bers, and as soon as this issue of SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE begins to circulate, will rapidly gather accretions. Miss Redington writes: "We came to it as Browning pilgrims, but we love it for itself, and think Browning's affection for it more than natural-it was inevitable. Once visited, Asolo must always remain in one's memory as the most adorable hill town in the world. Of course you will be President of the Asolo Club. That is our one stipulation. We take it for granted that the motto of the Fano Club, as you announced it in Los Angeles that July morning 'no dues, no initiation fees, no assessments'--will hold good in this sister society. . . . No Browning enthusiast can afford not to make this pilgrimage which, incidentally, is not a difficult one, even if the little town is off the railway. A good public motor bus from Castelfranco solves the problem of transportation for the tourist who is not travelling in his own car, and an excellent Italian inn (Albergo al Sole) makes his stay a comfortable and well-fed one."

Elizabeth N. Case, the accomplished literary critic of the Hartford Courant, not only joins the Faerie Queene Club, but nominates emphatically for the Ignoble Prize Carlyle's "French Revolution." She has made five valiant attacks upon it, and been repulsed five times with severe losses. The Manchester Guardian, commenting on my September article in SCRIBNER'S, thinks I am mistaken in believing that Carlyle's works are to-day widely read; that admirable journal believes the world is far more interested in reading about Carlyle than in reading him. Which may be true; yet very few persons can graduate from Yale without reading him, for it is compulsory in the English course of freshman year. I will now confess that I have never read through the "French Revolution"; I well remember beginning to do so, and the late Professor Ralph Catterall of Cornell-one of the best teachers of history in America -telling me that I should never finish it. "No one does," said he.

But the personality of Carlyle is as compellingly interesting as ever. There has just been published the first volume of what I believe will be the most impor

tant biography of our day-"Carlyle Till Marriage," by David Alec Wilson. Mr. Wilson has spent thirty years collecting material about Carlyle, and this initial tome is to be the first of five. Upon the conclusion of the work Thomas Carlyle will emerge more completely than Johnson from the pages of Boswell. Mr. Wilson has a genius for detail and a passion for accuracy. Many legends are discredited, and every statement of fact is carefully and elaborately documented. If Carlyle met a girl on the street and smiled at her, the fact is supported by three footnotes. Does this meticulous method make the book dull? On the contrary, I have yet to find a single dull sentence, either in the pages or in the fine print at their feet. Mr. Wilson writes with such gusto that he keeps up his own and his reader's courage; his style is such a compound of enthusiasm, shrewdness, cynicism, and humor that I find myself led captive. If he lives to finish this vast undertaking, I predict that he will take his place among the great biographers of all time.

The year 1923 should be memorable for an astonishing number of "autobiographies," "recollections," and "reminiscences." I cannot remember any previous twelvemonth that can be compared with it. Here are a few of them: "From Immigrant to Inventor," by Michael Pupin, which first appeared in the pages of SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE, and which is assuredly a valuable contribution to human nature in general and to Americanization in particular. It is an extraordinary record. "Remembered Yesterdays," by Robert Underwood Johnson, poet, editor, diplomat, is crowded with interesting anecdotes and good stories; the author's long service as editor of the Century Magazine and his connection with the American Academy made him the intimate friend of distinguished men and women in every land. "From Pinafores to Politics," by Mrs. J. Borden Harriman, copiously illustrated, is full of good talk and exciting incidents. "Tales of Travel," by the Marquess Curzon, and "The Story of My Life," by Sir Harry H. Johnston, are crowded with thrilling adventures. "My Windows on the Street of the World,"

two thick volumes, by Professor James Mavor, will hold the attention of all intelligent readers, and will make others wish they were intelligent. "The World Crisis," by the Right Honorable Winston S. Churchill, is as lively and irritating as its author. "My Note-Book at Home and Abroad," by Harry De Windt, who says he has travelled over a million miles, about ten thousand without steam, and has lived in every capital of Europe, is exactly what one might expect from the author's preface. "Myself Not Least, Being the Personal Reminiscences of X," is a succession of good stories told by an expert. "Memories of the Russian Court," by Anna Virobova, is as entertaining as it is something else, and it is assuredly both. "Celebrities: Little Stories About Famous Folk," by Coulson Kernahan, is charming in its candor, modesty, and naïveté. His account of the Edwin Drood trial, where the judge was G. K. Chesterton, and Bernard Shaw foreman of the jury, is unforgettable; and I shall not forget the conversation between the beloved Ian Maclaren and an Italian peasant woman. She asked him if he never prayed to the Mother of God, and on receiving a courteous negative reply, she said: "Ah, sir, I understand that, but you are a man, and you don't know how a woman needs a woman to pray to!" The Protestant clergyman immediately and humbly asked the peasant's forgiveness. One of the most light-hearted of all these biographies is that by Douglas Ainslie, called "Adventures Social and Literary," in which the author tells the story of his youth and of his diplomatic career. Here is a man who has always moved, by right of birth, breeding, and education, "in the best circles." He is such a snob that his frankness is disarming; his assurance adds considerably to the amusement of the reader; and he himself seems to have had no end of fun. He hates democracy, and says so candidly. He believes that no one has the right to be called a "gentle

