The Ways of a Man in the Mart: Chapters in the Biography of an American Publisher. Iii

I

A SUCCESSFUL life always means a strong man behind it. Behind every great achievement is a man greater than the achievement. Thus, the fascination in biography, or autobiography, lies not so much in the actual accomplishment as in how it was worked out: that is, in the man and in the processes of his mind. That is what makes the story of a man’s life so valuable: it is a book of experience. And the single factor of greatest value in such a life is invariably the revelation that, the greater the success, the simpler the man behind it. A man must be simple of life, and remain simple, to be a success. How often is it said of a successful man, ‘He is so simple.’ Naturally. If he were not so, success would not be his. No complicated life ever led to a successful result.

Take the case of Cyrus H. K. Curtis, the salient points in whose successful publishing career I have tried to sketch in these Atlantic articles, and you find a man absolutely simple and direct in his mental processes.

We have heard latterly quite a little of the ‘single-track mind,’ and generally the phrase is used in deprecation or derision. It was brought into use by Woodrow Wilson who, curiously enough, found it later aimed against himself at every turn, particularly in his advocacy of the League of Nations. But it has been forgotten that, at an earlier period, the same thought, only it was then called ‘singleness of mind,’ was applied to Abraham Lincoln, because, it was claimed, he could at first see nothing but the preservation of the Union and, later, nothing but the emancipation of the colored race.

A good deal depends upon what is on the track of a single-track mind. If it is something worthless, connoting a contracted vision, a limited horizon, or a mind closed to expansion, that is one thing. But a single-track mind may also imply a mind which works on only one fundamental principle.

It may truly, and I think happily, be said of Mr. Curtis that he has a singletrack mind to a singular degree. It would be difficult to find a man whose mental processes are so perfectly direct and so single of purpose. Mr. Curtis’s problems are rarely complex: he does not allow them to become so. He decides them before they reach the complex stage. He has a remarkable faculty, by this process, of avoiding crises and the complexities which come with crises. A proposition of any sort is either right or wrong, to Mr. Curtis’s mind: it cannot be anything else. There is no middle ground; no ‘trimming’; no wobbling; he thinks straight, and clear, and his decisions are simple and direct. And, by this simple process, his judgments are fair.

It is safe to say that not one in ten of his men in the various departments of his vast establishments have ever seen Mr. Curtis, to say naught of knowing him. Yet his reputation for simple thinking and fair judgment is so well known to them all that they demonstrated their faith in him, in a certain instance, years ago, the parallel of which would be difficult to find in the annals of industry.

A debatable matter had arisen between the men and the company, involving a question of Unionism, which hours of discussion could not seem to straighten out. The deadlock promised to continue when the company suggested to the men its willingness to refer the matter to arbitration and abide by the result. The men agreed; but when it was suggested that each side choose an arbitrator, and that the two so chosen select a third, the spokesman for the men asked: ‘Why three? Why not one, and let that one be Mr. Curtis?’

When the company’s officers recovered from their surprise, they, of course, acquiesced, and a meeting was arranged with Mr. Curtis. Each side explained its point of view and, when all had concluded, Mr. Curtis said: ‘I think I understand. Now what do you expect me to do?’

It was explained that he had been chosen as arbitrator, and that his decision as to which side, the company or the men, was right, would be accepted as final by both sides.

‘That’s easy enough,’ came the instant reply. ‘The men are right.’ And then, with that inevitable look at his watch, which everyone who knows him is so familiar with, and knows so well the meaning of, he asked: ‘Is that all?’

It was; and Mr. Curtis walked out, leaving an astonished lot of men, with an indelible impression on their minds, by the utter simplicity and directness of his decision, made apparently against himself and his own interests, but actually, though unconsciously, one of the most far-reaching decisions, in point of morale, ever rendered by him in favor of himself and his company. To him it meant nothing that his decision was against his company: his simple process was to listen, weigh the facts, and decide without a moment’s hesitation and without a single word of explanation. He was asked to do what to him was a very simple thing, and he did it. And I question very much whether, when he reads of the incident here, he will so much as recall it.

‘It can’t be right and wrong,’ I heard him say once to one of his executives, who was explaining a matter which seemed to him to have in it. both qualities. ‘ It must be either right or wrong. Which is it?’

That is a single-track mind in its best sense, and it is easy to understand, through it, the mental case which is always present with Mr. Curtis, and which anyone in his presence instinctively feels. He looks out straight and clear at you and at the world, and is absolutely unafraid of problems, since his mental processes dissipate them and leave the road perfectly open and unobstructed ahead of him.

