazing. The place certainly lived up to the ancient reputation of the robber barons of Brandenburg. I was undismayed, however, for I had just been granted my life pension, and was feeling opulent.

Then, too, what price was not worth paying for this experience? Remember, I was just thirty. I had been born in our era. I knew nothing of the old régime except what I had read in highly colored literature. Think of being able to step into the past! I crossed an imaginary line, and half a century van

I shall never forget my feelings on my arrival at the Hotel Hohenzollern. Everything was strange and new to me. It was not that the building differed in outward appearance from the average New York hotel. The difference was more subtle; it was decorative rather than architectural. In New York at that time utilitarianism was rampant. Either an austere, sanitary simplicity was the fashion or a wild, bizarre Russianism, the heritage of the Revolution. But in Aristokia there was a real feeling for, an understanding of, beauty.

The lobby of the Hotel Hohenzollern was beautiful. The first thing that struck me was the total absence of all our well-known mechanical appliances and contraptions for handling baggage and securing accommodations. Instead, the most conspicuous feature was a regiment of youths in fine uniforms. On my entrance these rushed at me wildly

like a pack of hounds. For an instant I recoiled; then, as they took my hand baggage from me, I realized that while they might be bent on robbery, their intention was not assault.

"This way, sir," said the youth who had hold of my pet bag. To be addressed as "sir" was a new experience for me. I took a fancy to the youth. He led the way toward a spot where a dense mass of people, other tourists, were gathered before a sort of marble altar, behind which certain lofty dignitaries hovered majestically. We stood in the crowd and patiently awaited our turn to gain the ear of the dispenser of accommodations, who, I later discovered, was called the room clerk. Over the altar was suspended a neat gilt sign that read, "British-American Room Clerk." Farther along were signs in French, Spanish, German, and other languages. The uniformed youth caught my eye and remarked:

"The sign used to read, 'English Room Clerk,' but the Americans, Australians, and Canadians objected; so it was changed to that."

I smiled.

"And we thought nationalism was dead," I remarked aloud.

"The Irish still object," said the youth at my side.

My turn arrived, and I approached the altar. The high priest-room clerk, I should say-looked at me intently. It confused me, and I forgot what I had planned to say. I had never been looked at in this way before. The fellow had an X-ray eye that seemed to penetrate my clothes. It was most embarrassing. When at last I spoke, he turned away from me and entered into a lively conversation with another clerk who had simultaneously turned away from the stout man at my right. looked at my uniformed attendant, and he smiled at me sympathetically. The room clerk was talking volubly with his friend and laughing. His accent was American. This gave me an idea.

"I'm an American," I shouted.

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The only effect of this outburst was to inspire the stout man on my right to bellow, "I'm English."

"Decidedly nationalism is not dead," I thought.

Suddenly the clerk stopped laughing, and turned to me wearily. He raised his eyebrows.

"What would you like to pay?" he asked.

"Very little," I replied, which I thought rather good.

He smiled wanly. "I have a front room on the tenth floor for fifteen dollars."

"A week?" I asked, delighted and surprised.

The clerk said something to his friend about the boring nature of professional humorists, and remarked in a far-away voice, tinged with melancholy:

"A day. And that 's without food," he added quickly as I was about to speak.

"Have n't you anything cheaper?" "Yes; back room, twelve dollars. You won't like it."

"All right," I replied meekly.

The clerk pushed a book toward me, a thing of colossal size, and said, "Register," which operation consisted in writing "John Smith, New York, U. S. A."

The clerk looked at it, and smiled at me enigmatically. I did not understand that smile at the time, but the next day I remembered it vividly.

The clerk handed a key to one of my young men in uniform, and I was led to the elevators and whisked up to my

room.

The two boys placed my bags on benches, unstrapped them, opened one window, closed another, turned on the electric light in the bath-room, showed me the closets, and asked me most solicitously and in a most kindly and charming manner if I thought I would be comfortable. I assured them that everything was delightful; but as they made no move to go, I thought to be polite and asked them to sit down. They thanked me profusely, but explained that such action would not be consistent with their duties. There followed a pause, broken by a remark that they had made before, "Anything else, sir?" I liked that "sir"; then they held out their hands. I shook hands with each of them in turn. They looked annoyed. I was wondering in what way I had offended them when I noticed that they were pointing in an offhand manner to