Baker now wears the cord over the left shoulder, this signifying the fourragère of the croix de guerre. There is still another American woman, whose name is not known, who has been attached to the French army.

As already has been announced, the Y. M. C. A. has rented the Palais de Glace, on the Champs-Elysées, for boxing and other entertainments, and one night each week will be given over to the gloveartists. It is proposed to put on a program next week, probably Wednesday night. The committee appointed to handle this sport is an excellent one, including men who have had experience in promoting this amateur game. F. W. Stone, of the Y. M. C. A., has been appointed matchmaker, and he will lend to the enterprise the experience gained with the Chicago A. A. and elsewhere.

All of the talent for the shows will be provided by members of the A. E. F. The committee's idea is, to develop many good amateurs, rather than to exploit a few professional stars. Large gloves will be used and the bouts will be short, so that the greatest possible number of men may have a chance to show their skill. A good "windup" card, involving men that have had professional experience, will be a feature of each program, if it can be arranged. Lieutenant Gargan is chairman of the boxing-committee.

About two weeks ago, General Pershing paid the American Library Association the unique compliment of granting it the franking-privilege, for its books, in the United States Army postoffice in France; thus placing the capsheaf on the service which the A. L. A. is building up for members of the A. E. F. Granting of this privilege means, that any member of the A. E. F. may now write direct to the Paris headquarters of the A. L. A., at 10 rue d'Elysée, for any book he wants. The book can be sent him and then returned, postage-free.

Heretofore, the work of the A. L. A. has been confined to placing collections of books with individual military units and in Red Cross hospitals, Salvation Army cabins, Y. M. C. A. huts, Y. W. C. A. hostess houses and Nurses' Clubs, Knights of Columbus centers, and all other places that

offer recreational opportunities to members of the A. E. F. All of these organizations have cooperated most heartily in this service, and about 300,000 books already have been distributed.

However, from the first inception of this work, the ideal of individual service has been in the mind of the European representative of the A. L. A., Mr. Burton E. Stevenson, and the granting of the franking-privilege renders this immediately possible. Details were at once worked out and a reserve collection was established at the Paris headquarters, from which these special requests can be filled. All books thus sent out may be retained one month, and the men are made to understand that the success of the entire service depends upon their playing the game and returning the books promptly; that the success of the whole undertaking lies in their own hands. Special mailing-cartons will soon be ready, so that this shipping can be done with a minimum of trouble.

Not one request in ten is for fiction. Virtually all of them are for textbooks, technical books, and books on serious subjects, either for the purpose of continuing studies begun at home and interrupted by the draft, or, for gaining a more perfect knowledge of military technic. "I should like to procure a first course in algebra," writes Private McAlpine, of Company B., of the Regiment. And he gets it.

Writes Private Cohn, of Battery E., artillery: "No gladder news could have been conveyed to me. The most sensational feature of your work is, your success in obtaining from our revered Commander-in-chief the privileges of our army postal service. I am not very fond of fiction, but, should give anything in the world for a copy of President Wilson's letters and addresses." A copy of the President's war-addresses was sent him.

"I am hungry for something to read and study," writes Private Lorimer, of the Train. "I should like to read Carlyle's "French Revolution" and Muensterberg's "Psychology, General and Applied." He got the Carlyle, but, the Muensterberg was beyond the present resources of the library.

"My favorite authors are Washington Irving, Oliver Goldsmith, and George Eliot," writes Corporal Carlin, of the Division. "The greatest deprivation I have

felt in my nine months of active service is the lack of books," writes Corporal Cort, of the Marines. And he asks for Thackeray's "Pendennis."

"I was engaged in the banking-business at home and wish to spend my evenings improving my knowledge along this line," writes Corporal Connolly, of Company 17, Motor Mechanic regiment. And so it goes, request after request.

Many men ask for books on mathematics, others for books on shorthand, still others for technical books of every description. It already is apparent that the shipping-quarters opened by the A. L. A. at 10 rue d'Elysée will be far too small, and plans are under way to enlarge them. It really is a great educational program that the A. L. A. has started, one which promises to be among the most important features of the A. L. A. work among our soldiers in France.

