OLD friends of the Atlantic will join with us in welcoming our Toastmaster of eighteen years ago, Bliss Perry, to these familiar pages. An appreciative angler, a professor of English, and a charming essayist, Professor Perry has written a paper that would make a fisherman out of the horniest-handed grocery-boy. To those who have not heard the music of the reel for many years, it will bring back the dawns on the Margaree and the Miramichi, and the sunsets when the lakes take fire among the Laurentian Hills. Ida L. Albright, the mother of a family, discusses its most trustworthy guardian, the family doctor, whether practitioner or specialist. Parents and doctors generally may well consider her questioning. ƢA lawyer and a Pennsylvanian of many generations, F. Lyman Windolph gives his persuasive support to a practicable and reassuring theory of democracy. Oswald Couldrey makes his first appearance in the Atlantic. Mr. Couldrey is a veteran of the Indian Educational Service, where, as the late Principal of Rajahmundry College, he gathered the material for his stories and his book, South Indian Hours.Frank Kendon is an English poet whose work we have long coveted for our pages. His contrast of the free proud clouds and the imprisoned city tree is memorable both for the beauty and for the melody of its lines.

This moving chapter of Alice Thornton’s experience must disclose to our readers the stupidity and evil which too often are responsible for the inhuman punishment behind the bars. Miss Thornton’s first paper, ‘The Pound of Flesh,’ appeared in our April number. ƢConspicuous among the multitudinous critics of ‘Old P——’s’ positive pronouncement is Dr. John Hayes Taylor. It is to be remarked that this critic finds more fault with education than with either ‘Old P——’ or his pupils, and in so doing ‘lifts a little of the burden from the shoulders of youth and transfers it to the rounded shoulders of educators.’ Ernst Jonson left Sweden at the age of twenty, attracted to America by the fame of Richardson, the architect. After engaging in architecture and engineering work, Mr. Jonson became a decorative designer, devoting himself particularly to recovering for the furniture industry the quality, artistic and technical, of the old handcrafts. ƢOn her visit to Ireland last spring, Mary Lyons Hennigan was one of a happy few to visit the ‘ Country of Youth.’ That is a recollection, of course, of perpetual charm and brightness. ƢThrough the past year we trust that our readers have become pleasurably acquainted with the quality of Wilfrid Gibson’s verse.

A brave actress on the screen and in reality, Nell Shipman relates the happy ending of a trying adventure. In answer to our original criticism of her narrative, Miss Shipman writes: ‘I too can sense a hurried style in this latter part of the paper, but I believe it is because it really happened that way. I mean that at the time there was no mental recognition of detail, simply an almost blind feeling to “get there,” and in writing of the incident I presume my mind unconsciously resumed the state it experienced at the time.’ ‘The Cast’ and ‘Disaster,’ previous portions of Miss Shipman’s record, appeared in our two preceding numbers. Rudolph Fisher is a member of Sigma Xi, a Master of Embryology, an X-ray specialist — and a writer of Atlantic fiction! His ruthless picture of the West Indian and the American Negro evidences Mr. Fisher’s profound understanding of his race. Readers may recall his first story, ‘The City of Refuge,’ which appeared in the February Atlantic.Gamaliel Bradford is now at work on a series of portraits of distinguished American ‘Wives.’ From his gallery we have been pleased to select this lively likeness of a fascinating woman.

ƢAS courtly, charming, and sensitive as the place itself is this pretty paper on Charleston by Elizabeth Choate. There is but one Charleston, even to a Bostonian, and those who have been admitted to her presence learn to speak of her, not as of the past or future, but as la grande dame of all time.

Sir A. Daniel Hall, Chief Scientific Adviser to the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, has recently returned to London after a visit to several of our prominent agricultural schools. Hector C. Bywater is a naval critic of recognized attainment. His review of the French navy, interesting in itself, forms a valuable corollary to the problems of French debt and the forthcoming (?) disarmament conference. Lieutenant-Colonel Charles à Court Repington, formerly military critic of the London Times and Morning Post, composed his present paper on his return from an influential tour through France and Belgium.

The swarm of letters which have come to us commenting — occasionally in rather stinging terms — on Arthur B. Green’s paper, ‘An Engineer Talks on Medicine,’ convinces us that there is still a word of explanation wanted.

