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from the mother-in-law's querulous presence was attempting to have its way. In the dream she avoided calling the doctor by forgetting his number entirely. Awake, she evaded the issue by remembering a wrong number. In the dream she thinly disguised her desire by displacing the anxious emotion from the sense of her own guilty wishes to the idea of the mother-in-law's death. When confronted with this interpretation the woman readily acknowledged the truth.

Even stammering, which has always been considered a physical disorder, has been proved, by psycho-analysis, to be the sign of an emotional disturbance. H. Addington Bruce reports the case of one of Dr. Brill's patients, a young man who had been stammering for several years. Observation revealed the fact that his chief difficulty was with words beginning with K and although at first he firmly denied any significance to the letter he later confessed that his sweetheart whose name began with K had eloped with his best friend and that he had vowed never to mention her name again. Upon Dr. Brill's suggestion he tried to think of the unfaithful lover as Miss W., but soon returned saying that he was stammering

worse than ever. Investigation showed that the additional unpronounceable words contained the letter W. When he was induced to renounce his oath never to call the girl's name again, he found that he had no more difficulty with his speech. of a

Thus we see that even the halting tongue stammerer may point the way to the buried complex for which search is being made.

Since there is no accident in mental life, and since there is behind every action a force or group of forces, no smallest action is insignificant to the person trained to understand.

If this at first seems disturbing, it is only because we do not realize that there is nothing within of which we need to be ashamed. People are very much alike, especially in the deeper layers of their being. What belongs to the whole human race does not need to be hidden away in darkness. There is nothing to lose and everything to gain by an increasing understanding of the chance signals which reveal the forces at work within the depths of the mind. To the analyst every little unconscious act is a valuable clue pointing toward the end of his quest.


By Charles Collins

In the "Chicago Evening Post," Charles Collins writes that the two volumes of "The Book of Jack London" (The Century Co., $10.00), by Charmian London, are "a rich gift," fixing and giving permanency to the "adventurous legend" of his life. The appreciation, quoted only in part, follows.


HE life of Jack London was more than a tare if it was a romance, and in the two volumes of this impressive biography, written by his widow, its story is vividly and thoroughly told. Charmian London was more than an ordinary wife, it appears; she was, in her husband's biological pet-name, his "Mate-Woman"; and in preparing this work, which fixes and gives permanency to the adventurous legend of Jack London, she has written as if the pen that fell too soon from the hand of the romancer had become vitalized with his spirit. She has his frankness, his direct, vigorous style, and since she and her husband saw things eye to eye, united in a great intellectual and spiritual companionship, she comes close to speaking with his voice. The publishers have hit upon a happy and a true phrase when they call this work "almost an autobiography."

Academic literary standards may be dismissed in approaching "The Book of Jack London." There need be no question of how far Mrs. Lon

don has fallen short of "the fine art" of biography, although she has shown herself to be a capable woman of letters, copiously equipped with the necessary documents in the case and gifted with the ability to organize and attractively present her data. This is a work for those who loved Jack London, through his writings and his romantic life, who have traveled with him, in imagination, in his far-flung wanderings from the Klondike to the South Seas and who have caught a gleam of inspiration from the high, glamourous adventure that he made out of the arduous business of writing for a living. For such as these (and they are many) Charmian London's two comprehensive volumes are a rich gift. To read them is to have known the man and to have been his confidential friend.

One may hope that the career of Rudyard Kipling will have an epilogue of similar quality. And one may also indulge in a regret that Edgar Allen Poe was not blessed with a Charmian.


By Harriet V. C. Ogden

Harriet V. C. Ogden in "The New York Evening Post" draws an interesting parallel between A. S. M. Hutchinson's "If Winter Comes" and Phyllis Bottome's "The Crystal Heart" (The Century Co., $1.90), calling it, as well, “one of the best books of the year" and "as good as some books which are of many years." The review follows.

