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of sentiment both ways. There are many original opponents of prohibition who are now for giving it a thorough trial. On the other hand, there are undoubtedly some original prohibitionists who favor some sort of change. This is mainly the result of resentment toward enforcement men and methods. Prohibition agents are not all high-class men-not by sev

O

eral jugfuls. They have made many original friends of prohibition mighty mad. Then, too, there is a feeling of resentment at the Government itself for poisoning alcohol and then permitting it to get into the hands of bootleggers, and finally into the stomachs of men and women. There is a demand that the Government either stop the alcohol leaks

or stop denaturing original supplies of alcohol. There are other resentments.

On the whole, the enforcement officials are in for a hot time. They are going to catch the shot from both sides of the battle in Congress.

If the stir in Congress amounts to anything, it will amount to a strengthening of enforcement machinery and methods.

Some Talk about Anthologies

NCE I sat for an hour or so in Quiller-Couch's study by the Cornish sea. The boat he sails was rocking in the harbor; the room in which we talked was lined with books from floor to ceiling, and I said to myself: "You should be a happy man. Your chief joys are books and the sea, and you can indulge generously each of those noble hobbies."

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, or "Q," is novelist, essayist, critic, lecturer, and anthologist; and I suppose that the wide world knows him best as anthologist.

I bought his "Oxford Book of English Verse" twenty-five years ago; it has been my companion ever since. As a companion it has superseded Palgrave's "Golden Treasury," which W. E. Henley once called "the best-read anthology in the language," and it has also superseded Professor Arber's gigantic work in ten volumes, the first of which was called "The Dunbar Anthology," and the last "The Cowper Anthology."

Palgrave was too finical, Arber too prolix. Of course, I am speaking only of anthologies of my time-not of such classics as "England's Helicon" and "Tottell's Miscellany." These were collections rather than selections; but.in Quiller-Couch's "Oxford Book of English Verse" we hailed an anthologist of fine taste, a man in whom the love of letters is stronger than the love of erudition; and he included some of the modernsStevenson, Henley, Alice Meynell, and Kipling.

This poetry anthology has had a great

success, and I am referring to it now be

cause twenty-five years later-to be precise, last November-a companion volume was issued dealing with prose, "The Oxford Book of English Prose," Chosen and Edited by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. For the past week I have spent spare hours reading essays or extracts in this book (thin-paper edition) from John

A London Literary Letter

By C. LEWIS HIND

Trevisa, 1336-1402, to Rupert Brooke, 1887-1915-a pageant in little of five and a half centuries of English literature.

It is foolish to criticise an anthology; take it as a gift-that is the right way. For your ideal anthology can only be compiled by yourself, and you should be content if you find even only a few of your favorite passages included. I turned at once to Bunyan, and was glad, because I found "Mr. Valiant-for-Truth Crosses the River" from "The Pilgrim's Progress." One never tires of that: "When the Day that he must go hence, was come, many accompanied him to the River side, into which, as he went, he said, 'Death, where is thy Sting?' And as he went down deeper, he said, 'Grave, where is thy Victory?' So he passed over, and the Trumpets sounded for him on the other side."

Having browsed among the elder and older masters, I turned to the living. Ah, that is the interest of an anthology of this kind! Which of our friends are in, which out? Here is the list. The figure following each name denotes the number of extracts printed from that author.

Barrie, 1; Max Beerbohm, 2; Belloc. 1; Arnold Bennett, 1; Birrell, 1; Robert Bridges, 2; Chesterton, 2; Galsworthy, 1; Gosse, 1; Kenneth Grahame, 2; Hardy, 4; Kipling, 3; Lucas, 1; Compton Mackenzie, 1; George Moore, 2; Newbolt, 1; Saintsbury, 1; Shaw, 1; Strachey, 2; Walkley, 1; Wells, 1; Whibley, 2.

These authors, at

any rate, are

pleased, even if they are still wondering why Quiller-Couch chose the particular pieces which represent them.

