The Contributors' Column--June Atlantic

It is disheartening and useless to speculate on the very different state of affairs which would now prevail in Europe if the countrymen of André Chéradame had given heed to his tireless warnings against the menace of Pan-Germanism. For nineteen years he strove to bring his message to ears that could not or would not hear, and was ridiculed for his pains. Now, with the Pan-German programme dangerously near realization, and the issue as yet undecided, he tells Americans what part their country was to play in the Prussian scheme for world-domination. For them, at any rate, the admonition does not come too late. Of peculiar significance is the following passage, taken from M. Chéradame’s ‘ Le Complot Pan-Germaniste Demasqué ’:

‘In 1898, before Manila, the German RearAdmiral von Goetzen, a friend of the Kaiser, said to the American Admiral Dewey: “In about fifteen years my country will begin a great war. . . . Some months after we have done our business in Europe we shall take New York and probably Washington, and we shall keep them for a time. . . . We shall extract one or two billions of dollars from New York and other towns.”’

Edward Sanford Martin, serenest of our political philosophers, can be relied upon for judgment tempered with like sympathy when domestic problems are the subject of his contemplation.

Before he came to occupy the chair of Politics at Princeton, Henry Jones Ford had a long journalistic career as editorial writer for some of the great Eastern dailies. His dispassionate analysis of the pacifist position provides interesting contrast with the treatment accorded to the same theme by Charles E. Park, pastor of the First Unitarian Church of Boston, though it is hard to predict which of the two papers will rouse more vigorous discussion. Margaret Prescott Montague, who spends the larger part of each year in West Virginia, has come to be one of the best known of this magazine’s contributors. When ‘ Mr. Squem ’ burst into the editor’s office in all the vigor of his striped clothes and energetic vocabulary, it was instantly recognized that the Atlantic’s traditions in fiction must be temporarily set aside. Mr. Squem’s sponsor is Arthur Russell Taylor, a clergyman of York. Pennsylvania.

Jean Kenyon Mackenzie is no stranger to the Atlantic audience; the first number of ‘ Black Sheep ’ won her the attention of every reader who appreciates the more exquisite literary flavors. Her latest letter bore the postmark of a far-away settlement in what was once German West Africa, to which had been added the significant words ‘Occupation Française.’ Three months she had been on the way to her new mission-post on the Cameroon beach, and one lap of the journey still to do!

‘I have never been stationed on the Cameroon beach before,’ she writes. ‘More than ever the exile will hang upon the rare bounties of the postman. We were blanketed all down the coast — no small hardship in the tropics — with a warning from the Admiralty written upon the bulletin board. A raider was there described in detail, like a villain’s posted description in a subway station. I must tell you that the perfect cure for submarinitis is a series of prolonged waits here and there, for steamers. At Las Palmas, on the Grand Canary, there were two of us waiting for a coast steamer. Mr. X—is an old coaster, lives in Accra. We waited a month. Together we devised the most fantastic schemes of escape. I see them to be fantastic now, but they were quite attractive.

‘One day Mr. X—— disappeared. It was etiquette, in those days in those streets, not to comment on such disappearances. Presently I am handed a letter from him. He had signed on as crew on a Swedish collier — no chance for a woman. And no world for a woman, I was thinking — very sorry for myself, I am ashamed to say. Well, when I landed in Dakar from a Spanish steamer, many days after this disappearance of my fellow-coaster (it was midday), I came to the Hotel Metropole, with its bleak front and its clusters of green tables and chairs before the door. There, at such a table, in that cruel desert noon, sat Mr. X—.

‘ You know how a familiar figure seen by chance, and in an unexpected aspect, will make a sudden more poignant impression than at other times. There sat Mr. X—, older than I knew — harassed — the man whose son was dead in the war, and whose wife had died of that death. He was waiting a steamer. For all his escape and his very real hardships and a matter of fifty pounds—and a threatened imprisonment for some indiscretion in landing at the wrong time and place — there he was, and there was I. I suppose I shall never see him again, but I shall always remember him sitting at that little green table outside the grim accommodations of a West Coast hotel.’

Lisa Ysaye Tarleau, a New Yorker, makes her first contribution to the Atlantic in this number. The work of Laura Spencer Portor, an editor of the Woman’s Home Companion, always commands a wide and sympathetic hearing. Margaret Wilson, who writes from California, is already known through her stories which have been published by our contemporaries. Readers of ‘ Ernest, or Parent for a Day,’ who are acquainted with Randolph Bourne’s earlier work, will feel that they have surprised the young sociologist in an unfamiliar posture. Mr. Bourne, as every one knows, is contributing editor of The New Republic and a writer on the many vexed problems of American civilization.

Since the Atlantic opened its discussion of the New Education, the adherents of the older culture have been crying long and loud for a champion. Lochinvar now rides out of the West in the person of Paul Shorey, professor of Greek at the University of Illinois, whose brilliant style, rich and intricate as an old tapestry, is perhaps the strongest of all his arguments for those humanities which James Russell Lowell taught him to love, honor and obey. Henry Dwight Sedgwick, another humanist of note, writes this paper as the result of a year spent as headmaster of the Brearley School for Girls in New York City. Mr. Sedgwick’s latest volume, entitled ‘A Plea for Old Maids, and Other Essays,’ was published last autumn.

