now enables every nation to envy the priceless possessions of its neighbor. It is the supreme manifestation of the will to believe, and thanks to modern progress (to which we owe the annihilation of distance!), it gives a new lease of life to every panacea. It is said that the intellectuals live by taking in one another's washing. International opinion lives by the mutual exchange of worn-out fallacies and synthetic supermen. With their inimitable and invaluable faculty for changing the form without altering the substance, the English nation has manipulated its political parties, so that Coalition and Labor are the current terms for what was once known as Tories and Whigs, and Conservatives and Liberals. Liberalism was one of the fortunate casualties of the Great War, but its soul, if the word can be applied so incongruously, breathes in the body of English labor. All the pallid hopes, the prevarications, and the compromises so dear to the mind of the average victim of intellectual anemia. are enshrined upon the altar of British labor. They have neither the honesty to acquiesce nor the constructive power for successful revolt, and can engender only restlessness, until they are thrust aside by the relentless pressure of realities. Then, while the supporters of such charlatanry are still mocking their former idols, a new avatar appears, and the blessed enchantment once more envelops the people.

IN the field of literature the enchantment of distance does not produce those reciprocal illusions which are noticeable in politics. Europe does from time to time discover some great-souled American idealist whose glory dims for a moment that of the autochthonous idols, but there is no disposition to return the compliments so generously bestowed in this country on European authors. The literary stars all rise in the east, and it is only the eyes turned in that direction which are glamoured by the sight of prodigies. The enchantment, moreover, is all the more absolute and remarkable because of the self-determination of the victims, who are undeterred by the fact that the object of their attentions may have no reputation whatever in

the country of origin. The new comets of literature swim into the ken of America with a tail composed of nothing more substantial than a series of carefully selected press-cuttings, or perhaps with a tale that is told by some ingenious press-agent. Frequently the genius of the latter is so much more positive than that of the candidate for fame that the ingenuous stranger is himself deceived by the manifestations of the power of publicity, whose arts are not so employed in Europe.

That is not to say that the Old World of letters has forsworn the gentle art of log-rolling. As with most of the phenomena denounced as American corruption and vulgarity, the creation of artificial publicity is familiar to Europe. But, as in politics, favoritism and corrupt practices do not show themselves in that almost naïve fashion which permits the typical European to feel virtuous. Good form and discretion, those secrets of England's greatness, save London from the opprobrium which the franker methods of American cities have brought upon them. When X— is appointed editor of a literary periodical, he at once proclaims his old college friend Y the greatest living English poet. Whereupon Y, who hopes to become a contributor to the aforesaid periodical, or has already been placed among the strenuously select list of contributors, announces that X- is the finest critic in England since the death of Arnold. As most of these pæans are published in unsigned articles, they provoke smiles only among the initiated, and are seriously quoted by the publishers concerned. These in turn transmit the joyful tidings to their American colleagues, and in most cases the press here takes the hint. To make assurance doubly sure, X and Y probably the London correspondents of different American reviews, and they seize the opportunity of sharing with a distant public their undisguised pleasure in each other's work.

are

By that time conditions are ripe for a lecture tour by these great men, and in due course they appear before a defenseless, or apparently defenseless, public. They display a lordly condescension toward American literature, of which

they know absolutely nothing later than Emerson except a few of the more obvious best sellers. They are therefore in a position to dogmatize, which they do, to the intense delight of certain magazine editors, who throw open their pages gladly to receive the inspired comments of such transcendent judges. But American literature does not detain them long, and they are soon engaged in the congenial task of explaining how great they and their particular friends are, and of consolidating their American popularity and revenue. For, whatever else they do not know about America, there is one thing of which they are certain, that the American public never tires of hearing tenth-rate Europeans rated higher than first-class Americans. Thus, with the help of a little scissors and paste the average compiler of literary notes for a London weekly can impose himself as the SainteBeuve of to-day, while innumerable verse-makers with a good public-school education rejoice in the fame of a Keats or a Shelley.