His reasoning is never complicated by a wilderness of words. Constitutionally a silent, man, he uses very few words. I do not know of a man whose vocabulary is so carefully limited: he uses fewer words than any man I know. He seems to have no use for more: he expresses himself adequately, but in the fewest possible words, and always the simplest words. He is not a linguist, and knows no language save his own. His simple mental processes are, of course, at the bottom of this trait: he has all the language he has use for.

He will never ask, ‘How are you?’ when he sees you. He sees you, judges for himself, and hence, to his mind, the question is unnecessary, and it remains unasked. The social amenities of the occasion do not enter into his reckoning. Not for a moment does this imply that he is unsociable; on the contrary, he is sociability personified — loves his fellow men and delights to mix with them; he will joyously attend two, and sometimes three, public dinners on a single evening and enjoy himself hugely at each; but the simplicity of his mind docs not take in the spoken social persiflage. There seems to be no place for it to rest.

No man places so little value on his opinions, and hence he rarely expresses any. During all the years I have known him, I have heard him criticize only one man in public service. Rumors and gossip about people known or unknown to him he abhors; irritation and impatience become immediately apparent in the presence of anyone who repeats derogatory rumors about another. His estimates of people are always kindly, even where his friends know they are unjustified. It may truly be said of Mr. Curtis, in the fullest sense, that he bears no personal malice to anyone. He accepts everyone as his friend, and even where he has been proved otherwise, sometimes to the Biblical seventy times seven, he is slow to believe the worst, and is inclined to palliate. Even if he arrives at the conclusion which his friends have arrived at months before, he never condemns; he merely, but very effectually, shuns. And yet, even in such cases, I have seen him go out of his way to seek out such a person in some assembly, and chat with him as if nothing had ever happened, to all appearances absolutely forgetful of the past. He, literally, goes through life according to the sign that a friend of mine has on his office door: —

II

Mr. Curtis’s habits of work are peculiarly his own. They express the man with startling clearness. They are as simple and direct as are his mental processes.

His impatience of detail is the chief characteristic in his work. ‘Details are necessary, of course,’ he says, ‘ but not for me. I plan and direct; I employ people to work out details.’ And he rarely concerns himself with them. Hand him a financial statement, and his eye immediately and instinctively goes to the bottom of the column. ‘ What is the result?’ he always asks. ‘I am only interested in results.’ When a result is unfavorable to his mind, he will lay the statement aside, to be taken up at a later time. Then he will analyze it, and, with an instinct as true as it is quick, his mind finds and fixes the salient point of failure.

He can master detail if he chooses, but he does not choose, when he can possibly avoid it. Give him a paper that seems lengthy to him, — and almost all papers have that look to him unless it is all on one side of one sheet, — he will look at it, lay it down, or hand it back with the question: ‘What is the gist of this?’ He is always after the main point. Absolutely unargumentative in his nature, he is impatient of the arguments of others. His business conferences are usually brief. He makes them so. This trait is so well understood by those associated with him that they are trained to bring before him only the essential points of a problem. His solution is almost always immediate, equally brief and to the point. Then his manner is one of instant dismissal, and he is ready for the next caller or question.

The result is that he never seems hurried. He works invariably with a clean desk before him, reading, or smoking, in a leisurely way, as if he had nothing on his mind, or for his hands to do. But he is instantly ready for any question to be brought up to him.

He spends very little time, comparatively speaking, in his office. The result is that he avoids scores of unnecessary appointments and time-consuming visitors. He is constantly on the go, now in this city, then in that city, seeing this new building or plant, meeting this or that man. Peculiarly sensitive to impressions, he mixes a great deal with men, and is always quietly appraising and cataloguing them for some opening which may occur in his organizations. He is a strong believer in getting about and seeing what is going on in other cities, and hearing what other men are saying. He is constantly adjuring his executives to ‘get away from your desks, and knock up against people. Hear what the other fellow is saying.’

As nimble as a young man, he gets around very fast and, during the course of a year, travels considerably and covers a deal of territory. He tarries very briefly in an office: his calls are always of the briefest duration. ‘ I learned long ago,’ he says, ‘not to give the other fellow a chance to rise first. I am always up and out before he thinks of it.’ In this way he is a great conserver of time. He sees and learns and absorbs as much in fifteen minutes as another man does in an hour. His mind is ever on the alert; it is photographic in its registry of impressions.