Raoul Blanchard, who holds the chair of Geography at the University of Grenoble, is now in America as Exchange Professor at Harvard for 1917. A deep student of matters military as well as geographical, he is peculiarly fitted to interpret to Americans the epic struggle for Verdun. Fresh from Berlin, where he stayed until the breaking-off of diplomatic relations sent Americans scurrying to more hospitable countries, Henry L. Mencken is in a position to give an accurate, first-hand study of the man whom he considers to be the most tremendous personality Germany has produced since Bismarck. Mr. Mencken, one of the most brilliant of our journalists of the younger generation, divides his time between New York and Baltimore. Charles O’Brien, too, has recently been in Germany and seen for himself the workings of the amazing food dictatorship. As a striking corollary to his paper in this magazine, Mr. O’Brien writes:

‘Before the war New York City’s death rate was 14.5 people per thousand per annum, then the world’s low record. To-day Berlin is down to 12, whereas before the war the German death rate among men alone was over 18. London, under the mere restriction of high prices and before food control was put in effect in England, went under 13. And Belgium, under the lowcalorie standard food prescription of the American Relief Commission, had a death rate of a little over 8.’

Perhaps no more sincere tribute to the accuracy of Madeleine Z. Doty’s observations on war-time conditions in Germany could have been paid than the following editorial from a recent issue of the Kölnische Zeitung:

‘With democratic notions in her soul and with journalistic notes concealed within the lining of her suitcase, Madeleine Doty, an American woman, recently traveled through Germany, She visited many of our large cities, Berlin and cities in the south, and she has distorted the things which she saw in order to furnish the English press with “starvation” articles. These articles on hunger and distress, in which the life in Germany is depicted in glaring colors, are as necessary to the English press as daily bread. Without them war weariness would become greater than it is.

‘Madeleine Doty came to Germany with journalistic intentions; this she herself confesses. She writes like a reporter, in short, curt sentences from an accumulation of notes which show no lofty point of view, no detached world vision. The political views of the woman on present day events are the most superficial imaginable. She understands nothing of our political situation, in spite of which she passes judgment on everything.

‘The snooping Madeleine left Germany by way of Lindau. She describes her dramatic departure in the style of a detective story, manifestly proud that we had grown very suspicious of her and her baggage. And, indeed, we wonder that this foreigner has been permitted to visit prison camps and industrial factories. Evidently we should always rigorously supervise American women who travel among us.’

The full results of Miss Doty’s exceptional opportunities for learning the truth about the greatest mystery of the war — Germany’s food supply — have been given to the public in her interesting and intelligent book, ‘ Short Rations,’ recently published by the Century Company.

Lieutenant Milutin Krunich was a student in the University of Belgrade when the war broke out. At the age of twentytwo he entered the Serbian army, and served with it from the first attack upon Belgrade to the end of the retreat through Albania. He was seriously wounded three times, but returned to service each time after recovery. Toward the end of the retreat he contracted typhus fever, which left him frail and tubercular. A council of doctors decided that a peaceful country and a mild climate offered him a chance for life; lie received honorable discharge from service and came to America. His narrative was translated from the Serbian by Leah Marie Bruce.

From one of the remotest corners of the earth comes this response to Miss Mackenzie’s charming and plaintive essay in the January Atlantic.

EDITOR, ATLANTIC MONTHLY, BOSTON
DEAR SIR: —
I have just read ‘Exile and Postman.’ If you have postal connection with Miss Mackenzie, will you kindly forward her ‘thanks and kindest regards from a brother exile’?
It is not my lot to be among the blacks. My work is among people who have lived for three generations in Russia, and have left that country just in time to miss the benefits of the recent wave of educational progress in that country. Cast into the wilds of the Brazilian forest with perfect liberty to help themselves, but nobody to lead them on in doing so, they have lost most of what little civilization they still had. Notwithstanding the happiness and glory of great success which the work among them is already showing, the lonely missionary in their midst, nearly a hundred miles from his nearest colleague, can fully appreciate the meaning of: ‘Between those brown bodies and the body of the white man lies the counter. More lies between them than this. There are between them such barriers that the white man is not more lonely than when he is alone.’
And, therefore. I am not one of ‘a people in this world who let a postman walk up the path unattended, and who wait until he knocks at the door!’ It is only four months that we have had one at all. Before this, the priceless treasures that he now brings had to depend more or less on happy chance for reaching their master in spe. Not infrequently the happy chance did not come. Now, however, not only have I become accustomed to see these treasures arrive regularly from the nearest, railway station, seventy-five miles away, but some of my people have begun to respond to the charm of the postman, and Friday afternoon, Posttag, finds them assembled, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the divinity.