URING the summer of 1921 there appeared

almost simultaneously two notable books which, while they travel far distant roads, travel remarkably parallel. They are as unlike as lawn and wilderness, but as like as two cloudless days; as unlike as man and woman, but as like as humanity. Both are studies in perfection, in character so far above ordinary human nature that it cannot come to any workable compromise with the world. Mark Sabre in A. S. M. Hutchinson's "If Winter Comes" sees the other person's side of the question; Joy Featherstone in Phyllis Bottome's "The Crystal Heart" feels the other person's pain. It is remarkable that two authors at the same time set themselves problems so alike; more remarkable still that they should have worked them out along such similar lines.

Both Joy and Sabre struggle against a love which must be curbed and suppressed; on both friendship imposes a burden too great for their strength, and under the strain the minds of both give way. The two books, read one after the other, add each to the sense of fatality in the other, like two voices bearing witness that thus it must happen when souls so clear come to earth. But the feeling of relentless fate is even stronger in "The Crystal Heart" than it is in "If Winter Comes." This may be due to the text on which the two books are written. Mr. Hutchinson's title holds out a promise which is in our minds all the time we read of trial and tragedy heaped upon the head of Mark Sabre; we know he is going to be happy in the end. ..

Miss Bottome heads her story with a verse from Coleridge that prepares us for tragedy:

Love was born on a May morn,

At eventide,

But he died,

An eventide in June.

So that when Joy's mind goes, her soul "escapes,"

as Miss Bottome puts it, we know that she has fought her battle, finished and gone. When she wakes for a minute before the end and speaks to her watching lover, "Nick, my dear, don't trouble, don't be sad; there's nothing left but love," we feel, as Nick must, that it is a very small crumb of comfort, but all we could hope from fate.

Joy Featherstone is such a real and lovable person that her story rouses a poignancy of feeling more often reserved for the tragedies of life than of literature. But hers is not a black tragedy. There is a beauty in her and in the world, as she sees it, which radiates light. And such as she was in the beginning she is at the end. She never hardens, but remains always vulnerable to every stroke of fate, and always it is the other person's pain which she feels. "Very few people," says Miss Bottome, "really bear other people's pain, but those who do, bear more; they bear all the sufferer's pain and none of his alleviations."

Miss Bottome works with a sureness of touch and an economy of line which remind us of an etching. A stroke in the right place, a patch of shadow, a touch of light and a scene is before us. Of Joy's home, set up on the cliffs overlooking the sea, with a garden tumbling over the edge, catching in the little ledges; of the moors behind the house, where the dogs chase rabbits and the children gallop their horses, we carry away the sense of a remembered place. Joy's mother, with her matter of fact love for her nine children, her unacknowledged feeling of resentment against the weakling of her flock, and her dry way of stating facts, is very human. All the characters are human and true to type.

"The Crystal Heart" is one of the best books of the year 1921 and as good as some books which are of many years.

MAURICE of think that Birthright is decidedly the best novel on the

AURICE FRANCIS EGAN says of T. S. Stribling's "Birthright" (which will be reviewed in the

foundation of the condition of Americans of African birth in the United States yet written. . . . Its simplicity, its directness, its courageous following of observation wherever sincere observation leads, make it what it is. . . . Nobody can read this very passionate novel-I use passionate in the sense of intense feeling-without believing that a writer of great importance has found his metier.”


RINCE BIBESCO, Rumanian Minister to Washington, received not long ago a cable from Bucharest informing him that E. ALEXANDER POWELL, author of "Asia at the Crossroads," had been made a Commander of the Order of the Crown of Rumania. He has been decorated, also, by France, Italy, Belgium and Montenegro.

Major Powell is a distinguished special correspondent, author, too, of a considerable group of books, who has been much in the Near East, in Central Asia, India, and East and South Africa. He was on hand for the Turkish and Persian revolutions, the Balkan wars, the French campaign in Morocco and the Mexican revolution.