His bestowal of confidence upon his executives is unquestionably one of the secrets of his later success. He is slow to criticize, where the need arises, and prefers to let the man find out his own mistakes. ‘Better for him,’he says laconically. If he is slow to criticize, he is likewise slow to praise. This hesitancy is not due to a lack of appreciation: he is simply not given to it. His silence is his commendation, and an executive must accept this negative approbation of his work. When he criticizes, he rarely does it directly: almost invariably, he simply expresses his view, and intends that, the person interested shall apply it to the point involved.

His patience with others, their faults or shortcomings, is proverbial. As one of his trusted lieutenants said of him.

in discussing a man who had failed Mr. Curtis almost to the Biblical limit of seventy times seven: ‘I never saw a man who can so complacently and so consistently sit on a lid, and patiently stay there.’ But when his patience runs out, when he is certain of his ground, he jumps with the agility of a cat, and once through with a man, he is completely through with him. There is never any doubt, where Mr. Curtis stands on a question, or in his relation to another man.

Few men live more within themselves than Mr. Curtis. So completely is this true of him, that he may be said not to have a single confidant. He discloses his plans to no one, unless asked. Then he will discuss them frankly. But if he is left to himself, no one ever knows what is going on in his mind until he has actually embarked on the plan. He never asks advice in the same way that other men do. He reads, listens, and absorbs, and what he can use he adds to the plan in his mind. It is not that he thinks advice is valueless: his difficulty in reaching expression seems to make him incapable of explaining an idea — even one which may have been in his mind for months. It is clear to him, but he has difficulty in making it. clear to others.

His calmness amid the most highly charged surroundings is marvelous. Everyone around him may lose his head. Mr. Curtis never loses his. He sits silent, the picture of placidity. He lets everybody else do the talking. Only when his turn comes, or when he is asked, or when everyone has finished, will he speak; and even at such times, only in the fewest words. He has been known to attend three successive board meetings of a bank of which he is a director without uttering a word. ’Nothing to talk about,’ he explained. ’Why use up time?’ Naturally, when he does speak, he is carefully listened to. But it is always to the point, with never a word wasted. It is a curious mental habit, too, that he never prefixes an opinion with ’I think’ or ‘My opinion is’: the opinion is given directly. ’If I say a thing, it stands to reason it is my opinion. Why say what is obvious?’ was his comment once on this trait.

Once having expressed his opinion, he never argues or combats the opinion of others. If a matter is decided against his own opinion, he accepts the decision. No man I have ever known is so entirely free of the combative or argumentative spirit. He absolutely lives the rule of ‘Live and let live.’

His ears are always on the alert. One day he was riding on a very old elevator in a building that he owns, when a passenger criticized it and said: ’Old man Curtis ought to fix this thing. There ’ll be a big accident here some day.’

When the passenger got out, Mr. Curtis got out, too, and said: ‘I am “old man Curtis.” How about this elevator?’

The man gasped with astonishment, but, on being assured that Mr. Curtis was out for information, gave him his views.

The next day the elevator was ‘closed for repairs.’

When his great Curtis Building was being erected, he came down after hours one evening, and attempted to duck under the guard-rails and see how the interior work was progressing. The watchman, not knowing who he was, barred his way.

‘No one is allowed in there,’ he said.

Mr. Curtis looked at the man, and seeing that he did not recognize him, merely said, ‘All right,’ and went home, without disclosing his identity.

Despite all his success, and the service at his call, Mr. Curtis has never lost the habit of doing things for himself. He will rarely ring his bell for a girl or woman to come to him: invariably he goes to them. He rarely summons one of his executives: he goes to his office. Rather than ring for an elevator, and wait for it, he walks up and down the four flights of stairs to his office. When he plays golf, it never occurs to him to engage a caddy: he carries his own bag of clubs. It is a constant comment of his employees in the Curtis Building, that ‘Mr. Curtis walks in and out here as if he were nobody.’ He stepped into one of his elevators one evening, and the boy said, ‘I’ll take you right down, Mr. Curtis, and get these other people later.’ Each floor had its load of employees waiting to go home.

‘Why?’ asked Mr. Curtis, in complete surprise.

One of the reasons why men like to work for and with Mr. Curtis is his willingness to give a man the fullest chance for his greatest development. ‘The bigger he becomes,’ he smilingly says, ‘the better for the business.’ But his point of view in this respect is not as mercenary as he would have people believe. He actually creates conditions to develop his men, and then glories in the fact that they do develop. He is constantly developing himself, and admires the same development in others. All the time he keeps in the background as if he were not there. He dislikes the limelight of publicity, and rigorously shuns it. Any attempt to push him into it invariably ends in failure.

