demand," was his reply. Inglis sat beside Sullivan during the fight and jotted down his observations in shorthand. 'These came over the wire to the "World" office, where Brisbane transformed them into connected form in choice Sullivanese. Fitzsimmon's wife, who was Rose Julian, an Australian gymnast of much pulchritude, sat near by, shrilly calling on "Bob" to kill "Pompadour Jim." Sullivan eyed her mournfully. "That's the influence of "That's the influence of women," he observed when Corbett went down for the last time. "I remember when I was fighting Charley Mitchell in a tent over in France, some fellow stuck his head through the flap and called out, 'Remember your wife and five poor children,' which was a lie, for his father-in-law, 'Pony' Moore, was worth half a million dollars. But what happened? Inside of two minutes he had 'spiked' me through my left foot." The Mitchell fight, as a result, became a draw.

Of the men who went down, one after the other, before the mighty John L., I recall Dominick McCaffrey, a bright and most agreeable young chap. He

was a babe in the hands of the big fellow. Fitzsimmons, who crushed Corbett, was a strange, snake-like figure, who kept himself out of harm's way with deft foot-work. He was fearfully freckled. He made his initial repute in demolishing the first Jack Dempsey, who came from Brooklyn and was a nice fellow. Just before the fight Dempsey called at the Brooklyn "Eagle" office. I was the city editor, and talked with him about his plans. Was he going to live East or West? That, he said, would be determined "after this affair with Fitzsimmons." "Ah," I said, "a delicate and difficult affair." "Delicate," he replied, "perhaps, but not difficult." It proved quite otherwise. Fitzsimmons slaughtered him. The fine young fellow went into a decline and soon died. other office caller was "Jack" McAuliffe, an eminent light-weight, who still survives. He had some grievance. I did not recognize him, and dealt rather curtly with his complaint. When he turned away, the reporters flocked about him. Abe Yager, the office boy, now sporting editor of the paper, pulled his head over the rail surrounding the

An

city desk and queried, "Would you have dast to have talked to him the way you did if you'd known who he was?" I confess I could not answer satisfactorily.

What is there in human psychology that rejoices in seeing two men pummel each other until their faces drip with blood and one or the other fails to come to the scratch? I did not know. Fighting is a primary human instinct. Lives there a boy who has escaped a conflict? I doubt it if he has reached the sage age of ten. British school stories teem with tales of fistic encounters, and even Thomas Bailey Aldrich's moral bad boy gives a chapter, "I Fight Conway," during which process he acquires a black

eye.

Is the practice manly? I doubt it. There can be no manliness in brutality, yet those of English blood preferred it to the crossing of blades, a Latin amusement, more refined, but much more deadly. So we shall probably keep on building bigger stadiums and charging higher admission to bigger crowds, despite the prayers of churches and the reprehensions of the good.

I

N the English-speaking worldwhich, if you please, represents no small array of nations, provinces, and proud dependencies among many ancient and revered seats of learning there is but one that holds claim to a

general affection. We have worthy schools in America, some of which, like Groton, for instance, are notable for their achievement. Now it is quite conceivable that there are many educated Americans who have never heard of Groton; but every really educated American has not only heard of Rugby, but, in some small way at least, has also felt a little affection for this fine old English school-few though there be of us who have ever seen it!

How marvelous a faculty it is that enables a few gifted mortals, with a deft touch with a direct and honest appeal to our minds or our hearts, or to both-so to mark out some habitation, some bit of landscape, or some small community, that it becomes set apart, a very mecca for pilgrims! And such a place is Rugby-almost, if not quite, alone among schools in this respect. Little

1 Winchester was discussed in The Outlook for September 8; Cheltenham, in the issue of September 15.

By CHARLES K. TAYLOR

did Thomas Hughes realize when he wrote "Tom Brown" that, not only would he give his beloved Rugby a warm place in the affections of the world, but that he would give to Rugby itself an ideal and an ambition that in no small way have tended to keep Rugby what it is a great and noble school, at once holding fast to fine tradition and reaching forth with open. mind for the best aid that modern times can give towards the training and developing of Young England.

And because Rugby is wise, an understanding Head Master greets us at the door when we make our pilgrimage -men from the ends of the earth and of various races. And the two young Americans who went there with me fondly imagined they were the very first to think of bringing with them copies of "Tom Brown" for the "Head" to write his name in; and they learned that only a day or two before an American physician, with but a few hours to spend in England, managed to get to Rugby, enjoy an uproarious meal with the boys, and go rushing on his errand, with a similarly autographed "Tom Brown" fitting snugly in his pocket!

understand this side of Rugby, for the universal interest and affection have played no small part in developing the fine spirit of the school, strengthening the boys themselves to maintain a standard of character and purpose that is as admirable as it is rare. You must understand all this to understand Rugby.