unless but let him talk, for such words make a strange accompaniment to the scream of the American eagle. "What is a gentleman? The significance of the word seems to vary with the speaker. I cling to the old acceptation that it should and does mean a man be

longing to a certain group of families with pedigree and certain traditions. A gentleman can be a criminal and yet remain a gentleman, because he can't help it. The notion of a nature's gentleman seems to me to represent an attempt to steal the prestige that hangs around the name of gentleman and to apply it incorrectly to the possessor of certain moral and intellectual qualities. Why not call the latter a 'good' or a 'clever' man and remain true to the proper use of language?" All I can say is, "Golly! what a book!" It sounds as though it had been written before the year 1789.

I am amused to read such language from an indubitable swell. But it is not particularly amusing to read what he says on one of the greatest statesmen and noblest characters in modern history, John Morley, whose integrity matched his intellect. It is, however, significant; because it shows that a chronic consciousness of high birth may produce petrifaction of the brain. It hardly seems possible that John Morley, whom Henry James called the most distinguished of living Englishmen, could be the object of such an appraisal as this: "Another politician, at one time intimate with my uncle, was Mr. John Morley (now a Viscount, as all good Radicals should be). Morley had followed Gladstone on the Home Rule question, and thereby made sure of his peerage and higher office. It was a public calamity when he was made secretary of state for India. I have it from a foreign diplomatist, now an Allied ambassador, who had much state business at the India Office, that the whole of his policy was disastrous to the maintenance of British authority in that great country." Well, honesty is sometimes disastrous both to authority and to greed.

When he is not talking about gentlemen or politics, Mr. Ainslie is often more entertaining. He adds some excellent stories. to the vast number already encircling the figure of Oscar Wilde. Here is one, which despite the narrator's howling blunder, is worth remembering. It happened when Wilde was an undergraduate at Oxford, taking his oral exam. "He was put on to construe from the Greek of the New Testament, at the verse of St. Matthew which records the sale of the Saviour for

In addition to these just mentioned, and to those on which I commented in previous issues of SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE, one should particularly read Walter Damrosch's "My Musical Life"; it is not only an excellent autobiography, it shows clearly how New York has become the world's musical capital. Observe also the "Memoirs of Alexander Herzen," the great Russian critic, whose complete autobiography is now for the first time being made available in English. "A MidVictorian Pepys," being the letters and memoirs of Sir William Hardman, annotated and edited by S. M. Ellis, is steadily entertaining, most so when not meant to be, as will be seen from the following, under date of January, 1862: "So we are to have no war with these infernal Yankees this time. I am sorry for it, and in this I find my feelings are not unusual, for the prevailing views among all with whom I am brought into contact are, that we could not do better than give Yankeedom a thorough licking, and that such a fight must come off sooner or later. I remark that our strenuous preparations for war have rather smitten the Jonathans with a sort of abject terror. There is no doubt about it, we put them in a precious funk. It has put us to great expense in perfecting our military and naval condition, but it has enabled us to throw a compact army of 10,000 men into Canada."

Finally there is "The Garden of Memory," an autobiography by the late Kate Douglas Wiggin.

In addition to all these autobiographies, I am filled with feverish expectancy by a book that has just arrived: "W. S. Gilbert. His Life and Letters, by Sidney Dark and Rowland Grey." Is the motley in the authorship symbolical? It has many illustrations and, best of all, an enormous number of verses. Why cannot we have a revival of the complete cycle of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas?

