caught in the remnants of the Austrian army that had formally surrendered to the Italians and then been told to go home. In a railway station at Laibach a strapping young Austrian soldier came up and shook hands. "We are all brothers now," he said. "Free to live. I'm going to make off to South America right away."

Four years later I passed a few days at the old home of Tolstoy, near Tula. There was a piano in the room assigned to me, and a young Russian used to come in to practise his music. One morning he said, "I'll tell you good-by. I'm off on a tramp to India." So he went, afoot, with a stick, a haversack, light pocket and light heart.

The World War killed in battle about nine million men, but it deeply stirred the remaining fifty-six million of the sixty-five that were mobilized. It opened new horizons to their hundreds of millions of fathers, mothers, wives, sisters, children, started them going, physically and mentally. How could it have been otherwise? Millions always on the march, minds working, filled with hope, fear, wonder, hearts beating faster, love and hate, all the passions in play. Stimulating instruments to set them going have been the free railway ride furnished by governments to soldiers and their families, the wider use of the automobile and the motor-truck, the steamship, the larger manufacture of these and their intensive use as carriers, the new inventions, the radio, the newspaper, more money, more books, broader geographical information, more international trade. These are the handmaidens to the spirit of motion born of the war.

The love of jazz, the recklessness, the laziness, the irresponsibility of post-war people and of the new generation are manifestations of the same motion spirit. Behind this desire to go, to keep on going, stand too a multitude of minor sports. Never has the world seen such a development of sport. When one goes somewhere, one must do something, play golf, run, walk, play tennis, dance, see a horse-race, a motion-picture. Some observers declare the world is motion mad, afflicted with a St. Vitus's dance, as it has been on a smaller scale, in times of less population, in other periods of upheaval.

In Central and South America, in Malaysia, everywhere, in spots untouched by the war, the motion spirit is working. I have just seen it in action in the West Indies. During the war and for a period of eight years there was an occupation by United States marines of the republic of Santo Domingo. It brought new contacts to a land that had been living in the eighteenth century. The Americans built a few hundred miles of road, brought in automobiles. Now the go spirit has entranced this fairy-land. With their last dollars the people buy or hire automobiles, drive them over impassable roads, or make long journeys on mule-back or afoot, move about as restlessly as in Persia. The native women bob their hair, wear silk stockings and one-piece dresses, and show themselves as alert and independent as American women. And both men and women are dreaming of leaving that paradise of white light, soft air, cheap living, the quiet of the sea-shore, the marvel of the

hills covered with green and flowers, to come to the United States, the place of bright lights and go.

For the same reason an army of negroes moved North, out of the Southern States. The same interpretation can be applied to the people of Iowa and of other States who have moved to southern California, to Florida, to Arizona.

Without emphasis on these migrations within the United States, or on shiftings of population in other parts of the world, the go spirit has certainly many interesting phases that do not belong to 1914. The northern peoples, the Germans, the Italians, the Portuguese, the Spanish, the French, the Dutch, the English, have at some impulse in their history become great travelers, but never as to-day. At certain holiday periods it looks as if all England, traditional home of the traveler, was moving across the Channel on the way to France, Belgium, Italy, there to fight tides of Germans, Hollanders, Spaniards.

The American tourist swarm has become almost a nuisance at home, and last year it was a matter of political comment in France. The French felt overwhelmed by the numbers. There are about fifty thousand Americans resident in England, and a larger number in France. The number of Americans who go abroad, largely to Europe, is now annually about four hundred thousand, and they spend more than half a billion dollars to go. The American Legion will go forty thousand strong this September, and the fact hardly raises comment. What would have been said in 1914?

Not people but crowds on the move, and always more people, and always bigger crowds. Crowd-sick people crowd to get away from crowds. Where do they come from, where are they going? Some of it is for business, but much of it is for pleasure, the pleasure of going, seeing. Automobile venders estimate that sixty per cent of the motor traffic is for business, and they estimate the nation's annual motor transport bill at eleven billion dollars.

