Walter Millis (‘The President’) graduated from Yale in 1920 and has since done brilliant newspaper work in Baltimore, London, and New York. Son of an army officer, last year published The Martial Spirit, acclaimed as the best book ever written about the SpanishAmerican War. Δ After a short visit to his native land, Albert Jay Nock (‘What Every Woman Ought to Know’) has returned to his philosophic meditations on the banks of the Mosel, with Rabelais under one arm and Artemus Ward under the other. Bernhard Knollenberg (‘Sagebrush Rule’) is a lawyer who has made tho problems of taxation his special province. He also lectures on this subject at the Law School of New York University.

If there is anyone who does n’t know who A. Edward Newton is (‘London in a financial Fog’), let him turn at once to The Amenities of Book-Collecting and Kindred Affections and thank us for the introduction. Δ Last summer when La Salle Street, Chicago’s Wall Street, was floundering in the trough of a bottomless market, John Coleman, Jr., walked out of his brokerage office one afternoon (; Gone for the Duy’) and has not been seen since. To a few choice friends he sent word that, since business had deserted him, he had returned the compliment, and that henceforth he could be found — for convivial purposes only — on his broad acres at Lake Forest. Katharine Ball Ripley lives in Charleston, South Carolina, where she was born. ‘God’s Work’ is her first short story; her first book. Sand in My Shoes, was published last fall. Arthur Pound (’Low Fever and Slow Fires’) will he remembered as the author of the ‘Iron Man’ papers which tho Atlantic published some years ago. Δ Although he is a physician and a Senator of the Irish Free State, Oliver Gogarty (‘Leda and the Swan’) is best known as a poet. He is a leading spirit in that illustrious Dublin group of literary men which includes W . B. Yeats, George Russell (Æ), and James Joyce. Δ As every syllable of his name proclaims, Wendell Brooks Phillips (’I Teach in a Hick College’) comes of New England ancestry, but has lived most of his life in Georgia. He grew up, he says, with Piedmont College, from which he graduated in 1913, and then went to Harvard — only to return eventually to his first love, which he serves devotedly as Professor of English. The Right Reverend Henry C. Lay (’Grant before Appomattox’) was Bishop of the Diocese of Arkansas under the Protestant Episcopal Church of the Confederate States. He died in 1885, and the original manuscript of his diary is now preserved in the University of North Carolina Library. Δ After a generation of service with the British Government in India, Sir John Campbell (’A Day in Nepal’) is now Financial Officer of the University of London. Louise Taylor (‘Across the Pacific — Cerebrally’) is an assistant in the Asiatic Department of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Louis Reed (‘The Prophet of Ammon’) is a general practitioner of the law in a small town hidden away among the West Virginia mountains. Edwa Robert (‘ Hands of Man') grew up among horses and dogs in a Mississippi River village in Missouri. Δ Professor of American History at the University of Chicago, William E. Dodd (’The End of an Era’) has published numerous hooks, most of them biographical. Alfred F. Loomis (‘Circumstantial Evidence’) is a writer and yachtsman whose hobby is long-distance cruising in small boats. Nicholas Fairweather (‘Hitler and Hitlerism’) is an American who has resided for many years in Europe. He became so deeply interested in the phenomenon of Hitler’s meteoric rise from obscurity that he has made a special study of the man, his ideas, and his methods.

A bid for new members.

The Contributors’ Club of the ATLANTIC IS not a closed corporation. If is always looking for new members, and, as it happens, there are note some choice vacancies for those who can qualify. Address manuscripts to the Editor of the Contributors’ Club.

Applause in the subway.