This article from its very title was not intended to be professional. We were not in accord with certain of Mr. Green’s statements, but we printed them, confident that many people would enjoy speculating on the ebb and flow of medical theory. It was indubitable that Mr. Green expressed himself well, and that the subject was one that should be open to a layman’s discussion. For errors of fact as well as misinterpretation we, as well as Mr. Green, must stand corrected.

Gentlemen, the floor is now open.

The First Speaker.

‘An Engineer Talks on Medicine.’
A physician might talk on engineering, but I recognize my limitalions.
Cordially yours,

Oh yes, but then a doctor does n’t have to lend his body to an engineer to practise on! That’s a vital difference.

The Second Speaker, Dr. Robert A. Schless, offers what seems to us a pertinent and sensible plea.

‘An Engineer Talks on Medicine,’ in your March number, cannot pass undiscussed by an allopath who has great respect for the many homœopathic practitioners whom he numbers among his friends. Despite the hesitation one feels, as a member of the majority group, in attacking the tenets of the minority, — and so raising them to martyrdom, — the article in question is so contradictory, and even ridiculous, that the really worthy principles of homœopathy must suffer thereby.
Thus, to speak of driving a disease from within out — much as one would exorcise the Devil — means nothing, since the most sensitive tissue in the body, the blood, is neither external nor internal, but both. The author assumes as an accepted fact a theory held by very few readers of any school, the bacterial origin of cancer. Again, he refers to the ultra-violet treatment of cancer — which is based on no facts at all, as this has never been used for new growths.
As to a cured eczema returning as Bright’s disease, the slightest knowledge of pathology would make such a statement ridiculous — why not postulate the occurrence of cancer as due to removing hangnails, or tuberculosis of the lungs following the cure of dandruff?
Certain principles of Hahnemann — such as the similia similibus curantur — have been adopted by the allopaths, as serum and vaccine therapy, and so forth, and likewise retained by practising homœopaths. Both schools have rejected such other principles as have failed to stand the test of clinical experience. There is, to-day, small difference in the handling of cases by exponents of either school.
Allopathy has no quarrel with cults that remain within their province — we are delighted to have chronic rheumatics go to osteopaths in place of masseurs; we are glad to have chiropractors adjust ‘that tired feeling’ out of the spine; and we agree that infinitesimal dosages of drugs are as valuable as allopathic ones, for neurasthenics. But we do object to being called in on the fourth day of diphtheria, the fourth week of typhoid fever, and the fourth month of cancer, where the various cultists have been pounding, pulling, exorcising — as the case may be — until we arrive too late to overcome the handicap of delay.

A conciliatory admonition from A. M. Stimson, Surgeon-General, U. S. Public Health Service.

In spite of the fact that occasionally a dam breaks and drowns a fair-sized population, that now and then the roof of a building caves in with disastrous results to the inmates, that bridges wash away, trains crash, boilers burst, and buildings sink, I have a high regard for the engineering profession. I am not one of those who would require that the work of engineers should approach divine perfection simply because the sciences with which engineers deal are known as exact sciences, and because all of the materials with which they work can be accurately measured and weighed and tested. I am willing to regard as reasonable certain imperfections which may develop in their work, on the ground that human beings have still something to learn, and the further ground that they are doing their best to learn it.
It pains me therefore to learn that at least one member of the engineering profession does not reciprocate as regards the medical profession those sentiments of admiration which I have endeavored to express. He finds that we are animated rather by considerations of professional politics than by the principles of science. There appear to be few if any among us who are actuated by high ideals or endowed with any farseeing vision as regards the subject which we have selected for our life work. In so far as there may be truth in this we should accept it with humility and a resolve to improve the few talents left us before the night descends. But one who has watched the medical profession at work for the past quarter of a century cannot accept the entire indictment. Steadily improved standards of education, constantly increasing appeal to the experimental method in the laboratory, at the bedside, and in the field of epidemiology, and above all an astonishing reduction in the dealhand sickness-rates and an increase of human longevity, reassure us somewhat.
Mr. Arthur B. Green, who contributes the article, ‘An Engineer Talks on Medicine,’ to the March Atlantic Monthly, shares in common with many people, myself among them, a desire for the formulation of a succinct statement, a natural law, which will cover a large category of instances and thus simplify and clarify our outlook upon our surroundings. He thinks that the medical profession takes no such large view, but goes on muddling through treating each disease as an entity with little thought for the patient and none for broader relationships. Mr. Green thinks this because he really knows very little about either ourselves or our problem. The only general natural laws which apply in medicine are those of physics and chemistry, with which he as an engineer should be acquainted, and those of biology, with which there is reason to believe he is unfamiliar.
What irks one most about this article is the fact that an engineer should depart from the methods which are part of the splendid tradition of his profession and, throwing aside the visible, measurable, and ponderable evidence, should sink into the obsolete position of the armchair philosopher.