The U. S. Army Ambulance service Headquarters has been informed that a number of its men that were captured a few months ago have been reported by the Red Cross to be in German prison-camps. The following men are at the prison-camp in Cassel: Alfred P. Jones, of S. S. U. 524; H. V. Jordan, of S. S. U. 506; W. P. Merget, of S. S. U. 621, and E. E. Larson, of S. S. U. 524. A postcard has been

received, by friends, from Frederick G. Lockwood, of S. S. U. 621, who also is a prisoner in Germany and he writes that he is well and that six other American ambulance-drivers are captive in his camp. "We should be glad to have soap, canned goods, tobacco and chocolate," he writes. Mr. Lockwood's address is Compagnie s. p. Nr. 3264, Gefangenenlager Langensalza. Via International R. C., Berne, Switzerland.

The reports from the various sections of the Ambulance Service all along the line are most interesting and show that the Ambulance drivers have been in the thick of the fights, and, while some of them have been taken prisoner or have had their cars shot to pieces, as a whole, they have come out with flying colors and are eager to be in the next attack.

Another section of the U. S. A. A. S. has been doing excellent work recently, асcording to its army citation. S. S. U. 633,under the command of Lieut. Walter Ives and Lieutenant Fabre, of the French army, and the American Sergeants O'Brien and Rich-has been cited for its "heroic courage and extraordinary bravery in a certain battle while reaching the postes de secours and evacuating the wounded under heavy fire."

Paris, France.

B. SHERWOOD-DUNN.

[Continued from February issue, page 160]

C

HARLOTTE BRONTE, in "Vilette," bravely alludes to the strange perversity of mind that leads us to regard with indifference or even with consummate pleasure an obloquy in quarters when we can expect no fair interpretation. We need not arrive at this degree of cynicism, yet, without question, the secret of one of the most living attractions of society is the thought that, whether we encounter in others dissent or approval, sympathy or hostility, we are to some extent measured by the standard of excellence we ourselves have established. We can not claim immunity from criticism and rebuke, yet, the grounds for their exercise must more or less coincide with the canons of taste and propriety. But, what soul know another? Throughout life, we peer into the darkness that veils from our imploring eyes the mystery of our own identity: how, then, may we presume to penetrate the motives and intuitions that contribute to form the character of our dearest friend? Still, as in friendship, in proportion to our capacity of reading readily the hidden constituents that mould the harmony of the assembly, and in ratio to our knowledge that the mask we habitually wear may be freely discarded in the absolute sincerity of the highest relations, will our love for society be enhanced.

can

The doctrine of affinities, so finely presented by Goethe, deals largely with the congeniality of souls. To a kindly nature and skilled perception, all human souls are congenial, for, there is none so meager in virtue and merit as not to claim some regard on the part of a reflective mind. But, there must be no dissembling if we would attain the rarest sympathies among men. "How mortifying is it," says Emerson, "in those from whom we expected a brave attitude to find only a mush of concession." Should we stand courageously forth in the candor of our convictions and speak

the truths that are in us, our boasted society would, I fear, be speedily dismembered. I have known a young man of cultivated perception of beauty who, in conversation with a city belle, compared the eyes of one of the company to those of an Alderney heifer, and who forthwith was accused of inexcusable rusticity. The taste of the remark may be questioned, yet, had his companion read Homer or observed for herself, the compliment deemed worthy of divine Juno would not have horrified her.

We can not, in adopting our conversation and manners to others, be too zealous in preserving that individuality of thought and independence of expression without which the vital charm of society is lost in indiscriminate surrender of ourselves and thankless uniformity. Each snow crystal of the millions that fall is, in itself, an exquisite delicate type of the beautiful, as marvelous in symmetry and design as Tennyson's seashell-merged in the mass, they become shapeless and unlovely. But, if the desire to please has its proper limitations, dictated by fidelity to self, it is no less true that an unreasoning antagonism is subversive of the happiest

intercourse.