Consider the huge city of New York, never still night or day. It was far quieter in 1914. Then its population was 5,136,706. In 1926 the population was 5,924,139, hardly 800,000 more people. Its surface traffic by street-car was a billion people in 1926, just over 100,000 more than in 1914.

But its subway, elevated railway, and bus traffic, taken in a lump, has doubled, jumped from 914 millions in 1914 to 1938 millions in 1926. It has a million more people living in its suburbs, and there are more people who visit it from greater distances. So there are upward of 338 millions of people a year who come and go by railway or ferry. Roads lead to rivers to cross, and over four of its great East River bridges pass each twenty-four hours on foot and on wheels 2,500,000 people as compared to 1,500,000 in 1914. It has more than half a million city-registered motor-cars and trucks, and hundreds of thousands of others come and go each day from distant places.

On Manhattan Island, one of the five boroughs of New York, the single bus line that in 1914 carried 11,276,000 passengers in 1926 carried

nearly 70 millions. This curious fact may be interpreted to mean that people living within the city travel more, make many more trips daily than in 1914. They cannot keep still!

Paris and London, like New York, were pervaded by an almost village calm in 1914 as compared with to-day. In those cities is found much of this bewildering traffic, more people afoot, more automobiles, more strangers, more people going about, more crowds, with more traffic rules to protect the safety of the individual in the crowd from the crowd. At six o'clock in the evening life is equally unsafe in Piccadilly Circus, the Place de l'Opéra, and Fifth Avenue at Forty-second Street.

This international need and desire. to go is creating gigantic traffic problems in every city and land. In 1914 the railways of the United States carried more than a billion passengers on an average journey of 33.25 miles. In 1926 they carried just under a billion passengers on an average journey of about 40 miles. The electric railways carried last year between fourteen and fifteen billion passengers, a slight relative increase over 1914. But elsewhere the traffic increase has been incalculable. In 1914 there were 1,625,739 registered passenger automobiles, each running its average of five thousand miles a year with an estimated average of two and a half passengers, running for pleasure or profit. In 1926 there were 19,520,000 registered automobiles, or roughly twelve times as many as in 1914, running their hundreds of billions of miles and carrying billions of people. Somebody going some

where all the time, night and day, rain or shine, the motor accommodating the motion spirit born of the war.

It was the war that brought in the motor-bus. As late as 1917 there were no intra- or inter-state bus lines. To-day there are 80,000 buses in use, operating on 232,000 miles of road as common carriers, competing with or replacing electric and steam railways, and used by schools, hotels, and excursion parties, in addition to their regular passenger services. On holidays, during the seasons of flight, in vacation time, the highways are crowded to the full, yet the total mileage of 3,000,000 has been increased by 500,000 since 1914, and on the surfaced mileage by 400,000. Significant of the nomad spirit is the fact that in 1925 there were 15,279,730 visitors to national forests, 3,000,000 more than in the preceding year.

The Romans built a few thousands of miles of roads, and they have been held up to the admiration of mankind for centuries. Right here we are spending more than a billion dollars a year on roads; our work in any one year would make the roads of Rome seem bridle-paths. We spend other billions on tunnels and huge bridges, with paltry millions on road signs and speed marks for the guidance of our crowds, and we think nothing of it.

We have not managed yet to get as many people together in a single place for a single purpose as the Romans, whose Circus Maximus in the fourth century accommodated 385,000 spectators to witness games and horse and chariot races. But we could if our amusement taste

demanded it. In New York we crowd on any given week-day winter night more than a million people into upward of five hundred theaters and pleasure places. Nowhere to go but out!

Our go spirit has resulted in building of more than ten thousand wayside motor-camps throughout the country, in providing many restcamps for hikers in our national forests and parks. It takes us to the sea in new thousands yearly, where there is more room, and is resulting in the building of unnumbered pleasure motor-boats and yachts for use in rivers, on lakes, bays, sounds. The number of luxurious passenger and tourist ships and sea-going yachts is increasing each season. Our eleven thousand or so millionaires and friends and families readily spend a few thousand dollars on cabins for a seven-day trip to Europe or the West Indies. To accommodate this trade, the British, the Germans, originators of the joy-ship, the French, the Italians, even the Spanish, so long silent on the seas, are building newer and larger sea sky-scrapers.