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state here those which I think are the best. By that I mean the best for me. First I put "The Oxford Book of English Verse," already mentioned.

Then I would group together “Elizabethan Lyrics," chosen by Norman Ault (1925), and "The Silver Treasury of English Lyrics," chosen by T. Earle Welby, 1925. Note the word "Silver" in the last named. This supplements Palgrave's "Golden Treasury;" poems are printed that Palgrave missed, or passed over. These two volumes contain the best of that wonderful choir that flooded with song the spacious days of Queen Elizabeth-nests of singing birds. It is exciting and stimulating to consort with them; one lives with larks.

Alice Meynell's "The Flower of the Mind" (1898) is an exquisite collection, the finest poems selected by the finest taste, with an introduction and notes that are an education in themselves.

An anthology of a different kind, more personal, more intimate, is "Come Hither," chosen by Walter de la Mare (1923)-his own favorites, old and new, a kind of fairy anthology, with notes that run gayly and delicately into essays. Finally, there is "Pure Poetry," edited by George Moore (1923), a precious book, a provocative book, a limitededition book, that has increased ten times in value since it was first published. It arose from a conversation in Ebury Street between George Moore, Walter de la Mare, and John Freeman. They decided that their definition of "pure poetry" is "something that the poet creates outside of his own personality."

"Pure Poetry" begins with a poem by John Skelton, 1460-1529, and towards the end are six poems by Edgar Allan Poe "To Helen;" "The Valley of Unrest;" "Dreamland;" "The City in the Sea," "The Haunted Palace,” “Ulalume."

E

The Autobiography of a Son of the City

By CHARLES STELZLE

MERGING from a boyhood off the Bowery, which he has described in the preceding installments, Charles Stelzle is caught in the whirl of New York's industrial life. He tells in this installment of his first experiences as a private in the army of labor. He learns what it is to be a part of the human machine, and how hard it goes with one who is not content to

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IV

be merely a part of it. But he learns, too, that the industrious, instead of being rewarded, is often penalized. He pictures the boss from the employee's point of view. Thus begins the education that was to fit him for his vocation-a strange but effective training that he could have received in no divinity. school, for it was a school of humanity.

Machinist's Apprentice

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O man who ever wore a uniform did so with greater pride than when I put on my first pair of blue overalls as a machinist's apprentice. To me they were a badge of honor. I had achieved a distinction to which I had been looking forward for years.

It was my good fortune to spend my apprenticeship days in one of the greatest shops in America, R. Hoe & Company, printing-press manufacturers. It had a splendid organization and the highest possible standards of workmanship. There was a night school which every apprentice was compelled to attend for five years, in which the laws of mechanics, mathematics, mechanical drawing, and English were taught. The firm not only gave free tuition, but furnished a free supper to every boy.

It was in connection with this supper arrangement that I had my first experience with the human element in the labor problem. One night there was a general "strike" against the food that was being served. We sent our protest to the front office, and our committee was duly met by one of the bosses. In a very few minutes it was proved that the meat we were eating was the same cut and quality as that served to our millionaire bosses in their private dining-room at noon. But the gang wasn't satisfied. They didn't want that kind of food, anyway. The upshot of the whole matter was that thereafter every boy was given a check for a certain amount of money which he might spend in any local restaurant, ordering whatever the check would buy.

I was soon made an assistant to the secretary of the mutual benefit society, and in this capacity I visited every part of the shop, becoming acquainted with the men in the various departments. It was a great surprise to me that so few American workmen, unlike the English and German machinists in the shop, knew how to read a drawing or to work

Charles Stelzle at 19. A machinist's apprentice in the works of R. Hoe & Co. to a scale. It is still true that comparatively few mechanics in this country are qualified to do the original scientific work in their daily tasks which would quickly lift them out of the ordinary jobs. Many of the labor unions in America, realizing this fact, are now giving technical courses in their official

journals, through which the quality of their members is being greatly improved. It does not require very much technical training to make a workman stand out superior to the great mass of his fellowworkers.