Burns Mantle, the accomplished dramatic critic, has recently issued his fourth annual volume, "The Best Plays of 19221923." I advise lovers and students of contemporary drama to buy this book, and its three predecessors, for they form a complete and accurate history of the American stage during the period covered. The present theatrical season in New York-there is none elsewhere in America-is particularly brilliant. The outstanding event is the revival of "Cyrano de Bergerac," by Walter Hampden. The greatest drama of modern times, produced and acted by one of the most gifted and impressive artists in the world, makes a combination that has been received with tremendous enthusiasm. It is a glorious performance, worth travelling across the continent to see. The translation was made especially for this production by the American poet Brian Hooker, and seems to be admirably adapted for the voice. Other plays that adorn this season are "The Changelings," by Lee Wilson Dodd, an original, thoughtful, challenging, brilliant American comedy, produced to the absolute satisfaction of eye and ear by Henry Miller. Associated with him are Blanche Bates, Laura Hope Crews, Ruth Chatterton, and others, whose intelligence and enunciation make the dialogue as exciting as action in a melodrama. The tempo of the play is perfectly sustained. "The Swan," a romantic comedy by Molnar, has captured New York, and deserves its success. It is a charming piece, and the acting of the cast is on a level with that of the best stock companies of Europe. Not so much can be said of the Theatre Guild's choice and production of Galsworthy's "Windows." I am an enthusiastic member of the Guild, and an enthusiastic admirer of Galsworthy; but nothing can disguise the fact that "Windows" is a feeble play, indifferently acted. Jane Cowl, emboldened by the immense success of her interpretation of Juliet, has had the courage to produce Maeterlinck's "Pelléas and Mélisande," and indeed it took courage, because the play has appall

ing difficulties, and because Maeterlinck is just now extremely unpopular in America. He was a great name until he came hither to lecture; after that disastrous experience the majority of Americans made up their minds that he was a writer of no importance, and in America all such things are settled by majority vote. That a failure in lecturing should destroy the literary value of "Monna Vanna," "Pelléas," "Sister Béatrice," and "The Blue Bird" would seem incomprehensible if it were not a fact. Most American "critics" simply repeat what it is fashionable to say: Maeterlinck is an old windbag; Alfred Noyes never wrote a line of poetry, and so on. Jane Cowl, however, has scored an artistic success in the Belgian play; whether it will hold the stage for a long run is not now discoverable.

The Moscow players are with us again, and are no less wonderful, delighting their audiences and satisfying the most difficult critics. They have added new plays to their repertoire, and are apparently as successful in light comedy as in gray tragedy. It is curious that out of all Ibsen's works they should have chosen "An Enemy of the People," but they certainly did well with it. Perhaps on their next visit they will take an American play.

Eleonora Duse also came over, and played to enormous and enthusiastic audiences. She gave the worst performance of Ibsen's "Ghosts" I have ever seen. Not one thrill did I receive from her impersonation of Mrs. Alving. She was mechanically perfect; her movements, gestures, voice, all technically correct, and all lifeless.

as so many actresses who essay Lady Macbeth love to show off in the sleepwalking scene, thus demonstrating that whoever may be asleep in the audience, the Lady is not, so actors who play Oswald love to put horror in their tones when its absence is most horrible. When I heard Antoine play the rôle in Paris, he spoiled the final effect by saying pathetically, Donne-moi le soleil, like a child crying for food. In Madame Duse's production, Oswald implored and besought his mother to give him the sun, thus destroying the effect that Ibsen explicitly wished to produce. Oswald in this instance was no crazier than the sun. Why have a sun? The increasing light of dawn is all that is necessary. But in the Duse production a roundish, yellowish ball came up jerkily in a heavily wrinkled sky; the men who were pulling it off stage lacked the rudiments of team-play, for some seemed to haul against determined opposition, so that the result looked like a tug of war, with the sun for prize. The conservatives, who did not wish it to rise at all, nearly got it once. Such a perverse sun would have discredited a scratch team of players in a district school. I wish David Belasco could have seen it. For his production of "Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary" had the most marvellous light ever seen on the stage. side-lights, spot-lights, or foot-lights; Mr. Belasco has discovered a new method, that gives a diffused light indistinguishable from the light of day. The sunshine filtered through the trees exactly as it would on a summer afternoon, and the sky had no wrinkles; the only unwrinkled sky I have ever seen in the

There were no

In New Jersey, the Burlington County Historical Society has done a fine thing in purchasing the house in the town of Burlington, 457 High Street, where on September 15, 1789, James Fenimore Cooper was born. The house is filled with Cooperiana, the novelist's grandson contributing a remarkable manuscript. On November 23, the birthplace was formally dedicated, and despite torrents of rain there was a large attendance and great fervor. I was not only deeply interested in the Cooper home and in the

old Quaker meeting-house, but in the building next door to Cooper's, where Captain James Lawrence was born, October 1, 1781. Let me recommend to motorists a visit to Burlington. Kenneth A. Robinson, of Dartmouth, writes me: "My grandfather was a graduate of Yale in the class of 1835, and I have often heard him tell how he and some other students tried to get the Phi Beta Kappa society there to bring, or at least invite, Cooper to New Haven to lecture, only to have their proposal repeatedly rejected by the officers of the society on the ground that Cooper 'wrote novels.""