There are members of society whose characters are best portrayed by the expression of Shakespeare, "I am nothing if not critical;" and, surely, there are few things more lamentable than the inimical tone, verging upon misanthropy, that confronts every advance we make, surrounding itself with a nimbus of unapproachable austerity. It is often the prerogative, if defect, of genius to assume a lofty contempt, as if to say, "Stand off from Jove!" but, in circles wherein the blight of mediocrity falls with unsparing justice, we can ill afford to assert a higher privilege than is the common fortune of mankind. Modesty in our declarations, deference to opinions at variance with our own, and an equitable regard for the sensibilities of others, these are ornaments with which no dogmatism, however brilliant, can compare.

And here let me speak of conversation, the series of charmed links that weaves itself mysteriously around the community of thoughts and feelings expressed in society, but for whose friendly power we should walk this lonely world like shadows, girt with a silence more awful than that which aeronauts describe at the height of three miles above the earth, where, as Tis sandier writes: "Not a bird is seen, not a sound is heard, not a vestige of the planet breaks the appalling monotony of the upper air." The French are justly considered masters of this most difficult performance, and the art of conversation, if its attainment may be regarded esthetically, is with them carried to great perfection, partly through the facility of a language remarkable for politeness and flexibility. I think few of us, even the most imaginative, would be impressed with the artistic element in the varied and spasmodic communications audible in an average smoking-car or country grocery, the purport of which leaves us strangely in doubt as to the wisdom of conferring the distinction of speech upon man. Yet, albeit we oftener are ready talkers than good conversationalists, there exist, in American society, in our growing culture, in our keenness of perception, our freedom of expression and genial sense of humor, the finest qualities requisite for well-bred, intelligent intercourse. seems preposterous to speak when we have nothing to say; yet, this' is the very demand of society; that we shall impart as well as receive pleasure, and nothing, I imagine, can ever make us regret the gift of speech so much as the bewildering task of striving to entertain for half an hour a human being to whose mind the propriety of vocal expression seems never to have occurred. Charles Lamb cites as an instance of English reticence a crazy toll-keeper shouting to a wayfarer, "How do you like your eggs, Sir?" to whom the stranger deigns no present reply, but, ten years after, passing the same spot, answers, "Boiled!" It has been my fate to address one or two individuals the possibility of whom answering, even after ten centuries, is remote.

It

"Speak from the heart" is the wise motto, but, in mixed company, this will never

do; and the current disparagement of natural ardor and the alarming increase of state lunatic-asylums warns us to converse from the head alone. Still, the old adage is true that, if we have aught in our inmost souls that sighs for utterance, the gods will bid us declaim, and wherever the oracle of sincerity and truth is spoken it will be heard. "Speech is silver, silence is golden"-true enough in rare moments, when feeling masters all expression, but, the maxim is offset by the scriptural text concluding, "when he holdeth his peace."

I have often observed in society the "Still waters" that "run deep." Certainly, there is a noble art of silence to be cultivated and admired, yet, we should remember that still waters often are stagnant, and a habitual reticence where stirring themes are in question by no means argues wisdom.

Conversational power, however, appears to be rather a gift than an art. Talleyrand, Chesterfield, Coleridge, Macauley, Leigh. Hunt, and their peers were exceptional in this respect, and, probably, could our own Hawthorne have uttered what was passing in his marvelous mind, his store of fancy and insight would be seen to outrival theirs. I am well aware that the subject is distasteful to our American ears. We can not understand that speech should be a matter of reflection and care. Our fluency in ordinary affairs, on 'change, in the caucus, and upon lines of travel injures our good taste in company and we associate with studied diction a degree of artificiality hardly in consonance with our somewhat ill-defined notions of freedom.

It is not quite thus. While rhetoric alone impairs the force of discussion and mars the spontaneity of good conversation the ability to convey our thoughts in precise and adequate language should always be a coveted attainment. Yet, study, in itself, seems but a factitious method for the acquirement of so estimable an art: there must be, underlying all interchange of thought, the genuineness of feeling and experience, and the best conversation will be marked neither by brilliancy nor learning nor wit, but, simply by suggestiveness: the stimulus of our highest faculties, which enables us to share the speaker's gift, so that to be a good listener is often the secret of the rarest social and intellectual enjoyment. "Consider not who said this or that," says Thomas a Kempis, "but, mark

what is spoken"-though the terms of the maxim may at times be inverted, without violence to truth.

