Vernon Kellogg has returned from his mission to Poland under the American Relief Administration to become the executive secretary and chairman of the division of educational relations of the National Research Council, with headquarters in Washington, D. C. His paper, ’Being Born Alike But Different,5 and a second on the same theme to appear later are companion-pieces to his essays on Death, printed in the Atlantic in 1921.Atlantic readers may know that Ellen N. La Motte is the author of a book on the Opium Monopoly. Of her paper on ‘America and the Opium Trade5 she assures us that she can quote chapter and verse as to the sources from which she obtained her facts. Girja Shankar Bajpai was engaged, with others, in drawing up a report for the League of Nations on the opium question. But he contributes to the Atlantic’s discussion of the opium trade as an individual, and not as an official. Mr. Bajpai is a graduate of Allahabad University and of Merton College, Oxford, and a member of the Indian Civil Service.

Our old friend, James Norman Hall, sends us some ‘adventures of a bookish nature5 which he has had in his wanderings in the South Seas. Harold Trowbridge Pulsifer is a member of the editorial staff of the Outlook.Lucy Furman’s second paper from the Kentucky mountains throws more light upon the doings of the Quare Women. Gino Speranza is a New York lawyer and a Connecticut Yankee born of Italian parents. His ‘acquired American conscience’ has been stirred by Mrs. Cannon’s‘American Misgivings,’ and he writes, ‘I feel that those of the “New Stock” who have had certain cultural advantages should cast aside all reticence and speak with the utmost frankness. For we too have our misgivings about certain “alien influences” operating disintegratingly on American civilization; and for some of us such misgivings are more heavily burdened with anxiety than those so far made vocal by writers of the “Old Stock.'” The poems on Washington and Lincoln were written by a young Polish boy, Sam Cohen, in the Americanization School at Washington.

We have the assurance of the founder of the American Journal of Psychology, the distinguished President-Emeritus of Clark University, G. Stanley Hall, that his study in Flapper psychology is based at every point on factual data. Charles Rumford Walker, having successfully faced the fires of a steel mill, is now a member of the Atlantic’s staff. It was to Amory Hare Cook that John Masefield wrote the following lines: —

There was a young girl from Philadelphia
Who wrote little ‘pomes’ very well-phia,
If ever she should die,
I would lay me down and cry,
And gloomily toll a little bell-phia.

James Boyd writes us from Southern Pines, North Carolina, that ‘Uan’ is Irish for a lamb, and of course everyone knows that ‘fey’ means enchanted or doomed to die. Henderson Daingerfield Norman, who was born in Virginia and married to a Kentuckian, is now living in Tacoma, Washington. She is best known by her translation of Rostand’s plays. Carl W. Ackerman brings to an end, in this number, the exciting story of his share in the negotiations between England and Ireland leading to the formation of the Irish Free State. Joseph Husband sails from many ports: in May from Chicago’s inland harbor; in June from the Golden Gate.

Alexander Kaun, to whom we were indebted for ‘ The Last Days of Leo Tolstoy,’ in the March Atlantic, gives us this opportunity to print extracts from six letters of Vladimir Korolenko — an indictment of the Bolshevist regime written to Anatoly Vasilyevitch Lunacharsky at the latter’s suggestion. Mr. Kaun is a member of the Slavic Department of the University of California. The notable French publicist, René La Bruyère, of the Journal des Debats, is the author of Deux Annies de Guerre Navale, and Notre Marine Marchande pendant la Guerre, both crowned by the French Academy. W. Lee Lewis, the famous inventor of Lewisite Gas, served as Captain in the Chemical Warfare Service, U.S.A., 1917-1918, and as Major, U.S.R., 1919. From Northwestern University, where he is head of the Department of Chemistry, he sends us an expert’s opinion upon gas warfare. Wilbur Cortez Abbott is Professor of History in Harvard University, and his published books include the Expansion of Europe, brought out in 1917.

Comments upon Ethel Puffer Howes’s paper have come from members of the great and ‘ much maligned ’ class of society women, so-called; from the academic circle, and from a pastor, a Reverend shepherdess of souls who testifies that ‘ women who have chosen some form of public service as their life work, and continue it while raising a family, surely have “all the good things.” I know, for I have done it.’ Lack of space compels us to print only the following extracts from a lucid criticism.

