The Contributors' Column--August Atlantic

The delicate art of Anne Douglas Sedgwick (Mrs. Basil de Sélincourt) is shown at its highest in the story with which this number opens. In forthcoming issues we shall print a two-part story from the same hand. Lawrence Pearsall Jacks, always a welcome contributor to the Atlantic, is Principal of Manchester College, Oxford; he has been editor of the Hibbert Journal since its foundation in 1902. Lord Dunsany (Edward J. M. D. Plunkett), eighteenth Baron Dunsany in the Irish peerage, is the holder of one of the most ancient titles in the United Kingdom, the barony having been created in 1462. He is a nephew of Sir Horace Plunkett, one of the most prominent figures in the attempts now being made to settle the ’Irish question.’ A poet and playwright of singularly original fancy, Lord Dunsany has, on either side of the water, a following which grows steadily in numbers and enthusiasm.

Lieutenant John Richards, a grandson of the late Julia Ward Howe, is, when not in khaki, a master at St. Paul’s School, Concord, N.H. John Masefield, poet of adventure, lover of the sea, turns nowadays not infrequently to the contemplative quiet of the sonnet. William Harris Arnold, during his long connection with the booktrade, became well known as a member of the fraternity of collectors of rare books, and in that capacity made valuable contributions to bibliography, in the First Report of a Book-Collector and A Record of Books and Letters. Of the latter Mr. A. Edward Newton says, in his Amenities of Book-Collecting and Kindred Affections: —

He did the booksellers a good turn and helped collectors justify their extravagance to their wives by publishing some years ago A Record of Books and Letters. Mr. Arnold devoted the leisure of six years to forming a collection of books, with perseverance and intelligence; then he suddenly stopped and turned over to Bangs & Company, the auctioneers, the greater part of his collection, and awaited the result with interest. . . . In his Record he gives the date of acquisition, together with the cost of each item . . . and . . . the selling price. He also states whether the item was bought of a bookseller or collector, or at auction. He had spent a trifle over ten thousand dollars, and his profit almost exactly equaled his outlay. I said his profit, but I have used the wrong word. His profit was the pleasure he received in discovering, buying, and owning the treasures which for a time were in his possession. The difference in actual money between what he paid and what he received, some ten thousand dollars, was the reward for his industry and courage in paying what doubtless many people supposed to be extravagant prices for his books.

Dr. John Rickman, an English physician, relates further incidents of his experience while practising his profession in the villages of the Buzuluk Department of the Samara Government in Russia. Mrs. Alice Meynell, an English poet and essayist of high distinction, is too infrequent a contributor to this magazine. Of the halfdozen poems of the war which will permanently enrich the anthologies, the Atlantic would place her lines to Edith Cavell very near the top. From his happy contribution to this issue of the magazine, one would hardly guess that Edgar J. Goodspeed is Professor of Biblical and Patristic Greek in the University of Chicago — a new proof, were others lacking, of the mellowing influence of the classical tradition. At last accounts Captain Louis Graves was still with the American Army of Occupation in Germany. ‘Emily Dickinson’ is the sixth in Gamaliel Bradford’s series of ‘Portraits of American Women.’ Miss Charlotte Fitzhugh Morris, whose story, ‘Uplift,’ in the Atlantic for October, 1916, our readers will remember, writes to the editor from Baltimore: —

I have been interested in factory work, both as a worker and as an inspector, since I wrote ‘Uplift’ I also roomed with a certain lady, whose story is as I have tried to suggest, with the exception that, after she was taken from the factory, she shortly went insane.

Jean Kenyon Mackenzie, by whose years of devoted service as a missionary in the Cameroons the Atlantic has profited so abundantly, is now at her home in New York. Because of the necessarily personal character of his story, the Professor’s name is withheld. It is an entertaining circumstance that the new and firsthand portrait of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette should see the light in an American magazine, through the kindness of a reader. Of the letters copied by her greataunt, Miss Hodgkinson, our Dunedin correspondent, writes: ‘Capitals are very freely used, sometimes for verbs and adjectives as well as for nouns. ... I have copied as exactly as possible, only once or twice supplying a stop where the sense seemed to demand it. ... I may add that I am a native of New Zealand, and have never been in the old world.’ Miss Hodgkinson holds the degree of M.A. from the University of New Zealand. T. Walter Gilkyson, an erstwhile major in the Information Section of the Ordnance Department, American Expeditionary Force, has returned to the practice of the law in Philadelphia. He writes: —

The article that I sent you is the first that I have ever submitted to a magazine in my life, and to have it accepted by you is, to me, entirely amazing. I attribute it to the fact that we have at home bound volumes of the Atlantic from its first beginnings; my grandfather placed it upon a pinnacle from which it has never been removed.