I think that what often makes society dull and awkward is a lack of honest enthusiasm. The realistic tendencies of the day have a chilling effect upon the sincerity of natural emotion. Our parlors are awed by preraphaelitism. Poets we have foresworn: they are only poetasters: and, in place of frank, true-hearted sentiment we recognize only sentimentality, stigmatized by the vulgar epithets of "gush" and "slopping over."

What are we coming to? Is man, then, but a finished automaton, a miracle of organized forces, a curious mechanism composed of nerves and vascular tissues, lymph, bile and the like? Is the intellect, which Plato called the helm of the soul, only a brush of cerebral ganglia; the liver, as has been humorously suggested, quite as likely to be the seat of affections as is the heart; and are all the divine aspirations of the spirit crushed in the crucible of science? "Slopping over," indeed! All the good and great, all beauty and heroism have been "slopping over" since Prometheus breathed fire into the heart of man. Socrates, Mencius, and Buddha "slopped over," and Jesus of Nazareth, and Savonarola, and Luther, and St. Bernard, and Wesley, and Howard: yes, and, that mankind might witness the fulness of heroic devotion that runneth over in a country's cause, Leonidas, Tell, Burke, Washington, Mazzini, John Brown, and Lincoln all "slopped over," and a host of glorious women, from Cornelia to Barbara Fritsche. Is the heart a thing to be ashamed of? Is the voice of earth's music to be hushed forever simply because it melts us

to tears?

But for a blessed world of "gush" in bygone decades, who of us would now be present to consider these themes? Soon you will hear from yonder wayside bough a sparrow's lay that seems to whisper to an ideal world and wakens in the dullest fancy some lingering vision of the beautiful, some haunting sense of loveliness perchance never realized till now: is not God's herald "slopping over" with innocent ecstasy? True, there is a certain weakness of intellect, a premature softening of the brain discernible here and there in current literature, but, there is more to be dreaded from passionless propriety than

from the excess of imagination; for, to the imaginative faculty, must ultimately be referred the source and motive of all high moral action, nay, the primum mobile of all, as the dialog in Goethe's masterpiece declares: Faust: "In the beginning was the Word." Mephistopheles: "Not so. In the beginning was the Deed." Faust: "Say, rather, in the beginning was the Thought."

A still greater hindrance to the natural benefits of society is, the absence of candor so often prevalent in mixed assemblies, in rural "sociables" as well as in the salons of fashionable life. It seems very easy to be true to ourselves and others, when we reflect how simple are the elements of human character even amid its complexity of thought and action. Yet, who that has emerged from the adolescence of worldly knowledge can but recall the emptiness, the vanity of many a "delightful party," which, by flattering our conceits, lured us into the comfortable belief that they were really the perfection of social happiness?

I would not decry the vapid, yet, innocent chat which forms so large an ingredient of general intercourse. Nay, let croaking age be silent: may we never be old enough to forget that even the flirtations, with all their maddening train of hopes and fears, were not so very wicked, but, served to keep alive the "warm love of the heart," which in youth's exultant morning outvalues science and philosophy in its ennobling and sustaining power.

But, there creeps through our assemblies a shrinking fear of men, as though they were endowed with supernatural influence and their opinions might one day injure irreparably the good name we would preserve. This foolish timidity taints our address, distorting the face of society and leading us to conceal that which we long to disclose. "Whoever is a natural follower of truth," says Burke, "keeps his eye steady upon his guide, indifferent whither he is led, provided she be the leader." Must we be extravagantly fond of artichokes and waffles simply because our partner in the dance professes to have such a weakness for them? Inexorable Mr. Punch! Here is one of his thrusts:

Scene, a London drawing-room. "Who is that superb lady yonder? Surely, it's the duchess!" "Why, no, Mr. Snodgrass,