Mrs. Howes’s article on ‘Accepting the Universe’ in the April Atlantic is delightfully clear and logical, but it leaves me unsatisfied. For, although I can find no defect in her reasoning when it is studied point by point, there are weaknesses in her argument if judged in toto. The first seems to me her implication that the disabilities she speaks of are true of women only. Disabilities of place and of family cares exist for men as well as for women. A man’s business or professional success may demand that he live in Shantung, Quito, or Emporia, Kansas, but he is not free to move if he cannot get the food necessary for his children in Shantung, or if his wife’s heart will not stand the altitude of Quito, or if he must stay near an aged mother in Boston. There are household duties, too. The past few years the papers and magazines have been full of the plaints of college professors who could not get in the long hours of concentrated study necessary for success because they had to help their wives with the dishes or the laundry. And good healthy American tradition demands that Candida should not shield her husband from caring for the furnace, or from shoveling the front walk. Just yesterday a man whose scholarship is recognized throughout the United States told me that he wanted to stay at home and work this summer, but his wife and children were going to Colorado and he needed the rent from his town house, so he would go, too.
‘So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!' is true of men with and without the genius of Andrea and in a more honorable sense. Disabilities are the stuff of which life is made. But though disabilities keep thousands of men from success, we do not maintain that all men everywhere should give up the effort to attain success. Then the fathers. In all the talk of the duty, the care, and the responsibility of the mother for her children, there is rarely a hint that this obligation might be shared by the father. Mrs. Howes is quite explicit: ‘The father can carry them [the children] like a burden safely stowed away; he is free to forget them.’ Is one of Candida’s duties that of shielding a father from his children? If a husband is to furnish only the shekels while the mother assumes responsibility in every other way, why deny the right of motherhood to those old maids who have a competency sufficient to support a child or two.
Is there any success that can pay a father for not knowing his child? If no amount of success could repay the child for neglect on the part of the mother, how much can make up for neglect on the part of the father? I have been teaching young men and women of college age for ten years and I am convinced that the greatest need of American children to-day is greater care from their fathers, greater feeling of responsibility for the upbringing of the children on the part of the fathers. A child needs a father’s guidance just as much as a mother’s. It is not a question of a mother’s shielding the father and watching over the children while the father — free to forget them—makes name and fame. No. The best in both the father and the mother should go into the care of the children. Then let him who can, make a career for himself ‘with equal rights for all and special privileges for none.’

We take pleasure in announcing the formation of the Club of the Hoodwinked, with headquarters at 14 Oxford Street. All authors who have met the conditions set forth in ‘An Anecdote for Authors,’ in the April Atlantic, are eligible for membership. The Club offers special opportunities for experience meetings. Dues may be made payable by check to Mr. Alan Cooke. We are able to print three letters from charter members. The first one is from the editor of the Indianapolis News.

Will you kindly convey my respects and sympathy to the author of ‘An Anecdote for Authors’ in your Contributors’ Club? I too have a letter from 14 Oxford Street, and also a check bearing the indorsement of Alan Cooke. The ‘little boys’ and ‘sister’ were with the gentleman in Indianapolis, but here they visited our art association, instead of being left at the station. The man was charming, and I thought how pleasant it would be to spend an evening with him, after a good dinner. But how I should like to see those ‘little boys!’ In my case Professor Phelps, rather than Miss Repplier, was, as it were, the common denominator. I too had had a letter, pre-dating the visit by two years, praising a book of mine — the only one I ever wrote! My visitor also had had a very nice letter from me acknowledging the one from him. It seems to me that it should be possible to form an association of the stung, for there must be a large company. If so humble a soul as I, and the author of only one book, was thought worthy of the attentions of such a genius, escape would be impossible in the case of those distinguished writers whose names ‘fill the nasal trump of fame.’ By all means let us have an association. We might have au address each year from our Founder—the uncle of ’the little boys.’

The author of the next letter is well known in the scientific world.

The confidence gentleman whom your ‘contributor’ so courteously entreated in the April Atlantic is a familiar figure to some of us at the western end of the Boston and Albany Railroad, but I think none of us yet has qualified for the Contributors’ Club. He is a versatile genius and ‘makes up’ admirably, for he is not always the elderly litterateur; sometimes he is in the forties and affects the man-of-affairs, at others he is a dilettante in science; but always he commands a most distinguished personal acquaintance and a most extraordinary knowledge of the particular drama he is playing.
The flaw in this jewel is that he tells absolutely the same story no matter the part he is trying to put over — always the same sister and nephews at the Albany station, always the failure to meet the expected brother-in-law, always the embarrassing discovery that they are all penniless.
We are part Dutch and part Scotch over here and white our hearts are warm our integument makes us cautious, and on none of his three appearances that are known to me has anyone been entrapped in his net. There is nothing new to us about this soldier of fortune, for it is certainly five years since the writer had his first delightful chat with him. He works hard for what he gets. Why should not the cognoscenti and the literati who dwell along the Boston and Albany, which seems to be his chosen line, make a drive on behalf of this gentle crook?