Dear Friend, —
I thought thee might be interested in this item: A friend of mine, changing cars in the New York subway, saw the newsboy reading intently one of the magazines at his stand. Being interested in people, she stepped up to see what he was reading and was greeted with, ’Gee, lady, this is great,’ whereupon she found him reading Florence Converse’s ‘ Bread Line.’ My friend bought a copy of the Atlantic, agreed with her informant, Look it to her office the next morning and read it to the force there, and one of the men has requested that it be broadcast.
This so agrees with our own appraisal that it filled us with glee.
SEAL THOMPSONWellesley, Massachusetts

Doctors’ bills.

Dear Atlantic, —
In your columns I have noticed during the last twelve months a number of articles for and against the conduct of the members of the medical profession. Here is a suggestion for the doctors to follow which will, I am sure, do much to eliminate censure and to restore confidence. Let the doctor itemize his bills, or. as they are more formally called, his statements.
Before me as I write are the December bills from the grocer, the meal shop, the milk company, a hardware store, a department store, the family doctor, and the family dentist. By looking at these I can discover how much broccoli my family has eaten in thirty days; how many pounds of bacon, of poultry, of beef, of lamb. I learn that we have used seventy-one quarts of Grade A milk; that we used five yards of half-inch elastic, one dozen new diaper cloths, one gallon of linseed soap, a new kitchen mop, four door hinges, and a pint of floor wax.
And finally I turn to see what we have got from the doctor. We must have got something, for here is his bill for $78.00 — ‘ For professional services rendered.’ The dentist has done some thing for us, too — $47.00 worth — but just what did he do? That’s what every budget-operating citizen wants to know, and I can’t for the life of me see why he is n’t entitled to the information.
Haverford, Pennsylvania

Christmas in Utopia.

Dear Atlantic, —
Reading Dr. Friedrich Ritter’s last article in the December Atlantic, I could n’t help wondering how he and Dore had celebrated the holidays upon their lonely island. It occurred to me he might very well have described their festivities in such a letter as this to a friend back in Germany: —

December 26, 1931
Yesterday was Christmas — Christmas in the Galapagos! I did not realize it until late in the afternoon when I went to check the day off on my calendar. I thought it would be a good joke on Dore to remind her of the event, so I picked the biggest green lemon I could find in the grove and wrapped it neatly in a pretty leaf; then, making the wriest face I could, I presented it to her with a ‘Merry Christmas!’ In return she gave me a nasty look and scolded me dreadfully. Dore is sometimes lacking in a sense of humor. She wanted to know why bring that up, and did n’t we come here to get away from all that kind of nonsense.
‘Dore,’ I replied, ‘how could we enjoy Christmas, or, I might say, the absence of Christmas, if we did n’t know it was Christmas? Here we’ve been spending the jolliest. Christmas of our lives, and if i had n’t reminded you, you would have missed it.’ Yours, etc.

I wonder if next Christmas will still find the Ritters happily fighting the devil pigs and insects upon their solitary island.
Peoria, Illinois

[Far be if from us to predict how long the Ritters will remain in their self-inflicted exile. As this goes to press we have just received a letter from them saying that they are well and happy, and have no intention of returning to civilization. — EDITORS]

Must the Fascists save us from ourselves?

Dear Atlantic, —
The article, ’Shadow of the Man on Horseback,’ by James Truslow Adams in the January issue, is a striking confirmation of my own analysis of the contemporary scene. In commenting on the article the New York Times states that it is under the impression that we Americans do not believe there is such a thing as a superman.
I don’t know where this editorial writer has been living, but my own observations here and in Europe, particularly among college and university groups, but also among the inhabitants of Main Street, lead me inexorably to the conclusion that nominal democrats in every part of the world are characterized by a nostalgia for authority, discipline, and an ordering of life. We may not believe that there is a superman among us, but we do long for a group of our most capable contemporaries to lead us out of our difficulties.
I am less inclined than Mr. Adams to consider this a desirable development. Nevertheless I am glad that the Atlantic is sufficiently aware of the crisis in democracy to give major attention to discussion of the matter. During 1932, I should like to see an article pointing out that we are likely, eventually, to witness an outright struggle between Fascism and Communism.