He is entirely free of the domineering spirit. He wants his organizations to dominate their field, but personally he has not a trace of domination in his nature. On the contrary, he is scarcely ever in evidence. But he is always ready to push one of his young men forward. He tests first; then he trusts. And when he does trust, his trust is absolute and complete.

He loves business, — big business, and the bigger it is, the better he likes it. You cannot frighten him with the bigness of a proposition: the larger its proportions, the more he is interested. ‘That’s it,’he will say to some sizable idea or large expenditure, which would make the average man blanch; ‘that has some size to it.’ But the proposition must, be sound. On the slightest flaw in it his mind pounces in a moment. He is an uncomfortable man to whom to submit a dubious proposition. It is rarely done. He does n’t attract that kind.

His rules in his business are very simple.

To his editors he says, ‘Give the public the best. It knows. The cost is secondary.’

To his circulation managers he says, ‘Keep the magazines before the public and make it easy for the public to get them.’

To his advertising men he says, ‘We know we give advertisers their money’s worth, but it is up to you to prove it to them.’

When one of his executives comes to him to solve a problem which he believes the executive should solve for himself, he is quick to say, ‘That’s your job, not mine.’ In this way he develops his men. He refuses to allow them to borrow his mind. ‘You have a mind of your own,’ he says. ‘ Use it.'

There are two kinds of men who, in Mr. Curtis’s estimation, never amount to anything, and for these he has no use: the one kind, those who cannot do as they are told; the other kind, those who can do nothing else.

One explanation of his business energy, the clarity of his vision, his sprightliness, his tolerance, and his breadth of interest in men and measures may be found in the fact that he never has become self-centred, and never has departed from a sane, wellbalanced course by overdoing anything.

One of his cardinal rules in business, which he laid down for himself early in life and from which he has never departed, is not to invest his money in any enterprise in which he is not directly interested. ‘Too many men have slipped up there,’ he says. ‘They make money in a business they understand, and then invest it in some business which they do not understand. A shoemaker should stick to his last.’ And no matter how attractive may be the offer, how ‘sure’ the investment, Mr. Curtis will never even consider it. When he reaches the point of surplus in an enterprise, when others might take their money out, and invest it in other lines, Mr. Curtis puts his back into one of his periodicals, and strengthens or expands it. For gambling, stock speculation, betting, he has not a moment’s patience. They never are allowed to come within his ken.

Mr. Curtis has no set rules which have guided his life — no ‘motto.’ He has a few aphorisms, which aptly describe him and his methods. ‘Yesterday ended last night,’ is one of his favorites, meaning that he never looks back: his mind is always on the present and in the future. ‘Capitalize your errors,’ is another. ‘There is no fun in doing things that are easy,’ is another; and then he will add: ‘The real sport is in doing the things that are hard. That is a game worth playing.’ Then his eyes sparkle and snap.

III

Mr. Curtis is now in his seventythird year, but in appearance and activity he belies his years. He is as light as a kitten on his feet. Having walked so much as a boy, carrying newspapers, he has never lost the habit, and walks where other men ride. Few men use their automobiles less. His attitude toward his age is one of the surest ways of keeping his youth. He pays no attention to it. He has no silly notions about concealing his age, but keeps his mind alert, plays golf, and walks, to keep himself physically well, cats carefully and sparingly, and keeps his interests fresh and varied. He has the wisdom and balance of his years, but with an eternally youthful spirit — youthful in the desire for achievement.

There was a period when Mr. Curtis had long-protracted illnesses in his family, and for years one or two nurses were regular members of the household.

‘Never have I seen a man in a home,’ was the unanimous verdict of these nurses, ‘who is so even-tempered. He is absolutely the same on the last day of a year that he is on the first day.’

Which characterization is unerringly true. I have lived and worked with Mr. Curtis for over thirty years, in the closest association possible, and never have I known a man of such equable temperament — equable to a point almost uncanny, for he remains absolutely placid under the most trying conditions. There must, of course, be times when he is ruffled, but he never shows it. What irritates other people does not seem, in the least, to disturb the surface placidity of his nature. If he is worried, he keeps it to himself, and one has to know him long and ultimately to detect his times of perplexity.

His sense of humor is unfailing, and his brown eyes are almost always twinkling. They can snap, but it is only on rare occasions.