The Fourth Speaker.

The unique treatment for cancer practised by a ‘true homœopath,’ as recounted by the engineer in the March Atlantic, reminds me of a story I heard of a doctor years ago.
Whenever he got a patient he drove him into fits. Now as the doctor, to use his own words, was ‘hell on fits,’ he easily cured him.
Is it not possible that this same man may have been the hero of the engineer’s story?

‘ Old P——’s ‘ question in the March Atlantic, ‘Am I too old to teach?’ has engaged the responsive interest of teachers and pupils everywhere. Here are three varying commentaries.

A lesson in humility.

On the margin of my February Atlantic, which always goes to friends, opposite ‘Old P——’s’ paragraph on the movies I wrote, ‘Them’s my sentiments, with some reservations.’ There is much else in the article with which I fully agree; but — I’m wondering.
Here is a man of parts, a real teacher, teaching a cultural subject in a college, who finds his students unsympathetic with his ideals, himself losing the joy and inspiration that his work once brought. Here am I, older than this college professor, teaching Shorthand Business English in a business school, finding joy and inspiration in my work as never before.
Once a week I have the entire school in a class in Personality. I read to them and talk, presenting my deepest convictions along ethical lines. I have read Carlyle’s chapter, ‘Happy,’ from Past and Present; Kipling’s ‘East and West’; Tennyson’s ‘ Enoch Arden ‘; selections from Epictetus; Browning’s ‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’; Emerson’s ‘Self-Reliance.’ These young men and young women, getting the practical training that is to fit them for business, respond to every appeal. Is n’t it rather anomalous?
And yet, perhaps the explanation is not so far to seek. My young people are here with a definite purpose. They believe that what we are helping them to get has positive value. They find that they must work hard to get results. They make mistakes, lose their conceit, and begin to sense the fact that the profoundest student in any field has only scratched the surface of the infinite unknown. They have the open mind, and the most vital ethical truths I can present secure considerate attention; in many cases, acceptance.
Money and leisure are at the command of ‘Old P——’s’ students. Mine have neither. That is one factor in determining their differing attitudes toward life. But is n’t the arrogance of the college man a factor — his notion that he is superior, not because of any grace of character gained or even any accumulation of knowledge, but merely because of college membership? And are n’t college professors partly responsible?
Certainly, when the college professor finds himself out of touch with his young men — weary of them because they are what they are — and the business-school teacher finds himself in most cordial sympathy with his students, happiest when he is working with them — certainly the situation is thought-provoking.
L. A. M.

A contagious enthusiasm worth catching.

Am I old enough to teach? That nice old duffer, ‘Old P——,’ drives me to ask. There is certainly nothing of that predisintegration ‘mellowness’ about me. If you chose an apple to symbolize me it would be a hard, crisp, juicy one that would almost break your teeth. I have n’t got to the stage where I see the disenchanting aura of old age disfiguring the faces before me when I look at a class of pretty girls. (Why did n’t ‘Old P——’ like that?) I confess to an unsuppressed grin when I read about ' Old P——’s’ suppressed raptures in the presence of his austere class. A twentieth-century poetry anthology, and I’m all there, but the Golden Treasury puts me to sleep; I find Expressing Willie full of ginger and The Way of the World knotted tow. I’m not far enough away from them, I suppose, to see the fellows I played football with as unfit for university education because they are more interested in experimenting, investigating, and blazing new trails than in retracing the paths their ancestors have traveled over. Those ancestors did their bit in bringing the present up to date and I’m not crabbing about them, but I’m not going to dig among to-day’s roots when I can enjoy its flourishing leaves and flowers. I can’t get the Paradise-lost point of view enough for that. You see I don’t hold evolution as a detachable theory; it’s in solution, as it were, all through me. If we had been born into an age of temporary paralysis, like so many past ages, and had to depend on more fortunate periods for a galvanized substitute for life, we should have had to make the best of the past. But it looks as if the past had set us going this time good and strong and intended us to keep it up. The past is where it belongs, behind us, if some laudator temporis acti, not satisfied to make it a pleasant retreat, were n’t always trying to drag the best runners back into it.
When you don’t know what ‘weariness’ is, and can’t feel superior to your students, are pretty sure, in fact, that you could learn a lot from them, and don’t want to throw a monkey wrench into the wheels of progress, but want to speed things up and keep them spinning with a wild desire to be in for the finish, I suppose you are too young to teach. When you don’t want to smash your students’ self-confidence, and make them feel that the only progress is backward, when one real inventor gives you more joy than ninety-nine research-moles, when you are more delighted over a boy’s finding an effective way to break a rule than you are bothered by his breaking it, when, in short, you’d rather see him discover new gods than pay homage to the old forms from which the glory has departed — well, you’d better let ‘Old P——’ run things in his aristocratic way till you grow up, too.
‘ YOUNG I——’