Americans are usually good storytellers, as distinguished from conversationists. I use the latter word on the prompting of Ernest Ingersoll, who suggests that it is a better form than conversationalist. And so it is. I suppose there never was a more entertaining teller of stories than the late Gordon McCabe, of Virginia, who during his life of eighty years gave an immense amount of pleasure to an immense number of people. He was my ideal of a Southern gentleman, brave, courteous, witty, kindly, with a nice sense of honor. His conversations with Tennyson were particularly interesting. He told the aged poet some of his best Southern anecdotes, which made him a welcome guest in Tennyson's home. On one occasion Tennyson grew confidential and told McCabe something about his own history, and then rather gruffly remarked that he hoped McCabe would not print this in any newspaper. McCabe instantly replied that in the country whence he came such a remark would be regarded as an insult, and the poet immediately apologized. Observing that Tennyson smoked all the time, McCabe asked him if he had ever tried Bull Durham, the Old Reliable; he had not, but liked the sample given him by the Virginian. Accordingly McCabe used to send him a bale of Bull Durham every year, which the poet quickly consumed.

Gordon McCabe, like the gallant young gentleman he was, fought in the Confederate Army, and could not at first swallow the oath of allegiance to the United States after the war, for which I personally admire him. Only the other day I received

an extremely interesting letter from one of McCabe's fellow soldiers, G. Nash Morton, who writes:

Gordon was a charming personality, a most entertaining and delightful companion. After Lee's surrender, when a number of Lee's officers, who in one way or another had escaped capitulation, were making our way to join General Johnston at Greensboro, N. C., I came into the most intimate touch with Gordon. Having been cut off from Lee on the night before the 9th of April by Sheridan's Cavalry, which had swung in between us and Lee's main army, marching on another road, at sunrise on the morning of the 9th we received word from Lee that he was about to surrender. But as we were cut off from him, he had not included us in his cartel, and that we could either surrender with him or not, just as we pleased. I set out immediately to join Johnston. In doing so I had to pass my home, "Gravel Hill," in Charlotte, the adjoining County to Appomattox. Delayed there a couple of days arranging a new horse and valet to replace the one I had left behind, Gordon and Maj. McGraw turned up with Lieut. Hannah, my cousin. ... We all joined company and went in a body to Greensboro. It was there that Gordon's splendid qualities shone forth in all their brilliancy. Arriving at Greensboro, we reported for service to General Johnston, who told us that just then he had nothing for us to do, rations. If he needed us, he would call on us. but that we might camp near him, and draw our We learned afterward that he was already negotiating with Sherman for surrender. Gordon was our spokesman with Johnston. When the latter and Petersburg before leaving them, and Gordon asked him what was Lee's position at Richmond had explained it to him, he said, "I am surprised he stayed there so long." Whatever President Davis and Congress might have wished or said, fate and have saved his army while there was an Johnston would have left the two cities to their opportunity to save it. Lee, on the contrary, always bowed to the civic authorities. He knew as well as Johnston when his position became untenable, and no doubt he had made it known to the authorities. But Richmond not Petersburg, in its mad whirl of pleasure and frolic, was blind to its fate, and believed that Lee could work miracles and would never give up the capital. incident which thrilled even such experienced solDuring our stay in Greensboro, we witnessed an diers as we were. A mob gathered around the building where the quartermaster and commissary stores were housed. As the mob pressed threatening, the young soldier in charge whirled a keg of powder to the door, smashed in the head with a hatchet, called to his assistant to bring him the poker which he had been heating in the head, he said, "You people had better get away stove, and brandishing its glowing tip over his from here. If you press any nearer, I will blow up the house and everybody near it." They saw that he meant business and retired.

nearer and nearer and seemed more and more

intended to surrender the next day. We bade One day General Johnston informed us that he him good-by, mounted our horses and turned