His nature is essentially spiritual, although he makes absolutely no display of outward and visible signs. When he occupied his first home of any pretension, in Camden, New Jersey, and sat down for his first meal, he surprised his family by saying that they had much to be thankful for, and suggesting oral grace. From that day to this, each meal at the Curtis home has been opened with simple thanksgiving.

His love of simplicity and dislike of formality were well illustrated in an incident that occurred when President Harding appointed him as a member of the Commission to represent the United States, in company with Secretary of State Hughes, at the Centennial Exposition at Rio de Janeiro last summer. Mr. Curtis looked forward to visiting the Brazilian capital with the keenest interest, until, some four days before his scheduled sailing, he discovered that he would have to take with him, among his belongings, a frock-coat and high silk hat, for official occasions. All pleasure in the trip vanished from that moment, and he discussed with seriousness the question whether he would disarrange the plans of the Commission at such a late clay if he were to withdraw. ‘Fancy going around in such togs!’ was his comment; ‘and in summer weather, too!’ His irritation and disgust with diplomatic usage was really delicious to watch, but it was thoroughly characteristic of the simplicity of his nature. Fortunately, and unfortunately, family illness at the last moment compelled him to cancel the trip; and his relief, so far as the diplomatic habiliments were concerned, knew no bounds.

He is punctiliously neat in his dress and most fastidious about his person. He is careful of his habits and regulates his eating to suit his years. His wants are of the simplest, his needs are few. No picture is more characteristic than that of the man seated in his diningroom, almost regal in its appointments, eating a bowl of milk and gruel for supper!

He forgets names, but he never forgets faces. As a little boy, he was taken by his mother into an ice-cream parlor in Portland, Maine, and treated to a plate of ice-cream. It cost six cents, but he did not know it. The ice-cream tasted good to the boy, and the next day he went in, ate a dish of the icecream, and put two cents on the table — all he had. A Negro had waited on him, and was furious. Forty years later, Mr. Curtis was in Portland, in the winter, and saw a Negro shoveling snow. He accosted him and asked if he once worked in Robinson’s restaurant. The Negro said that he had, and the year corresponded with the ice-cream incident. He recalled it to the Negro, who did not remember it. ‘Well, here are the four cents,’ said Mr. Curtis, as he gave the astonished Negro a dollar bill and walked away.

A day came when Mr. Curtis was to be disillusioned in a friendship. He was slow to concede it; in fact, he never did, in words, to anyone; but it was patent to his family that the realization had come to him. One of his strongest principles of honesty in thinking and action was involved, and he could not give way, much as he valued the friendship at stake. He decided, as only he could, to stand by his principles, and the friendship was shattered. Then came the only remark he was ever heard to make in comment on the friend or the situation. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are some things more precious than individual friendships, precious as those are.’

His disinclination to accept any tribute to himself or to what he has done was aptly illustrated on one of his visits to London. He was to have luncheon with Lord Northcliffe in the London Times office. As he entered the building, one of the editors met him to take him to Lord Northcliffe’s office.

‘Nice compliment they’ve paid you, Mr. Curtis,’remarked the editor, ‘raising the American flag over the Times building in your honor. First time it has ever been done, you know.’

‘Yes, very nice,’ returned Mr. Curtis, his eyes all a-sparkle.

As he was leaving, Lord Northcliffe’s secretary, Sir Campbell Stuart, spoke of the flag.

Mr. Curtis looked at him, and, seeing that the secretary was serious, he asked: ’What’s the joker?’

’Joke?’ answered Sir Campbell. ‘There’s no joke. Did n’t you see the American flag flying over the building as you came in? ’

Still unbelieving, Mr. Curtis looked up cautiously when he got outside the building, and there, true enough, was the American flag flying over the building of the Thunderer for the first time in its history.

‘Thought all along they were joshing me,’ was Mr. Curtis’s only comment.

Mr. Curtis is known for the large and long cigars which he smokes; and, as he is often seen with a cigar, those who do not know him think he is a heavy smoker. But, in fact, he is as temperate in this habit as he is in everything else. He rarely smokes more than onehalf of a cigar. Having got what he deems the best part of it, he throws the rest away. So, in reality, he smokes just one-half of the apparent quantity of his indulgence.

His method of smoking is indicative of his character. He allows nothing to master him; he carries nothing to excess. He is temperate in whatever he does, extracting the best out of any pleasure without tasting its dregs by carrying it beyond the point of moderation.

In his associations he is essentially democratic. He mixes with all kinds of people. He finds the same degree of pleasure — greater, if anything — in attending the ball of the carriers of his newspapers, and dancing with the wives and daughters of his employees, that he does in dining with the Duke of York at a formal British dinner.