[The conflict between Fascism and Communism has already reached an acute stage in Germany, where Adolf Hitler, leader of the Nazis or German Fascists, is heading the most determined opposition against Communistic tendencies. For an authoritative discussion of this problem, turn to the article, ’Hitler and Hitlerism,’in this issue. — EDITORS]

’When she was bad . . . ’

Dear Atlantic, —
Forty or fifty years ago I read an essay in some British review in the course of which the author quoted certain verses which have stuck in my memory. In their time, my children took pleasure in them, and so do now my grandchildren and those of some other people. The verses are these: —
There was a little girl, and she had a little hood,
With a curl in the middle of her forehead;
And when she was good she was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
One day she went upstairs, when her parents unawares
In the kitchen were occupied with meals,
And she got up on her head in her little trundlebed ,
And there she stood hurraying with her heels.
Her mother heard the noise, and she thought it was the boys,
A-playing at a combat in the attic.
But when she climbed the stair and found Jemima there,
She took and she did spank her most emphatic. And there you are; final and complete, not a word too many or too few. I remember that the essayist said that the lines were known to many in his day, but only in part and always misquoted: and that for his part he approved them, and was personally glad to know the little girl’s name, and that he admired the ’versatility’ of her heels.
I might mention that my children understood the ‘most emphatic’ to be some region of the sufferer’s anatomy. I remember overhearing muttered threats from one to another to ‘spank your most emphatic.’
TALBOT RICHARDSONLong Beach, California

The sea dog ashore.

Dear Atlantic,
The January issue has just come. By Jiminy, I can tell you a yarn about that old son-of-a-gun Andy Turner, if it comes to that. He looks just like a bulldog. You’d think he was about to take your leg off. And Heaven help the foremast hand that does n’t jump when he says, ’Jump along!’ (That did n’t, I should say, for our good days are over.)
Andy was mixed up in the Boer War and the Big War. And once he was mixed up in a South American revolution. In the last, he and a pal came across an unopened safe lying out in the street by a wrecked bank building. They shared what was in it. Andy got $5000. He took a notion to go pay a visit to his native Glasgow, which he had n’t seen in years. One day, shortly after landing there, he met the contents of an orphan asylum walking out, two and two (a ‘crocodile,’ they call such a procession over there). He went up to the overseer or supervisor or whatever you’d call it of the orphans and asked to be allowed to have charge of them for the afternoon, saying he’d like to take them to the circus. Having persuaded the fellow, after a while, that he was a quite respectable sea captain, he obtained permission.
He took the whole crowd of little tikes to the circus, and filled them up on the sort of grub that little tikes like. Then he took them all to a clothing store, and there he bought every last one of them a new rig from cap to shoes — underwear, suits, everything. It was getting on toward late in the day by then, and he was overdue at the orphan asylum with his charges. The supervisor called the police, and the police went out to hunt up Andy and his little shipmates. They met him strolling along astern of the gang, with the hand of a little tike in each of his.
That’s Andy Turner for you. To hear him damning a sea cook for not having put plums enough in the cabin duff, you’d never think it. But that’s Andy.
Fair winds and a fat pay day to you!
BILL ADAMSDutch Flat, California

Giving the public what it wants.

Dear Atlantic,—
Walter Millis asks whether W. R. Hearst is a cause or an effect. I have read with interest his enlightening but nevertheless indecisive review of the man and his methods. The author’s lack of bias is evident throughout, regardless of allusions to a ‘ mere demagogue,’ ‘pander to base emotion,’ ‘sewer journalism,’ ‘primacy of the sewer.’
Bestowing upon the people what they want may be either condemned or condoned, since it could arise from either selfishness or generosity. Even so, the attempt to give the people what they want can only be condoned in the end if the lack of education of the giver leads him to make mistakes because he is ignorant of what will benefit the masses. Humanity in the large does not really know what it wants; its likes and dislikes are always changing, and are usually superficial or morbid.
To quote Sumner, ‘The mores are always right.’ Incidentally, they can be assumed to be nearly always wrong. Not even a Gibbon is qualified to pass on the honesty or dishonesty of a Rome that perished long before he was born. in time to come the deductions which H. G. Wells emphasizes in his Outline of History will probably appear wide of the mark, because he, too, has looked upon the people of yesterday with the eyes of to-day.
Chicago, Illinois

The paradox of poverty.