So far as the translations of Continental writers is concerned, the procedure is more difficult to understand, because it is not brazen, but is rather mysterious. The result is virtually the same; namely, the exaltation of the imported mediocrity above the native genius. Who will define the erratic law which governs the selection of translations? It is not the local fame of the authors, for the greatest successes are often works of little note, commercially or otherwise, in Europe. It is not genuine merit, for the most significant modern European writers are mostly untranslated, and almost all unknown to the vast majority of English-speaking readers. Why is the Robert W. Chambers of Spain an American best seller, while the French equivalent of Harold Bell Wright is ignored? What has caused the translators of Scandinavian literature to pass over Johannes V. Jensen, the local Jack London, while they have made a popular success of Bojer, who just hovers between the two

extremes? No attempt has been made to discover for English readers the younger Italian writers who have done much remarkable work, but the potboilers of D'Annunzio are solemnly discussed. Only the enchantment of distance can explain the haphazard manner in which the literature of continental Europe has been translated into English. It is amazing to witness the deference with which the tradesmen of fiction are treated by critics who are impressed by the fact of translation. If Dr. Frank Crane only had a Russian or Belgian name, his philosophic dissertations would be made the subject of appropriately profound academic comment.

The guardians of the sacred literary traditions in America look coldly upon all criticism of the cult of the foreigner. They suspect an attack on the glorious common heritage of Anglo-Saxon culture, since the chief beneficiaries of this idolatry are the Britishers, whose wares enliven the department stores and women's clubs, and whose doings are reverently chronicled by the reviewers. It is clear that their consciences are just a little uneasy, for there is no intention to belittle the solid literary achievements of the English, any more than those of the Germans or the French or the Scandinavians. The sad truth is that the excessive zeal of the colonial mind is largely to blame for the too eager receptivity of the American public where the reputation of unimportant English writers is involved. The whole trend of the literary mandarins is toward an unquestioning belief in the superiority of the foreign product as compared with the native. Distance, heightened by a prolonged vista of tradition, lends an irresistible enchantment to their view of contemporary English literature. Until they can appreciate the significance of an original American writer as against an utterly conventional and imitative, but perhaps technically more skilful Englishman, literature will remain the one department of American life where hyphenation is encouraged.

T

HE great change in his life came when Mr. Bevan was transferred for a few months from the Lowston

Road Boys' School to the Upton Street "Mixed." Nash missed Mr. Bevan. He was the plague of Mr. Bevan's life, but it is only fair to say that Mr. Bevan missed him. Nash met a friend who went to the Upton Street "Mixed."

"What do you think of old Bevan?" Nash asked.

The friend opined he wore spectacles, and paused.

"Of course," said Nash.

"His 'air 's ginger," said the youth, frowning in concentrated thought. ""T ain't," said Nash, fiercely.

They argued the point with some heat. Nash said that a boy who could n't tell what color of hair a man had was blind, deaf, and dumb.

Pressed as to his own conception of its hue, he hesitated, and finally said it was golden. Whereat the other boy laughed, and Nash hit him suddenly. Then they withdrew to a quiet place and fought for ten minutes, until Nash had conscientiously thrashed, as he thought, the offending Adam out of him.

"Best or worst?" said Nash, with truculence.

The other blubbered, his arm over his eyes, as he lay in the mud; but gave a reluctant "Best."

"Lem me see," pursued Nash, "what color did you say that old Bevan's 'air was?"

"Gin-golden," cried the prostrate

warrior.

"Right," said Nash, pleasantly. "Get up."

The youth got up, wiping his eyes with a muddy sleeve. He retreated honorably, with his face to the foe until he

reached a safe distance; there he halted to sing derisively:

"Cowardy, cowardy, custard!" he chanted; "eat yer mother's- Then, stopping suddenly, added: "Old Bevan 's a four-eyed, ginger-'aired swanker. 'E can't 'urt yer. We puts pins on 'is

chair."

Nash felt hurt. A slur cast upon Mr. Bevan's capability reflected upon himself. An afternoon's careful thought made him certain of three things: he felt sure that the Upton Street boys were a poor lot; the lump must be leavened; Mr. Bevan should not be deserted in his hour of need.

So it came about that the next Monday morning Mr. Bevan found Nash at his desk, smiling cheerfully.

"Well?" said Mr. Bevan.

"Please, sir, I 've 'jined," answered Nash.

"Who sent you in here? Do you know this is Class Four?" Nash was in Class Five at the old school.