Charles F. G. Masterman, an English Liberal statesman, sat in the House of Commons from 1906 until the general election of 1918. He was a member of Mr. Asquith’s Government, as Under-Secretary of State, Home Department, and Financial Secretary to the Treasury, 1908-1914, and as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, with a seat in the Cabinet, from July, 1914, until February, 1915. He was also Chairman of the National Insurance Commission from 1912 to 1915. Simeon Strunksy, of the New York Evening Pud. represented that journal at the Peace Conference in Paris. Albert Mansbridge, who has devoted his life to the education of laboring men, is secretary of the Workmen’s Educational Association, with whose purpose and achievement his paper largely deals. In the last years of the war he was engaged at Cheshunt College, Cambridge, in connection with the training-school for Australian Army Education officers, and has more recently been called upon by the British army to train officers in the teaching of Civics.

Dr. Arthur Little’s famous paper gave widespread satisfaction, but it seems that the author did unwitting injustice to the Bogalusans. Bogalusa (Louisiana) is not for a season, but for all time. ’Many towns,’ says Dr. Little, '. . . are wholly dependent, on one or more lumber operations. When this is gone, the people must move away for lack of employment.’ This is true of many Southern communities, but not of Bogalusa. The Bogalusans see beyond their noses’ ends. Many industries are being fostered there, especially (we are assured) the manufacture, from the small pines which grow in the wake of lumbering operations, of the fibre board and similar products from which fibre containers are made.

In every village community which thinks it sees in itself the subject of the Villager’s Portrait in the June Atlantic, there is strong and not unnatural emotion. The truth is, of course, that the Village is typical and imaginary: a detail is taken from here, an incident borrowed from there, adapted and altered. As a matter of fact, eight villages in four states supplied the author with his ammunition, which many readers find surprisingly accurate, and others wild and dangerous. On our part, we should have taken it for granted that the Atlantic would not offer a wanton and gratuitous insult to any community. We do, however, greatly regret the confused impression of the words which we used in the Column. ‘His name,’ we wrote, ‘he withholds, if only for his neighbors’ sake.’ What we meant was, of course, that by reason of his sharp strictures on New England civilization, it was only natural that his neighbors might think that some of his color was local. At any rate, we should have spoken more plainly and to the point.

It is the happy lot of Atlantic authors (we do not have the Villager in mind) to be appreciated. ‘The Return of the Woman Homesteader’ brought many welcoming notes, of which we select one.

BUFFALO, NEW YORK,May 5, 1919.
MY DEAR MRS. STEWART, —
The May Atlantic gave me a thrill of genuine delight as I read ’The Return of the Homesteader.’ And so I am giving myself another pleasure in writing you. From the first to the last number, your letters gave me such whiffs of pure mountain air, and such rest of body and soul, I had longings to write you my gratitude. Truthfully, I ought to say, unrest of body and soul, for the stirrings were deep to go and be some sort of a ‘homesteader’ in that free country.
Buffalo is not my permanent address, but here, or there, I have had lasting glimpses, and more, of what real living can be in the far country. All of this you have given — and I wanted to thank you.

Sincerely,

R—.

The following first-hand testimony in corroboration of Dr. Kellogg’s analyses of conditions in Germany will interest our readers.

To THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

DEAR SIR, —
I have just read with keen interest Vernon Kellogg’s article in the June Atlantic; and the paragraph dealing with the general unsatisfactoriness of the numerous German substitutes invented during the war tempted me to send you this small piece of evidence which I gathered in Strasbourg in December, 1918. I was sent there by the American Red Cross to meet the wounded American prisoners returning from Germany, and due to pass through the French hospitals in Strasbourg on their way to our own base hospitals in France.
The French had but recently taken over the German hospitals. The buildings were excellent, and the sanitary arrangements modern and adequate. The lack of linen and cotton had been cleverly met by the use of paper. We had a plentiful supply of paper bandages and dressings and woven paper sheets and bed-linen. These last were so strong that they could stand two or three washings, and although they were rather harsh and uninviting, the patients found them warm and not uncomfortable. So far we were forced to give our enemies credit for courage and ingenuity in meeting a difficult situation.
In the pharmacy, however, was revealed an example of that perverted Boche mentality which, even after these four long years, is still, to our Anglo-Saxon minds, amazing and unbelievable.
The Germans were without many drugs, and the pharmacy was filled with Ersätz. The French chemist’s first duty on taking over the pharmacy was to analyze his stock. This, he told me, was one of the most interesting and enlightening experiences he had ever had. Every Ersätz resembled, to an astonishing degree, its original, so far as outward appearances went, and its ingredients were chosen solely with this object in view; the medicinal properties of the ingredients had been counted of secondary importance. — What the German chemist had succeeded in doing was a chemical tour de force, which won the scientific applause of his French successor, but gave no comfort or relief to his patient.
Such things make one wonder how we can mentally and morally prepare ourselves to understand this revealed nation in the days to come when we shall meet as members of the same world.
E. R. C.

The circulation manager of the Atlantic has a phrase that always pleases us — ‘untapped reservoirs.’ It has a warm, encouraging sound; suggesting in its hearty way some hundreds of thousands of new subscribers. Sometimes we are incredulous. A good many different kinds of people read the Atlantic now. Conductors and brakemen began to read it years ago, and last year the plumbers started in (we can prove it by their letters). Now we are at work on the motormen and plasterers. So when the circulation manager appeared this morning with a suggestion for a brand new ‘untapped reservoir,’ we were skeptical. But the manager had evidence.