In the World War he had some of the greatest experiences of an eventful life. He was with the German army in its first great sweep toward Paris; he was in Antwerp throughout its brief siege and the only correspondent to witness the entry of the Germans. Later, he carried despatches through the German lines to the American minister at Brussels. When America "went in," his services in our army were as signal as might have been expected. He was assistant to the Chief of Staff; Director of the School of Intelligence; liaison officer F. Army

was European editor for Collier's, and he says that "a few days after the armistice I sneaked across the border into Germany (contrary to French military orders), dodged machine-gun bullets and hand-grenades in the Sparticist fighting, interviewed Kurt Eisner, Liebknecht, Rosa Luxembourg, Prince Max, Ebert and Scheidemann, and wrote the first series of magazine articles on the German revolution published in this country.

Born in Michigan in 1883, an alumnus of the University of Michigan ('05), Mr. Waldron has managed to crowd the following occupations into his years: baggage-rustler, teacher in a reform school, clerk in a hardware store, assistant United States Indian Agent, college instructor, piler in a lumber-yard.

The strong sense of reality in the scenes of his novel is no doubt due to the fact that he has been wise enough to set his story against the background he knows so well: His hero is born in Michigan, goes to the State University, and follows in a general way the locations and experiences of his creator.

R. JOSEPHINE A. JACKSON, author-in-chief

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School of the Line, and the General Staff College. He is understood to have had more than one secret mission in which his special knowledge was made use of, and the various decorations are doubtless in recognition of services which will not be specified even "now it can be told." His war services ended only when he was invalided home after the armistice as a result of injuries.

required as many printings as a popular novel, began her career after a favorite tradition of the great ones-teaching a country school. It is related that she became deeply engrossed in the study of psychologic principles and their application to her class-a significant straw to show the direction of her future greatest interest.

T Santa Barbara, California, there is a very

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Since this period he has been in the Far East, and interesting bit of the Orient, "Samarkand,"

of late at his home in Syracuse, New York, putting into final order the material for "Asia at the Crossroads."


EBB WALDRON, who wrote "The Road to the World," reviewed on another page of THE CENTURION, has worked through the usual variety (only more so!) of journalistic and advertising copy on the way to his first novel: since he was twelve he has, in his own words, "written or written at almost everything-short stories, verses, articles frivolous and serious, interviews, advertising, book reviews, editorials-and at least five plays."

During the latter part of the war, Mr. Waldron

a beautiful wide-spreading palace of a building of many Eastern-looking flat roofs, Persian in architecture, looking up to towering mountains near at hand. It belongs to an uncle of HARRY HERVEY, whose "Caravans by Night," a story of India and Tibet, was published last February, and one of its many Oriental treasures, a large marble Buddha which is set in its gardens, will figure importantly in the tale upon which Mr. Hervey is now at work. It will be a story of Siam and Borneo, and will be written at "Samarkand."

Mr. Hervey expects to go to Zamboanga, in the Philippines, as soon as his new romance is finished, and to remain there for a year.



T is our privilege to print here the dedication to "The Wind Bloweth," Donn Byrne's novel, which begins serially in THE CENTURY MAGAZINE for April. First in the published volume (which will be issued next autumn) will appear this quotation from the Gospel according to St. John:

"The Wind Bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the spirit."

Then follows the dedication itself. Mr. Byrne writes:

Whilst I was working on the various problems of "The Wind Bloweth"-problems of wisdom, of color, of phrasing, and trying to capture the elusive, unbearable ache that is the main spring of humanity, and doing this through the medium of a race I knew best, a race that affirms the divinity of Jesus and yet believes in the little people of the hills, a race that loves its own land, and yet will wander the wide world over, a race that loves battle, and yet always falls—whilst doing this, it seemed to me that I was capturing for an instant a beauty that was dying slowly, imperceptibly, but would soon be gone.

Perhaps it was the lilt of a Gaelic song in these pages that brought a sorrow on me. That very sweet language will be gone soon, if not gone already, and no book learning will revive that suppleness of idiom, that haunting misty loveliness. . . . It is a very pathetic thing to see a literature and a romance die.

But, then, what ever dies? There is only change. For people in the coming times the economist and the expert in politics may have the beauty and wisdom old men have known in poems and strange tales. A mammoth building is as romantic to a new age as were the subtle carvings of Phidias to Greeks of old. For the master of commerce an oil-driven steel ship has the beauty old folk have seen in cloudy pyramids of sail. What we have considered beautiful will be quaint. And their tolerant smile will hurt us under the windswept grass.