AVING made this discovery very

HAV

.

early in my apprenticeship days, I resolved that I was going to "beat them all to it." So, not satisfied with the regular apprenticeship course, I took other studies, determined that some day I would be the boss of that shop. I deliberately plotted to let the foreman know in various ways that I had invested in a thirty-dollar set of technical books, to be paid for on the installment plantheir cost was equal to about two months' wages-and that I was reading other books about construction work and modern machine-shop practice. For I also saw that among a couple of thousand men and boys I hadn't much of a chance if I permitted my light to shine under a bushel. Whenever an opportunity came, I tried to make a record for speed or quality of work.

But my ambition soon got me into trouble. One day word came that the big impression cylinder of a rotary press that had been sent to Australia had proved to be defective. No time was to be lost in making a new one. It was my job to cut two one-inch key-ways on the four-inch shaft, besides two long oneinch slots on the cylinder itself. It was a piece-work job: six dollars for what was ordinarily a twelve-hour job. I finished it in five hours, using some of the clever "kinks" I had evolved in the course of my studies, principally on tool shapes and cutting qualities of various kinds of steel.

It was true that I actually risked my life standing over the top of the job, which was done on a big planing machine. The cylinder itself weighed about

three tons. If the belt had broken, I might have been cut in two. The work was done on Saturday night, too, from seven o'clock until midnight, when I was extremely fatigued.

How that steel did curl off as I dug the tool into it, feeding it by hand! Somehow, when a machine acts that way you feel like petting it, as you would a horse. It becomes almost human, part of the man who is running it.

When I came into the shop on Monday morning, I was highly elated. Everybody in the department was watching the progress of that cylinder. There was a big bonus to the firm if it got through in record time, and I felt that I had given it a big boost. The superintendent was greatly pleased, and told me so. He was particularly gratified because I, though still an apprentice, had made the mechanics in the shop look rather sheepish.

But I was compelled to live and work with those mechanics, and they soon showed me that I wasn't going to get away with this record-breaking business so easily, especially on a piece-work job.

"You think you're damned smart, don't you?" my nearest fellow-worker fired at me, after the superintendent got out of the way.

"Sure I do," I replied, with a grin. "Well, you won't think so long," he said to me. "Wait until those damned efficiency experts in the office hear about it, and they'll cut your piece-work price so that you'll have to kill yourself to make a decent week's wages."

This hadn't occurred to me, but it probably wouldn't have made any difference if it had, and I comforted myself with the thought that these experts would understand that the job had been turned out under very great pressure, which could not be sustained very long at a time. But the men were sore at me, and all during the day they showed it by throwing hardwood driving blocks in my direction and bunches of oily waste at my head when I wasn't looking. I saw that this was no time for arguing, so I said nothing, but tried as good-naturedly as I could to stand their insults and injuries. Wasn't I a free man? I consoled myself. Who had a right to dictate to me how much work I should turn out?

But in a few weeks a new piece-work schedule came down from the office. The price of the cylinder had been cut thirty per cent! Then the men gave me the horse laugh. How humiliated I felt! What was the use? These fellows were right. It didn't pay to hustle. You get just as much money by not rushing.

That's the way I argued for a while; but I soon got over it, and went back to breaking records, or trying to. And it paid in the end. For before I had finished my apprenticeship I was promised that some day I would be given the foremanship of that department. I often wondered, however, what would become of the ordinary workman if high-pressure methods should prevail in all industries. What about the man who couldn't stand the pace? Ordinarily, that cylinder was a twelve-hour job. I had made it a five

hour job through extraordinary methods which the average workman knew nothing about.