Enormously desirable as it is, we cannot produce a Thomas Hughes for each one of our schools. We cannot hope to gain for any of our institutions, to order, such a stimulus and support. Nevertheless there may be something of proved value, obvious at Rugby, which may well be worth our while to examine into.

Classroom method, of which I had opportunity to learn but a little, did not seem markedly different from that of Cheltenham, described in a previous article. What I did learn simply confirmed my opinion that we in the United States give far too much time to "recitations" prepared out of class, and far too little time to learning how to study, how to use one's information intelligently, and how to gain a proper attitude toward one's work. Let us, however, look a little into the "prefect" system, and see if there is not something It is highly essential that you should here that we might use to advantage.

In each of the half-dozen English schools we visited much responsibility for the behavior and welfare of the younger boys is placed in the hands of chosen seniors "sixth-formers"-who in general have no little authority and are supposed to punish energetically, and reasonably, for minor infractions coming under their rather close notice. Some of our schools are endeavoring to develop this kind of senior responsibility; but we are rather too apt to mix in sentimentalistic theories and procedures and bring much of the plan to naught. At Rugby and in other English schools I was able to talk with the younger boys about it. The Head Master of Rugby presented some illuminating opinions, and his head prefect, the "head of the school," presented the matter from his angle that of an exceedingly able and responsible young man of eighteen or nineteen.

At Rugby the system works well. The authority of the prefects is complete, and not abused. They seem to use to the full, and with effect, the influence both of precept and example.

"We accomplish most, of course, by example," said the head prefect. "What we sixth-formers dc the younger lads are most likely to imitate. We make it 'good form' to be decent in language and habit, for instance. We have very little real trouble. We can use force, if necessary, in punishing a boy for persistent offenses. Anything really serious we take to the Head." And these prefects, take note, have under their eyes almost the whole life of the younger boys outside of their classrooms.

Perhaps you are thinking that such a system might be all very well for the

The turret door of "the Doctor's " study, which all readers of "Tom Brown" will remember. It looks as though the two young Americans who traveled with Mr. Taylor had a due appreciation of the humor of their English guide

selves are young men of high character and purpose, but that there would most certainly be abuses should they be of inadequate caliber.

"First of all," explained the Head, "no boy may enter the sixth form who does not possess the qualities making for the leadership and character necessary for a prefect. We are rigid in this requirement. All of our sixth-formers are prefects, and responsible for the general behavior of the school, as well as for the behavior of the individual younger boy. And we trust our prefects completely. I never have the slightest hesitation in leaving my house, with its boys, in leaving my house, with its boys, in charge of my prefects should I desire to charge of my prefects should I desire to be elsewhere in the evening. But should a prefect a sixth-former-betray his trust, I do not explain to him how he has done something wrong; he knew all

that in the beginning. I simply tell him that he can no longer remain in the sixth form."

And that erring prefect finds himself either in the fifth form again or out of the school. And, after all, this seems to be a very proper procedure. The world is not gentle with those who evade their responsibilities, and Rugby's great aim is, not to educate a boy merely by stuffing his head with "facts," but to use the whole process of education, including athletics, for the development of high character, leadership, and purpose. And the system works, not only at Rugby, but under similar conditions in the other schools I saw. Boys who are worth anything at all react well to responsibility. Our boys have far too little of it, either in the school or on the athletic field.

The fine tradition of Rugby must help amazingly in the maintaining of the high standards so obvious there. But there are other things besides traditions. Head Master Vaughn, for instance, is not only cognizant of what modern educators are doing along various lines, but is himself thoroughly acquainted with all that has been done in the development of intelligence tests and tests for special capacity.

One might describe the traditional small study where each boy has his own little castle. I saw "Tom Brown's" and peeped into many others. Or one might enlarge upon the great attention Rugby gives to the teaching of music, for instance. But, next to the pleasant memories of the charming hospitality of that fine old school to the visiting American with his American schoolboy companions, there stands out the impression made by the prefect system, so great a factor in the lives of English schoolboys and so excellently carried on at Rugby.

T

HE autumn

are

camp-fires lighted and the braves are gath

ered round for the telling of stories. Young warriors are expected to be brief and modest. If they do not live up to this expectation, there are influences which keep them from too great loquacity. At intervals there comes striding into the circle the blanketed and impressive form of some grand sachem, who seats himself in his place of importance and begins his story. He is apt to be very long about it, since no one has the right to tell him to come to an end.

A few years ago we heard from a Heap Big Chief-no less than Bernard Shaw himself. Once he was a young fighter, and forced to be brief and witty. Now he is the venerable sachem who delivered himself of the tale called "Back to Methuselah," which lasted for night after night, and made his warmest admirers groan at its tedious length. We learned then how dangerous it is for one of these story-tellers to be able to talk as long as he likes.