Dear Atlantic, —
In the Contributors’ Club for September the author of that delightful little essay, ‘My Lady Poverty,’ asserts that the only hope for the most of us lies in the rediscovery of the beauties of poverty. He flouts a definition of poverty except to state that the poverty he defends is that which cannot have nearly all it thinks it wants. This, it seems to me, connotes poverty of mind merely, and I cannot raise my voice in its defense. For only by mind is poverty made beautiful.
My community defines poor people as those who live in more or less need in cheaply rented houses with none of the time-saving devices that gas, electricity, and running water bring. This tends so to complicate the routine of daily living that if the poor persons are trying to exist efficiently and honorably they spend so much time in living that they are put to it to find time to make a living. It takes very little imagination to visualize the mother, particularly, of a menage devoid of conveniences, taking time to build morning fires, heating water on the stove top, walking to market to buy cheap cuts of meat which take time to cook, washing clothes by arm power and ironing them by irons heated slowly ON the top of the stove, cooking each meal from a fresh start because ice is a luxury, and concocting tasty left-overs both in cooking and in dressmaking— which takes time. All of which point to my thesis: that poverty is destructive to leisure, yet leisure is imperative for the proper realization of the beauties of poverty.
For even such poverty as this can be beautiful, provided said I poverty is not congenital. Poverty has beauty only if one has lived to maturity in a cultural environment. Then one may choose poverty — as did Tolstoy — or one may have it thrust upon him and still find it beautiful.
Tolstoy, however, strikes me as being peculiarly thoughtless. He says: ‘We make the word “poverty” a synonym for calamity, but it is in truth a source of happiness, and however much we may regard it us a calamity, it remains a source of happiness still.’ It was well enough that Tolstoy should have turned to a simpler life after having tasted luxury and found it not to his liking. But he utterly failed to realize that the delight of poverty, as he found it, was due to the development of his intellect, and that development was a part of his cultural heredity and environment.
Poverty was thrust upon me, and I am trying to exist efficiently and honorably — a dreadful dilemma! But I have found my solution. I have realized the futility of finding beauty if one takes too much time in the routine of daily living, so I take time out. In other words, I am lazy. Society condemns laziness in the poor, but it is in the very nature of things. Alter so long a time one becomes economically numb. Then in truth one is free, and, granted a modicum of knowledge to sharpen the emotions, one can finally enjoy the beauty of poverty.

A deserving plea.

Dear Atlantic, —
Since I keep my copies of the Atlantic for reference work, I pass on to you this letter which I recently received. Perhaps one of your readers would be glad to aid this Japanese gentleman who even studies Esperanto.


My dear sir;
Please excuse me concerning my impoliteness that I write to you first in spite of the fact that I am quite a stranger to you without having been introduced by an intimate friend of yours. I am teaching English to girls and boys at my place. I am reading the Atlantic Monthly in order to improve my English and in order to get much good materials for my English teaching to my pupils. I am learning current English by the magazine. To my great regret I can not subscribe to the Atlantic Monthly now owing to my much economical responsibilities. I saw your name and your address in the Atlantic Monthly January 1931. I am sure you are taking it. I wish you would kindly send me your Atlantic Monthly every month after you have done it in order to assist my work in English teaching. I learned French and German. I can read Esperanto books.
Waiting to hear from you soon I am ever yours sincerely
Tanabecho Nishimurogun, Hakayamaken Japan