I HAD heard a great deal about the

snobbishness of the bosses and of the rich in general. And I saw some evidences of it. There were some men in the office who undoubtedly looked upon the workers in the shop as an inferior order of human beings. Even the clerks regarded the shop men with contempt. This attitude resulted in a bitter hatred of the men toward whatever came from the office, men or messages. A notice posted upon the bulletin board was regarded with the greatest suspicion. "I wonder what those fellows have got up their sleeves now," was a common comment. The workmen felt that nothing good could come from behind that glass. door that led into the office. And if perchance a worker in the shop should graduate into the office he was considered a renegade, a traitor to his class. And, as he knew the "tricks" of the shop, it was felt that he would soon turn out to be a common spy.

But, strangely, snobbishness was more prevalent among the men themselves than it was between the office men and the shop workers; and with less excuse on the part of the men in the shop. For example, at lunch time the skilled mechanics would not think of permitting the laborers to eat their sandwiches and drink their beer in the same corner in which they ate. The draughtsmen considered themselves much superior to

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Quadruple Newspaper Press.

The first one was constructed in 1887 and placed in the office of the New York "World"

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the pattern-makers, the pattern-makers thought they were better than the machinists, the machinists looked down upon the tinsmiths, and so it went on. There were at least half a dozen different grades of "society" among the men in the shop. I am reminded of the women's clubs I once encountered in a little railroad town in Minnesota. None of the wives of the firemen could join the club composed of the wives of the engineers; and as for the wives of the brakementhey simply weren't in it!

There was a big Yankee in my department who was probably the most unpopular man in the place. He not only always stood with the bosses whenever a controversy arose between the men and the office, but he was always looking out for the bosses' interest in the routine of his daily work. And this, of course, was unpardonable. For instance, he was always going about the shop turning out the gas-jets which thoughtless workmen had left burning.

But there was another habit for which they hated him most cordially. He always came into the shop at 6:30-we began at seven in those days and worked until six-and he filled his oil can and trimmed his oil lamp, grinding his tools, and making ready all that he could before seven o'clock. Usually the engine started at about 6:45, so as to get a good start before the strain of hundreds of machines was placed upon it. And the Yankee mechanic invariably threw on the belt of his machine as soon as the engine was fairly under way, amid howls of derision from all over the shop. He was perfectly oblivious of it all. He just wanted to be industrious and economical. But the men thought he was an ordinary "sucker," although that was the mildest term which they applied to him.

Needless to say, he was not a member of the union. Indeed, he was the only man who worked when the men went out on strike; and I remember that he was badly beaten up one day as he went

out at noon hour to buy his can of beer.

It is really a question whether a man of this general type is a useful man in the average shop. Some of his practices were undoubtedly commendable, but, on the whole, his conduct bred discord and hatred because it was unreasonable to expect that his fellows in the shop could or would follow his thrifty example.

THE average workingman is more

afraid of being out of a job than he is of going to hell. The possibility of losing my job in the Hoe press works constantly hung over me, although there was no particular cause for me to have feared that catastrophe. Nevertheless the feeling that for any one of a number of reasons the boss could fire me if he felt so disposed made me almost bitter toward him. Furthermore, any one of a number of minor bosses could have fired me if they had really wanted to.

The next installment of Charles Stelzle's autobiography begins: "One day the dreadful thing happened."

W

A Visit and an Interview

By ANNA LOUISE STRONG

HEN I become Emperor of China, there is one man I have arranged to shoot. I shall not give his name, for I could not spell it, but he is the most affable Chinese gentleman who at two o'clock in the morning, in the shivering station of Kalgan, induced me by sheer insistent politeness to travel twenty-four hours farther into the desert, in unheated cars through a blinding Mongolian snowstorm. And yet perhaps I shall change my mind and reward him; it seems always difficult in China to decide whom to reward and whom to execute. For at least his kindly persistence brought me something more than the heavy cold with which it inflicted me. It brought me a chance no other foreign journalist had endured-a visit to Feng Yu-hsiang in his camp in the desert, where his soldiers are digging roads and irrigation ditches, in the very week when he was step by step rising to become known as China's chief military general. The coming man-both hailed and hated!