(C) Nickolas Muray

Into the circle this autumn there have already come two great chiefs, H. G. Wells and Rudyard Kipling. Once, in the days of his youth, Mr. Wells told wonder-stories which have never been surpassed. But now he has set up as prophet-priest and lawgiver to all the tribes, although he still insists that he is to be received as a spinner of yarns as of old.

"The World of William Clissold"1 is a substantial piece of so-called fiction in two volumes and nearly eight hundred pages. (What was that old ballad, by Mr. Kipling, about the passing of the three-volume novel?) It is divided into books and sections like a doctoral thesis, but it is much more interesting than ninety-nine per cent of the theses. Mr. Wells begins with a preface, before the title-page, in which he asserts that the work is a novel, and not a treatise nor a sermon, and that the hero, Clissold, is

1 The World of William Clissold. A Novel at a New Angle. By H. G. Wells. 2 vols. The George H. Doran Company, New York. $5.

his own self and not his author's self. The author says that Clissold's views run close to the views of Mr. H. G.

Wells, but that they are to be taken as the views of the imaginary character. Indeed, the Clissold opinions and the words in which they are expressed run so close to Mr. Wells's own writingstake the passage about Karl Marx, for instance that if any one else had written this novel there could be a suit for infringement of copyright. I might add, by the way, that the views expressed about that old humbug, Marx, are sound and refreshing.

By diligent search a story may be extracted from all these pages. No plot is to be found, nor was one desired. William Clissold, an Englishman, who was killed in the sixtieth year of his age in an automobile accident in France this very year, 1926, sets out to tell the story of his life. He is a wealthy business man, a manufacturing chemist. He has much to say about his brother, a financier and public servant. Their interests in politics, and their own private experiences, together with their marriages and love affairs, fill perhaps two hundred pages. The other five hundred pages are devoted to their reflections upon English, French, and American politics, international affairs, education, business, love, sex and morality, warfare, the royal family, the future, country life in England and France, scenery, automobiling, tennis, swimming, literature and the stage, and some thirty-five or thirty-six other topics. It may give a clue to the nature of this remarkable book if I say that one or the other of the brothers Clissold meets or discusses these personages: Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir Conan Doyle, Einstein, Philip Henry Gosse, Dean Inge, Hilaire Belloc, Mr. Wells himself, Dr. Jung (the psycho-analyst), Queen Victoria, King Edward, King George and Queen Mary, the Prince of Wales, Karl Marx, Lenine, President Masaryk, President Wilson, President Coolidge, Mrs. Asquith (now Countess), Christopher Morley, Vishnu, Siva, Sidney Webb, Harry Furniss, Van Houten (the cocoa man), Filene (the department-store man of Boston), Lloyd George, Bottomley, Lord Rhondda, Clynes (the Labor leader), Lytton Strachey, Prime Minister Baldwin, practically all English Cabinet Ministers of the past fifteen years, Lord Northcliffe, William Randolph Hearst, the sons of Joseph Pulitzer, Maynard Keynes, Bernard Shaw, Rockefeller, J. P. Morgan,

Henry Ford, James Branch Cabell, H. L. Mencken, Sherwood Anderson, Douglas Fairbanks, Rudolph Valentino, and a large number of others.

Throughout this encyclopædia there are many interesting pages; many, very many, wise observations; and, with all its long-windedness, so much escape from dullness that I have turned all its pages, neglected other work this week, and done no great amount of good to my eyes in reading it. Take, for instance, the summing up of Karl Marx and the whirlwind that he sowed in creating Soviet Russia:

"An imperfectly aerated old gentleman sits in the British Museum, suffering from a surfeit of notes, becomes impatient to set a generalization in control of his facts, and presently we have this harvest of tares."

Take also (it is too long to quote here) his observations on the net result of the outspoken qualities of modern fiction and conversation (Volume II, pages 374, 375). Take this amusing line: "I find the nightingales too abundant and very tiresome with their vain repetitions, but Clementina does not agree; her mind has been poisoned by literature, and she does not really hear the tedious noises they make, she hears Keats." And consider his amusing comments on English society hurrying home from France for the London season and for Henley and Ascot. The grave men in gray top-hats, the King and Queen, and "wherever there is a foreground there also will be the Countess of Oxford and Asquith." All of these folk gravely assembled, dressed with extraordinary attention, "and doing nothing, nothing whatever except being precisely and carefully there. . . . They have no God, and Michael Arlen is their prophet."

The great chief Wells has taken up my time and encroached upon my sleep and left me with small opportunity to do justice to the elder and greater chief, Kipling. I can only give an imperfect report upon his "Debits and Credits." He, too, likes to reprove and admonish the sinful outside of the British Empire, but he is not first and foremost a preacher. He is still a story-teller; not the wizard of the days of Mulvaney, but still a teller of tales, a great medicineman and magician. He sings at times, and sometimes sings badly. Senility, however, has not overcome him. He is vigorous, and never long-winded. Here are crisp conversations of men in the war, as in "Sea Constables;" war stories

World Cruise

Behind the itinerary, what?