To whomever this writing of mine may give a moment's thought, a moment's dreaming, I would ask a privilege, to call out of the romantic sunset the memories of Irish writers whom it is deep in my heart to praise, not masters of verse, but those whom in English we call novelists, being too exact in matters of language to name them poets: the Four Masters of Donegal who dedicated their tradition do chum gloire De agus onora na b Eireann, to the glory of God and the honor of Ireland, so high their motive was. And Thomas Moore, not as author of Irish ballads or of "Lalla Rookh," but as writer of "The Epicurean." And Lever and Lover.

And William Carleton from the County of Tyrone. And gentle Gerald Griffin, dead at his desk. And Michael and John Banim, with their "O'Hara Tales." And Sheridan Le Fanu, and Fitz-James O'Brien, who fell fighting for America. And Charles Kickham, who wrote "Knocknagow." And I was all but forgetting Oliver Goldsmith, Dr. Johnson's friend.

Old fathers, old masters, I will never believe but that you wrote because it sprang from you as the lark sings in the high air. No little sum of money, as great man's patronage, no doffed caps of the populace, could have moved you to strike out or write in one line. Old fathers, let me say aloud your names; it will give me bravery. And, sirs, take this book kindly to you. It is written caring nothing for money, nothing for light acclaim. Its faults are because I cannot write better yet.


The following extract from a letter from Tom Skeyhill, who has just returned from Russia, gives such a vivid picture that we could n't bury it in the file.

Had a great time in Russia. The Red authorities in New York City, Berlin, Riga (Latvia), and Reval (Esthonia) all refused to give me a passport, and so, losing all patience, I went to the Russo-Finnish border, and, in the disguise of a Swedish electrical engineer, entered Soviet Russia by sleighing across the frozen Gulf of Finland, from Terijoki in Finland to Orienbaum in Russia, where I caught a train to Petrograd. Had to chance the Kronstadt search-lights and also run the Red lines. Friends sheltered me and helped me in the immortal city of Peter the Great, and then passed me on to other friends in Moscow and Kieff. I also visited several villages and talked to the muzhik in his own hut. In the cities I went to factories, schools, barracks, churches, theaters, and private houses. I met the Reds, and Whites, and Pinks, and I saw communism with "the lid off."

And, to my utter astonishment, I found that things in Soviet Russia were antipodal to my preconceived ideas. The Red Government is anything but ramshackle; indeed, it is the most stable government in Europe. Of course it has made mistakes and committed crimes, but it is not nearly so bad as we thought it was. Women are not nationalized, buildings have not been destroyed, and religion has not been suppressed, and the Reds have killed no more than the Whites. Lenine is both sincere and capable, but, unfortunately, he is trying to "play billiards with the stars," to run his nation without capital. He reminds me of the idealist who was walking along looking at the stars, and, not watching where he was going, he tripped over a stone and nearly broke his neck. His power, politically, is supreme, but, economically, it is only a pseudo-power

his peasants refuse to raise surplus crops, his workmen never work hard, and his intelligent people are not exerting their faculties to the full. Why? Because under communism there is neither incentive nor reward for doing one's best. All people are on the same dull, drab plane of equality, and the nation is soulless. Before the war Russia was as effervescent as champagne; to-day it is like champagne with the effervescence effervesced. The people on the streets of the principal cities seem to move up and down like pantomimic figures on the strings of an inexorable destiny.

The nation is cold, hungry, diseased, short of everything, and suffering from acute malnutrition. The results of czarism, Nihilism, seven years of war, revolution, and counter revolutions, the raids of Kolchak, Wrangel, Denikin, Yudenitch, and the Baltic Republics, the isolation and blockading of the Allies, the collapse of foreign credit, the inaccessibility of foreign markets, and the anemia of communism.