A

LREADY Feng was known as one of four leading generals, each of whom had a chance to go down in history as China's savior or conqueror. To the northeast ruled Chang Tso-lin, and the foreigners were betting on him. At his rear Japan supplied support of morale and munitions, and British munitions works, disappointed in General Wu, had advanced him 40,000 pounds of credits. None of these loved Chang, but they thought they could use him. A conqueror he, coming down from Manchuria, whence conquerors of China have come in the past. An Oriental potentate of the finest water, seated in a throneroom between two stuffed tigers, surrounded by his $500,000 collection of jade ornaments and his dozen concubines and wives. But Chang made the great mistake of asking for foreign funds to "unify" China; and in that moment the Chinese began to turn from him.

In Central China, with his base on the Yangtze, at the ancient trading city of Hankow, General Wu Pei-fu tried to preserve the remains of his former glory. He held the respect of the Chinese, but not their enthusiasm. A loyal Confucianist, he kept to the ancient ethics. Not much more than a year ago, when he took Peking, which had been in the

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hands of his former teacher, Wu remained outside the gate while his teacher withdrew from the city, for his code forbade him to humiliate a man who had once taught him. When he himself escaped from Peking later, in the vicissitudes of fortune, he was found in a gunboat reading the maxims of Confucius. In his retirement he wrote poems and painted pictures. And when important Chinese politicians visited his retirement to urge some action which might overthrow a government it was deftly announced in the papers that they had visited General Wu "in order to spend a pleasant week discussing ancient Chinese literature." Then every one smiled blandly at the cheerful classic flavor which Wu introduces into politics. Charming old Wu, exploited by a bunch of well-born grafters as the only man they can all trust to "reward his friends." He has more political "friends" than any one else, but they have little coherence. Almost every time they leave Wu in the lurch.

Far to the south, in the province of Kwangtung, as large and populous a state as France, the "Red troops" of Canton were extending their sway. They are "Red" chiefly in the eyes of foreigners, who dislike the virile nationalism of which Canton is leader and the anti-foreign strikes and boycotts which she so efficiently maintains on occasion. Otherwise their slogans are "Honest government" and "Make Canton safe for business," which incidentally involves a struggle with the rival British port of Hongkong. They continue the traditions of Sun Yat-sen, and all over China the younger radicals and national patriots look to them for light. Steadily all sum

mer they had been beating back a fourfold "Anti-Red Army" launched against them with Hongkong as base. They had regained their whole large province; but they were too far on the edge of China to influence, except by example, the main current of Chinese politics.

R

EMAINED Feng, the "Christian general," far in the northwest, with his back to the deserts of Mongolia, with one arm reaching west to the mighty heights of Tibet and the other stretching southeast to touch and control the police troops of the capital. Steadily his prestige had risen as a builder of roads and restorer of order and cleaner-out of opium rings.

Until a year ago he had been persistently isolated by Wu, moved to backwoods provinces where he could import no ammunition or given police jobs by which he "lost face." Finally, a year back, he performed his historic "betrayal,” and, sent by Wu to the front against Chang while the pay for his troops was stolen by Wu's Peking satellites, he executed a counter-march and seized Peking, declaring the war ended and himself in control of the capital.

"They came into Peking," said an amused Y. M. C. A. worker, "singing words to the tune of 'Hark! the Herald Angels Sing!' You couldn't be much afraid of cheerful troops like that. And actually the Mayor Feng appointed has been the best Peking has ever known."

The marching songs of the Chinese are an interesting composite of tunes learned from mission schools (for Chinese music lacks swing and melody) and words which no mission school would acknowledge. One favorite march, to the air of "Jesus Loves Me," runs something like this:

Jesus loves me, this I know;

We will overcome the English,
For the Bible tells me so.

We will overcome the French.

And the chorus relates how "We will drive out all the foreigners"!

But Feng's Christianity goes deeper than this medley. His wife is a former Y. W. C. A. worker; he has introduced Y. M. C. A. clubs to improve the morale of his army; he has won the eternal enmity of the British-American Tobacco Company by prohibiting cigarettes to his soldiers, thus interfering with the com

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