Beauty and the ‘Gosh!’

DEAR ‘OLD P——’: —
Your ears must have been burning since your article on the youth of to-day appeared in the February Atlantic Monthly, if the furor your remarks created in one group of college students is an indication of the disturbance you caused in other groups of ‘pseudo-educated’ Americans. In the California college to which I refer the students have been talking of you and your ideas at dinner, in their rooms, at the post office, and wherever they may gather.
All agree, with a backward glance at the past generation, that the youth of to-day are frank and honest, that they do things openly. The listener is left to draw his own conclusions about the clandestine activities of his mother and grandmother. All agree, also, that the girl of to-day is self-reliant, but instead of decrying the change which permits young girls to go automobiling ‘alone,’ they see in this change ‘independence,’ and a ‘shouldering of responsibility.’
In the same breath in which they declare that they are not egotistical they give vent to such remarks as ‘the young people are to be leaders of this great democracy,’ ‘they form hasty judgments and come to rash conclusions because they have alert and quick minds.’ They have you in mind when they say ‘they are farsighted enough and bright enough to see the danger in overintellectuality.’ To the youth the fact that he ‘is ashamed to show any signs of mental action’ does not mean feeble-mindedness but often a depth like that of Still waters.
It may be that, hidden behind an appearance of nonchalance and a reticence to talk of things most vital to him, the present-day youth is harboring a sensitive imagination which might readily become ‘half-shyly aglow with the response of idealism.’ ‘ I wonder how many youths “Old P——” consulted on the point,’ says one student in discussing ‘Old P——’s’ contention that the present generation lacks imagination. ‘I am sure that, had he talked to young people and seen how they felt in their hearts, he would not feel as he does. We youngsters are rather shy about expressing our romantic and imaginary feelings because the generation who were the undergraduates a generation ago find it easy to laugh at our “foolishness.” . . . Recently I caught my roommate gazing vaguely out the window with English Poetry from Chaucer to Kipling in her lap. Moreover, she was not dreaming over Herrick or Landor, but Chaucer.’ It may be true, as one student asserts, that ' the girl looking at a beautiful sunset who says, “Gosh, what a glorious sunset!” does not miss any of the thrill and wonder that was enjoyed by the Victorian maid who in very precise tones repeated a bit of poetry.’ One thoughtful youth says of the apparent lack of romance in the present generation: ‘The young people are very matter of fact, but they have not lost romance. I think they see it in a more beautiful way, in the lovely things that occur in everyday life, and not just in their dreams.’

From one Who has Wrathfully Waited.

The article ‘In the Key of W’ in the March Atlantic interested me very much. I was more fortunate in selection of my father, thereby placing myself under letter ‘S’ — well down the line in all lists, but still not so badly off as ‘ W.’
I have endured all the disadvantages encountered by ‘ W,’ with an added one of financial loss. Several years ago, after state income-tax reports had been filed in a certain state, a ruling was handed down by the Supreme Court that on a certain class of income no tax was to be paid, and taxpayers were furnished blanks for claim of refund for overpayment.
After patiently waiting for about eight months for my refund check to reach me, I communicated with the tax department, asking why the delay, and they informed me that they as yet had not reached the letter ‘S’ and would not for some time to come!
It was fully twelve months before I received my refund check, without interest added, the State having appropriated the interest unto itself!
Very truly,

A new version of an ancient tale.

I am sending you a new use for your great magazine.
A young girl from the Middle West was obliged to travel alone to her college in the East. A friend told her that she would be perfectly safe from molestation during the long journey if she would have an Atlantic Monthly with her.
The ingenious damsel, not feeling equal to the highbrow literature of this magazine, tore off several brown covers and fastened them over some magazines whose reading-matter more nearly matched her mental attainments, and reached her destination without mishap.
E. E. D.