"Yes, sir. 'E"-with a jerk of the thumb toward the hall- "'e sent me in there," with a jerk of the thumb over his shoulder to the next room,-"but I ain't a-goin'."

Mr. Bevan was touched.

"You wish to come to me, do you, my lad?" he asked, with beaming face. He felt flattered and moved by such a show of affection.

Now, Nash had been guilty of a weakness he would have died rather than own to. He flatly denied ever having entertained such a thought. He explained that his mate was in this class. He wanted to sit with his mate-"Bill Porter's 'is name," he explained, with a wealth of detail; "him with the bosseyes."

Bill Porter was the youth he had thrashed, and Bill was now watching

Nash with great uneasiness. He could not hear what was being said, and feared that Nash had turned traitor and was reporting insults. When he saw Nash's finger stretched in his direction his fear grew to a certainty. He wriggled uncomfortably.

"Please, sir, I never!" he piped.

But Mr. Bevan did not hear. He was surveying Nash's furiously blushing face with curiosity. No mean student of boy nature, he understood what was passing under that perspiring brow.

"Well, find a seat," he said. "I'll see Mr. Carr and explain."

Nash looked round for a vacant place, and found one at the end of the back line. He proceeded toward it. Bill Porter stuck out a foot to trip him up. Without pausing an instant, Nash lifted a hobnailed boot and brought it down with force on the obstacle. Porter uttered a smothered yell, and Nash passed on in triumph.

When he reached his place he found that he was seated at the end of the boys' division and therefore next a girl. He did not like it. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and looked up, to find her laughing at him. She had brown eyes. He made a blot on his copy-book, a full, round blot. He looked toward her. She was busily engaged at her work. He hissed to draw her attention, bent down, licked up the blot, rubbed the part of his anatomy in which he fondly imagined his stomach was situated, and put on an expression of ecstatic, voluptuous enjoyment. She gave a gesture of disgust and turned from him. (What a clean face she had!)

The parentheses mark Nash's subconscious thoughts. Gradually the subconscious came into the full light of the mind. He ceased to work, and set himself to attract her attention.

He took the reading-book and dropped it on the floor. Bending to pick it up, he murmured hoarsely:

"Watch me 'ave a bit of sport."

He stuck a pin through the cover, noticing with a side glance her look of awed surprise. He placed the book on the seat, so that the pin pointed upward. Skilfully, with cunning heart, he inveigled the next boy into rising, and sitting again on the pin.

Nash took his "hander" with his nose in the air. He blew on the injured place, smiled a watery smile, and purred inwardly.

By this time the girl had begun to promise herself some amount of recreation in watching the exploits performed for her benefit. Little woman as she was, she could not but feel flattered and pleased. He had suffered (how nobly!) for her sake. So she smiled at him.

(My! How white her teeth were!) Nash registered a mental vow to use a tooth-brush on his own when he got home. He felt ashamed to smile back, and kept his lips firmly closed, frowning in the effort. Misreading the expression, with a gesture of indifference, the girl turned away.

Searching his pockets, Nash produced a grimy piece of paper and the stump of a pencil, at the latter end of which he sucked for a time in silent thought. Finally he wrote, and, with a dexterous flick, shot the note across.

The girl giggled as she opened the note. "You needent think yourself everyboddy," she read.

Without a moment's pause she wrote underneath, and passed the note back.

Nash received it with renewed hope, which was dashed to the ground as he read the message.

"I do not want to speak to dirty little boys," said the upright writing.

"Dirty little boys!" Had she been a boy herself, Nash would have had her blood for that. As it was, he only fumed, desperate, eager for daring deeds. He would show her that a brave and manly heart beat even under a dirty face. His thoughts ran just like that, and he saw no humor. He was a regular reader of the "Halfpenny Marvel."

His chance came when Mr. Bevan sat down in the seat below him to write in a copy-book. Nash squared his elbows, stimulated to sudden activity by the proximity of the teacher. His nose low over his book, his tongue protruding at the side of his mouth, he wrote laboriously. Once he looked up to find his face within three inches of Mr. Bevan's "golden" hair, which waggled in front of him. Abstractedly, almost without thought, Nash put out a hand to touch the lock curiously.