‘Gentleman Hamby says so, and he knows.'

’You propose to circularize all professional gentlemen ?'

’Gentleman Hamby is n’t a professional gentleman; he’s a professional burglar!’

Then the story came out. Gentleman Hamby is in trouble. He was born with a golden spoon in his mouth. He pawned it and sold the ticket. Then he borrowed money from sundry unwilling acquaintances, both indoors and out, and one especially unfortunate day he killed a man.

Of course, we were sorry for Gentleman Hamby; but what had this to do with ’untapped reservoirs’?

‘Why, Hamby sits all day in his cell reading the Atlantic! A solicitous young lady from the New York Telegram went down to comfort him; but he would not be comforted and wanted to get back to his favorite magazine. It is all down in the Telegram, in print. Now, if Gentleman Hamby feels that way, he is n’t alone in his class—see?’

We saw. That reservoir is to be tapped this month. Details later.

Apropos of M. Romain RoHand’s essay, the following is pertinent:—

RAVINIA, 111., June 5, 1919. EDITOR, THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY —

DEAR SIR, —

’Go to the Ant’ is an enlightening essay. I was walking recently and saw two ants pulling, at the front end, a piece of dried vegetation, about an inch and a quarter long, across the sidewalk, when they came to what was to them a wide and deep crevice. They pulled and pulled, but could not get it across; then one of them ran away, evidently seeking help; he did that three times; the third time he ran to the back end and pushed. In that way they pulled and pushed the log across the cañon.

There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all. Where it cometh all things are, And it cometh everywhere.

Yours truly,

C. DANBY.

The authors of letters in this Column are apt to enlarge their acquaintance. An impressionable correspondent of ours voices his satisfaction over the phenomenon.

TILLAMOOK, OREGON, May 20, 1919,

By the way, that letter you pub. from me in the Mar. number has brot me a lot of letters from people. Makes me feel almost like an ‘honest-to-gee-whizz’ author. One of them is a mighty classy girl, too. Selah!

READ BAIN.

Atlantic readers are widely scattered: here is a bit of correspondence from Siberia, written March 27, 1919, by an American working there for the American Government, and received May 20.

Russia was quite a change from Mesopotamia. A hundred and twenty above in the shade, — and no shade, — to seventy below in the sun, — and no sun, — is a gentle variation of climate such as makes Minnesota blush. The civilization, or lack of it, is almost as much of a contrast. Here we have an autocracy in ruins and the people dumfounded, like sheep without a shepherd; and there we had the wild, half-savage Arabs who never have recognized a ruler. This is the most pitiful situation. One cannot help being sympathetic with all parties, and yet there are so few whose present ideals one can sympathize with. The physical misery of the poor in Siberia is not as great as you might expect or as has been pictured. In old Russia it is probably greater, and everyone there is poor now. But few people realize the mental feelings of the once aristocratic and patriotic intelligentsia. I believe Russians love their country as much or more than we love ours and are just as proud naturally. Many now feel that they are disgraced before the world. And they feel hopeless about the future. It is as if a great giant with a marvelous physique, and full of life, suddenly discovered that he was a victim of leprosy. I think that is a fair illustration for Russia. And there is only one cure, however many others they may try — Death and Regeneration. And Russia is going through her death-pangs now, and the pity of it is that so many of her neighbors make fun of her death-struggle. Russia will be born again, and will have her contribution to make to the world. I hope the people of the United States will stand by as friends. If I remember my history correctly, Russia was one of the two nations of the world that stood by the United States when we went through our darkest hour in 1861-65. We have a chance to pay off our national debt now. France we have remembered for Lafayette and 1775, let us remember Russia for 1861, That is my message from Russia.

The Atlantic is edited with the very special object of extending its influence by enlisting the attention of public men, lecturers, and especially clergymen. One of the great satisfactions of our work has been the response from clergymen, and we hope that no domestic influence will prevent the writer of the following letter from quoting Mr. Clutton-Brock in his pulpit.

July 4, 1919.

THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC

DEAR SIR, —

My wife inquired only the other day whether I was aware how regularly I referred to the Atlantic Monthly from the pulpit. I admitted the fact, and maintained that there was a reason. For whether I hold with your contributors on religious subjects, or take exception, — and I have done both with some vigor, — I observe that they are usually talking about real issues, and in a way to provoke thought; and if that is not matter for sermons, what is, pray?

Imagine, then, ray regret at being thus gently taken to task at this of all junctures, when I take up the current number and discover Mr. Clutton-Brock’s singularly quotable article! Happily many of the congregation will read it for themselves, but what restraint I shall have to exercise to keep from adorning my plain tale with the flashes of his illumination!

‘Could not the author of the “Wistful Army” in the Contributors’ Club for May,’ queries a correspondent, ‘have remembered the great typical soldier of English, literature — brave, tender-hearted, and simpleminded as any who ever fought for any land?' and his equally well-painted follower, truest and faithfulest of squires? A word on Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim would have been in place.

ATLANTIC READERS — ATTENTION !

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