And in the midst of it all, spinning ropes of political chicanery, and thundering Demosthenic eloquence is Lenine, man of destiny. He stays in power because the peasant is afraid of czarism returning and reclaiming the land if Lenine collapses, the workers are afraid of sinking back to wage slavery and the knout of the Cossack again, and the Intelligentsia are afraid of anarchy succeeding communism; and so they will not overthrow him. And then it is the old story. Tammany taught it to New York State: "the organised minority" control "the disorganised majority." Lenine's government, to quote his own words, which were also those of Karl Marx, is “an enlightened militant minority." Enlightened because most of the responsible officials are intellectuals, and even the workers are saturated with class consciousness and class hatred; militant because they are on their toes all the time, work sixteen hours a day, seven days a week; and a minority because they are only four hundred thousand legitimate communists in Soviet Russia, and they rule between one and two hundred million people, who occupy almost one sixth of the habitable world.

Lenine will stay in power for a long time; he will outlast any prime minister in Europe. First, because we cannot overthrow him by military intervention, economic penetration, or counter revolution. Second, because even if we do overthrow him by force, we immediately martyr and perpetuate his cause. To assassinate him would be the quintessence of folly; it would entrench Leninism forever. And, third, because we have nobody to put in his stead, and if he collapses, Russia, leaderless, will go to pieces like a barrel with the hoops knocked off. And maybe when she goes out she will take European civilization with her.

We wish to take this opportunity to add our warning to that expressed in the following letter. There is, of course, no "Arthur Gilder" on the staff of THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. We hope that if the deception is attempted again, some of our friends will aid us in having the perpetrator turned over to the authorities.

Since it is unlikely that we are the lone victims, I think I should let you know that a well dressed, middle

aged man of apparent cultivation is "working" Cleveland, giving his name as "Arthur Gilder," and representing himself as a nephew of Richard Watson Gilder and a member of your editorial staff. Cleverly primed on the facts of my not very extended career as a contributor to THE CENTURY Some years since, he called at the office of my husband to inquire about me, expressing his desire to meet me and regretting that he was not to be here long enough to do so. In the course of their conversation he talked with apparent intelligence about publishing matters, and he offered to send me for my study an autographed picture of his uncle. He called me on my husband's telephone, expressing his hope of meeting me at some future time, and leaving me racking my brains to remember the correspondence he said he had had with me about the time that I won a college prize offered by THE CENTURY in 1899. To make a long story short, he made himself so plausible that my husband, a lawyer and by no means usually credulous, was beguiled into inviting him to lunch (an invitation "Mr. Gilder" was too hurried to accept) and cashing a small check for him. The check was of course, as we expected after talking it over, returned to us, our friend having no account in the New York bank on which it was drawn.

We are not at all concerned about our loss, as the amount was small and we have had its worth in amusement; but I am indeed sorry to have a name I revere as highly as Richard Watson Gilder's used in so disreputable a way; and I am sorry, too, if others are being similarly victimized.

I noticed the current "Atlantic Monthly" has a warning against a similar fraud, very possibly perpetrated by the same man, as the method of approach seems .similar.

Letters still keep coming to the office of THE CENTURY MAGAZINE enthusiastically praising Charles Caldwell Dobie's story, “The Vision"; and here is one that with praise couples a purely feminine rebuke:

Mr. Dobie's story, "The Vision," in the January CENTURY is beautiful and clever; beautiful, because it is beautiful, and no other reason for beauty need ever be given; clever, because it leaves something to the imagination. Mr. Dobie asks a vital question, but leaves it to the reader to find his own answer as the reader will, his own particular answer depending largely upon his personal experience whether bis life happens to be governed by a vision, a vision fulfilled or a vision destroyed.

The point of view is hopelessly masculine of course, which does not mean that it is hopeless at all. We like them masculine! Only Mr. Dobie really should have had a woman edit it; she would have left it in all its delightful masculinity, but there is just one word which is almost too much. Leda, who is so much the beautiful, spiritual woman, Leda, whose man-child has brought her a love greater than the love of her husband, Leda should not have been allowed, on the occasion she spoke of her son, to refer to him as "it!"

H. K. S.

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