Mr. Curtis asks that his sports shall have activity in them. Yachting he adores, particularly in rough weather.

Golf he enjoys because he can walk. Horseback he enjoys because of its motion. These sports suit his active mind and active body. He cannot, therefore, understand how anyone can sit quietly in a boat and fish. That is beyond his comprehension.

A friend persuaded him once to embark on his only fishing trip. It was arranged that the party should sleep on board Mr. Curtis’s yacht, be called at three-thirty, have breakfast at four o’clock, and leave so as to be on the fishing-grounds at five. The friend was not given to early rising, and Mr. Curtis, thinking himself secure in this fact, assumed that the early arrangements would not go through.

But at three-thirty the next morning he was called by his steward. He went to his friend’s stateroom, found him up and about, and asked: ‘You really mean it, do you ? ’

Mr. Curtis dressed, ate his breakfast in silence, and allowed himself to be taken to the fishing-grounds. For two hours he sat in the boat, with indifferent luck so far as catching anything was concerned. At seven o’clock it began to rain. Mr. Curtis’s eyes brightened with a gleam of hope as he said; ‘It’s raining,’ and began to reel in.

‘Now, there’ll be some fishing,’ said the friend; and put on a rain-coat.

‘You don’t mean to say that you are going to sit here in the rain and keep on fishing?’ asked Mr. Curtis, in blank despair.

‘Sure,’ said the friend. ‘Now the fish will bite.’

‘All right,’ said Mr. Curtis as he looked at the shore. ‘You can have them. Let me get on shore. I ’m going home.’

‘But there’s no vehicle. We have sent it back,’ argued the friend.

‘Never mind about the vehicle,’ answered Mr. Curtis.

On shore he was put. And a happier man never walked six miles to his home.

‘Never again,’ he said when he had readied home. ‘Once is enough.’

IV

It is now a little more than sixty years since the little boy of twelve, in his Portland home, was first awakened to his earning capacity by his mother’s remark. During that life-span, he developed his ideal, and kept it always alive in his mind. And back of it he put his will-power. Thus, early in life, he anticipated the auto-suggestion theory of Coué, that thought must precede determination; that the imagination must first implant the seed for the mind to work upon.

Cyrus Curtis did not do what so many men have done, to their physical and mental sorrow: develop the willpower first, giving the will no definite task of the imagination to carry to fruition. He was first the dreamer — then the doer. His ambition soared to leadership, and then his practical labor laid each foundation-stone joyfully and hopefully: he sought favors of no one: all he asked was that a fair field be given him. And the world, seeing that he meant to prosper and was willing to work to his goal, gave him, as it always does to the man of honest purpose and energy, the chance to make good.

It was his vision that gave to him the sense of joyousness of future accomplishment. It gave him at once that correct interpretation of business: the mental picture, and the soulful conviction that it is a wonderful game, to be played with all the confidence of buoyancy and enthusiasm, with a firm belief in human nature and one’s self.

Anxious moments had he, but his spirit never faltered. When others showed a wish-bone, he showed a backbone. He actually did, where others dreamed, and always joyously, always full of a happy, light-hearted confidence. Where others faltered, he was firm, because, while they had the vision of a task, he had the vision of a game, to be as carefully and skillfully worked out as the most difficult game of chess. The forces which entered into his life were as the kings and queens and pawns and bishops. Full of confidence, he played the game.

Of men whose lives are written into the annals of American business, few there are who represent to such a marked degree the truth of the romance in business: of the thrills of adventure to be met and felt at every turn. Where other men have accepted their business lives as filled with dull, dry routine, Mr. Curtis has ever felt the enthusiasm and zest of accomplishment.

Hundreds of men, whose business affairs are not of the same magnitude, or whose problems are not so complex, as those of Mr. Curtis, have broken under the strain. Not he. Hundreds of men have made the bonds of business so heavy that they have found time or strength for nothing else, and have worn themselves out. Not he. Hundreds of business men have become heavy in body and mind with the years. Not he. Business has not enslaved him. He is master of his branch of it, and finds in it the spur, the delight of it, the thrill and adventure of it.

And what is the result of this wise interpretation of business?

He comes out of the game fresh and alert, after sixty years of participation in it; his mind keen and alert; with a vitality not only equal, but superior, to some of his executives who are many years his juniors.

‘The youngest man in the whole outfit, in thought and in action,’ said Lord Northcliffe after he had met all the Curtis executives.

He is.