We Ve been very much interested in the ‘Anecdote for Authors’ in the April Contributors’ Club. We also were victims (I include my wife, for she fell for him as hard as I did) of the same charming confidence man.
The approach was precisely the same. I got a letter, shortly after Mary Wollaston was published, from a Mr. Alan Cooke, 14 Oxford Street, Rochester, New York; not fulsome at all, but distinguished, urbane, and containing a phrase or two of the sort of praise that warms the heart. I answered it gratefully. And then, one February Sunday, just as we were sitting down to lunch, a shy delightful stranger called, a little confused at having come, he feared, at an inconvenient time, but it had n’t been in his power to alter that.
He was on his way, with his sister and her two little boys, from Lake Forest to Chicago, and had n’t been able to resist dropping off to see me. Especially he wanted to thank me for the nice note I wrote him, acknowledging his letter to me about Maty Wollaston. I remembered his letter, a fact which says a good deal for the distinction with which it was written.
From that point on, my narrative is almost word for word the same as your Contributor’s. There is one small significant difference. My own two little boys, aged nine and six, were upon the scene, and to us he hinted no weariness of the society of his little nephews. He adored little boys; was going to take his to England with him next summer.
My wife asked him to stop for lunch with us, but he could n’t do that. His sister was waiting for him. Then followed the tale, blurted out with humorous embarrassment, of their preposterous shortage of money. They must go on to Cleveland to-night, and they had n’t quite enough for the bare carfare, let alone Pullman accommodation and food. I had n’t more than two or three dollars in my pocket, but I went next door and borrowed twenty from my father, and, coming back with it, found that my nine-year-old had already risen to the situation as well as he could, having broken into his bank upstairs and produced nine dollars which the overwhelmed Mr. Cooke had pocketed. Ten minutes out of his atmosphere had been enough to waken in me a faint misgiving, but the mere sight of him blew it away. Anyhow, I could n’t afford to err on the wrong side, and I gave him the twenty.
I have moments of thinking that so exquisite a bit of character acting was cheap at twenty-nine dollars; but my wife is doubtless right in maintaining that we could have got more for the same money at the theatres. My nine-year-old — pretty young, I think, to be disillusionized—lives in the hope that, when he goes to England this summer, he ’ll find the delightful Mr. Cooke and his two little nephews on the same ship.

When Dean Inge next crosses the Atlantic, as we hope he may, he will find that Democracy, like Boston, is a shite of mind in America. This emotional value of the long suffering word is defended, from Charlottesville, Virginia, by Dr. Dillard.

DEAR ATLANTIC,Whenever we read such thoughtful words as those of Dean Inge in the March Atlantic, I think we should constantly bear in mind the fact that the word Democracy has come to have, and to be used in, at least two well-defined senses. One meaning of the word, which is the strict and correct use and Dean Inge’s use, is of course that of a government by the people. In the other sense Democracy refers, as has been often implied, not so much to a form of government as to a state of mind. The word, as we all know, has come to be the terminology for Die state of mind which found expression in a much-abused phrase of the Declaration of Independence. It stands for the thought of equality in the sense in which the Declaration must have meant it, that is, equality not of course in gifts or position or personality, but in the fact of common humanity. It says that the aristocratic mind, while it may he benevolent, emphasizes distinctions among men; that the democratic mind, while it knows all the many differences, emphasizes the common equality on the common basis of humanity.
It is evident that this broader use of the word, whether justified or not, contains a deeper thought than the consideration of any special form of government. One can conceive of a King having the democratic mind, or of a President of a Republic having the aristocratic mind. It is this broader use of the word at which Dean Inge hints when he says ‘ that in America the word Democracy is charged with emotional values which do not really belong to it.’ But it is just this emotional Value which many consider the highest value in measuring human progress. May it not be Dean Inge’s disregard of this which makes him so dubious about the word ‘progress’? Some would go so far as to say that the measure of the progress of civilization is based on the spread of the sentiment which tries to find expression in the words ‘democratic mind.’
That Dean Inge has little patience with this conception, or at least with this way of using the word, he shows by his allusion to the words of a Boston professor. ‘And so,’ he writes, ‘we find a Boston professor saying: “You cannot separate God and Democracy.” ’ This is the sense in which many have thought and said that Jesus Christ was the greatest of democrats, and that the second great commandment of human brotherhood is the expression of the democratic mind. Nor is this broad use of the word exclusively American. Dean Inge’s own countryman, Mr. Chesterton, has frequently used the word Democracy in the broad sense, as for example in the nineteenth chapter of Heretics, where he says it is not undemocratic to kick a butler, but it is undemocratic to say one must make allowances for his being a butler.
I am not criticizing Dean Inge’s restriction. But the fact remains that the word Democracy is often used in the broader sense.

The author of ‘Hairy Mary,’ in the May Atlantic writes from County Down: —

We are quiet in this part of my unhappy country, with rival Free State and Republican armies, fully armed and equipped, at each other’s throats, and both united against Ulster who only claims what they themselves clamor for - the right of self-determination; one cannot feel very happy. . . . Added to this there is a Bolshevist party in connection with the Russians, and they murder Protestants and Roman Catholics alike, and set them against each other, lister only wants to be left alone. When the Free Staters have established a settled government will be time to consider whether to join them or not, but burning and destroying small Orange Halls, smashing up railways and even goods from Scotland because they were forwarded through Belfast is not the way of conciliation.

‘ Let your communication be; Yea, Yea, Nay, Nay,’ is not a hard and fast precept for this column; but when the contributor is developing his epistolary thesis, he would do well to pause and count his words and consider how many letters as long as his own can be printed in our four pages.