And there is the air. Nobody is afraid of that either. For profit or pleasure, commercial aëroplanes in the United States last year made 258,762 flights for 5,396,672 miles and carried 205,004 passengers. How many people would have been willing to fly in 1914?

versity, looking at it as a purely American phenomenon, has called it "the threat of leisure." "For a variety of reasons," he says, "we are less prepared for leisure than any people since the beginning of time."

That is as may be. What's happening here is happening in every land, more bridges, tunnels, roads, more automobiles, more hikers, more ships dotting the seas, more people going, with a round 1700 millions of people on earth, and the population figure rapidly rising each year.

The motion spirit is encouraged by governments through official travel bureaus, by tourist agencies, by banks, by the suggestion of advertisement, by books of travel, by hotels and resorts providing comfort for travelers. The money investment is so huge and so dovetailed that no estimate can be formed of the number of billions involved.

As opposed to this blind travel, never has the world seen so many travel expeditions for delving into the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth, expeditions to explore the seas, to bring strange animals out of the jungles, to study the past life of mankind. Such expeditions stimulate new ones, divert blind travel into definite paths. People are no longer content to read about strange places, listen to lecturers; they want to be actors in the great drama of beholding, finding.

most talked-of country, see its marvels of industrial equipment, its hospitals and educational institutions, whatever is commonplace to us but strange to them.

It may be that in retrospect this period will be compared to that of the Renaissance in Europe in the sixteenth century, one of the elements of which was the go spirit of geographical discovery.

"The great flood gates of the wonder world swung open." So wrote Melville in his preface to "Moby Dick." He was writing of the lure of travel, of going, and as a sailor. In his day many thousands responded to that lure, since the war many millions; and some have seen more than Melville with their eyes if not with their minds.

That is the point. Literally, to travel is to go from one place to another. To-day people stride the earth with the ease of a Colossus. They may boast they have seen more than Columbus, who was rather a poor traveler in the light of modern conditions; he never got around the world. To-day that may be done inside of thirty days, and to-morrow perhaps in a few days. But what do the minds of these trippers see? "I know I can't see everything, so I prefer not to travel at all," I lately heard a woman complain. For so poor a mind, her decision was remarkably clever.

Perhaps the chief fruit of travel for the individual is health. Cage the lark and it dies. Travel gives one a mental and bodily shaking-up, leads to a readjustment of vision. It carries with it the opportunity to enjoy life to the full, and brings an

energizing thrill no other sport can offer. After all, there is something very personal about travel. "I saw"; "I went"; "I did this and that." It loosens the tongue. Therein comes one of its many delights. Travel gives rise to tales unnumbered. It brings the imagination into action, makes it playful. Those tales may tax the credulity of the listener, but as he could not be present, he could not contradict the recital. Also, as time and life go on, these plausible recollections are stimulated in an amazing degree.

Travel develops courage, confidence, makes one self-important, sometimes important in the eyes of others, say, when one has come safely and unafraid through a danger. Travel must always remain an amateur sport. There are no gatereceipts. It may be practised by the young, the middle-aged, the old, and by both sexes. One does not have to be expert in this business of getting about; and, if one travels in the right frame of mind, the mistakes of travel are the best part of the fun. The mistakes may be the real adventures of modern travel. Travel leads to dreams, dreams before the journey, dreams on the way, more dreams at its conclusion when any hardships are forgot. Travel should be a teacher, teach us that home is the grandest spot in the world and to stay there; but it rarely does, for once a traveler, always a traveler.

Another advantage of the sport is that one really doesn't have to go very far to enjoy it. Some of its best fun may be in camping out by a lake-side, going down to the seashore, and wading a few miles along the beach. De Foe, the author of