ES, what? After all, there is something more to a World Cruise.... Canadian Pacific operates 83 ships, 20,000 miles of railroad, 13 hotels. It maintains regular daily service two-thirds round the globe. Its vast interests and resident agents command entrée in the farthest lands. . . . Its staff enforces Canadian Pacific standards of service throughout the world.... Who is better equipped to operate a onemanagement World Cruise! Next winter comes its fourth annual effort. From New York, December 2, for 132 days. Christmas in the Holy Land. New Year's Eve in Cairo. 2 cool January weeks in India and Ceylon. Malaysia. 4 full days in Peking. Japan, Manila, Honolulu,, San Francisco, Panama. 25 ports. 132 days of travel. Home just before Easter.... And fascinating shore excursions at each port are included in the fare!

"See this world before the next "

184

Washing, cleaning, and pumping water are tasks which electricity does for the farm woman. But electric light, the electric iron, electric milkers and separators, and a dozen other devices make life easier on the farm. Ask your electric power company for the G-E Farm Book, which tells what electricity can do for you.

On an East Indian farm, a woman drives a wooden plow, another woman pulls-and a black ox pulls beside her. The American farm has many conveniences. But the farm woman often toils at the washtub, at the churn, and carries water. In some communities electricity is now doing these tasks at small cost and in half the time.

GENERAL ELECTRIC

with a supernatural flavor, combined with genuine realism, as in "A Madonna of the Trenches;" two Stalky stories"The United Idolaters" and "The Propagation of Knowledge;" and others, with intervening poems. The Stalky stories are amusing for those who like them; to my taste, Mr. Kipling's schoolboys are what themselves would call a lot of filthy little swine, whom I would gladly see weighted and thrown into the ocean off the Hobby Drive. They always seem to be straining themselves to bring

in every last word of correct English schoolboy slang.

This book contains the poem "The Vineyard" and one short story which have provoked too much comment in the newspapers because of their reflections on America. Mr. Kipling considers himself half an American, and believes that we are men enough to stand caustic comment without becoming angry. "The Vineyard" is an expression of natural resentment, with only two lines which are false and in

THE ENTERTAINING ANGEL. By Samuel MerThe J. H. Sears Company, New York.

win. $1.50. There is excellent story material here in the adventures of a theater company traveling by caravan from one little California town to another. There is romance also in the finding of one gifted actress in the caravan by a shy, nervous, and Septimuslike dramatic author, who buys the caravan in order to be near the girl.

Will

SINISTER HOUSE. By Charles G. Booth. iam Morrow & Co., New York. $2. You may guess part of the answer to this murder and mystery tale of southern California, but we doubt if you can tell in advance all that happened when the emerald intaglios worth $300,000 disappeared, much less what became of them. The bootlegging and road-house scenes are startling enough; but fear not, the heroine escapes.

CANDAULES' WIFE, AND OTHER OLD

STORIES. By Emily James Putnam. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. $2. "Candaules' Wife" takes its title from the first of the five short stories in the book. They are gleaned from the histories of Herodotus, and credit is given him before each story by the insertion of a translation from the original. The contrast is interesting. The art of Emily James Putnam is far more amusing than Herodotus, and probably nearly as accurate. The author proceeds to take liberties, and her liberties are in the manner of a little delicate chucking under the chin of history.

The tragedy of King Candaules is the oldest tragedy, with variations. It is the triangle of the rich old man with a beautiful young wife and the lover. "King Candaules was a lover of the beautiful." His classic death moves his Queen to say, "At last he has done something really beautiful." "He who could not escape" is the spectacle familiar to law courts of the pardoned murderer repeating his crime. According to the Egyptians, Helen never reached Troy, and "Helen in Egypt" is an ironical story of how she wearied of a seasick Paris during the long voyage to Egypt, and decided to remain there at the king's right hand. In all the stories are characters who have their representatives to-day. Gyges, the lover of Candaules's wife, might have been a disciple of Freud; Hippoclides, who danced himself out of a wife, was probably one of the first Marathon dancers, while the soothsayers were no more foolish in the olden times than they are to-day.

A MANIFEST DESTINY. By Arthur D. Howden Smith. Brentano's, New York. $2.50. The action of Mr. Howden Smith's latest novel is spirited but not rapid, and the personal fortunes of his fictional hero seem to have interested the author less-or perhaps they interest one reader less-than those of the actual characters whom he did not invent but has tried with distinctly creditable success to interpret and vivify. Walker of Nicaragua, the once famous filibuster, and Cornelius Vanderbilt, the old Commodore, are the two outstandingfigures, the clash of whose schemes and