Now, last Friday we were made happy with our weekly post-happiness at an hour unusually early. The Postman had left almost a day sooner than usual, and according to all the rules of Archimedes he should arrive sooner than usual. I, personally, had grave doubts as to the power of mathematics to stand in the face of the fact that the Postman had become engaged the week before, and that his chosen one lived somewhere along the post-road. Which grave doubts did not prevent me from having my usual attack of restlessness three hours in advance of the regular time of the arrival of the mail. I tried in all seriousness to forget the post ami work. One occupation after the other was given up because my thoughts were elsewhere. Hour after hour passed, but no Postman hove into sight of my window looking out upon the road that leads into the great world. Members of the waiting assembly on the other side of the street came in now and then to ask, whether I knew what was wrong with the Postman. Twilight and the calm of night enveloped the earth; but no calm came to the hearts waiting. A horseman came riding along the road and dismounted before the house, just as the Postman would do. It was no Postman, but one who had seen the Postman. Two kilometres from our station he had been stopping, drinking ‘Sellnaps’ for two hours. How many hours he had stopped at the home of his betrothed before this, I do not know; I only know of the many hours of restless waiting we did.
Another rider drew up. It was he. The mail bags were plump and heavy. From the Postman himself there came a give-away fragrance. He wasted breath and time in telling me that his horse had been sick, that he had come afoot nearly all the way from ‘town.’ I silently sorted the mail, giving hack to him that which was to be distributed among the waiting assembly across the street. Next week we shall have a new Postman. We want our Postman to feel that sacred element in the mail.
Kindest wishes to the Atlantic and Miss MacKenzie.
From an exile in Brazil,
ALBERT LEHENBAUER.

Though the following letter from a school ma’am in Idaho was obviously not intended for publication, we cannot resist the temptation to share portions of it with our readers:

I have just finished reading the first chapter of the Schoolma’am of Squaw Peak, and must tell you how keenly I have enjoyed it, and how vividly it recalls to me the early days of my own experience in teaching. Shall I ever forget that day in midwinter when I made a fire and rang the lit tle hand-bell for the first time, in the schoolhouse left teacherless by my predecessor after a poker-fight with one of the big boys? Shall I ever forget the second day when little Joseph rose up with a bloody nose and I was unable to stem the tide? Or that other day when all the boys left the school-house at the noon hour armed with clubs and seeking what they might destroy, coming back bearing as trophy the limp and still wiggling bodies of thirty garter snakes with which they decorated the school-yard fence? Or the several occasions when I, like the SchoolMa’am, was obliged to invite the Spanish Cavalier to emerge from his retreat and sing his love in my school-room? And do I not still often think of the Weidaners—the Dennens of my community — who also possessed a phonograph but no handkerchief — and whose children were all either lame, halt, or blind? All these are but trifles, but they have lived in my memory through the years that have followed.
This year I find myself in a little country town, not ten miles from the scene of my first teaching activities. I am keeping house for a family of six. Curiously enough, after all these years of study and teaching, I take kindly to housekeeping and can make bread as if I bad been apprenticed to a baker from my youth up. There is a strange belief, current in these parts, that the marriage ceremony bestows upon a young lady all the domesticity of which she may have need, henceforth and forever; and conversely that there is something anomalous and uncanny about a young lady, over whom the mystic rite has not been performed, possessing domestic virtues of any nature. Sans marriage ceremony, I am the anomaly here. I feel like an outcast, for though I congratulate myself on being a good housekeeper, I can never belong to the inner circle of housewives. And this is such a benighted little town: we have no library — only a collection of fifty books loaned to me this winter by the State. To be sure we do have a moving picture theater, but that I do not patronize.
One of the pleasant memories of my life is Boston. Often have I visited it in my dreams, but never until last June have I been there in reality. Now when I look through the Allantic Monthly Advertiser, noting the addresses in Boston and see ‘ Beacon Street,’I say to myself, ‘Ah, yes; and I know how to find it from South Station.’ And Park St.; and Summer — just across from Winter. I have walked across the Common; I have strolled, on a Sunday morning, down Commonwealth Avenue; I have been twice to Harvard (and seen the glass flowers!); I have surveyed Bunker Hill Monument; the Old South Church; the State House; the Library; — all these — and I have seen the Ocean. Could I ever forget that wonderful day when I had my first glimpse of that! I stood on the rocks at Nahant, under a leaden sky (and an umbrella), while the rain splashed from my hat, my hair, the corners of my best coat and down into my (also best) shoes — gazed at the wide, gray, booming sea, and thought many — no doubt beautiful — thoughts that my tongue could not utter. . . . And then I climbed down the rocks to gather Fucus, and Enterornarpha, and Ascophyllum, and Laminaria. (Need I interpolate the information that I am a Botanist by profession?) After that I went to the ‘Pops,’ — my best coat (aforementioned) still dripping, and my shoes squishing. They played Handel’s ‘Largo,’ and to the end of my days Boston and the Largo will be mingled together in my memory to make a symphony like no other ever heard by mortal ear.

Two voices of German-Americanism:
Brooklyn, N.Y.
EDITOR OP THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY SIR: —
Wake up! To-day it is Germany with her Godgiven submarine who is putting up a glorious fight in behalf of a new area of freedom for the human family. She is fighting for the Freedom of the Seas.
God strengthen her arm, and may Holy Victory take up its abode with her democratic little submarine. Amen !
Chicago, III.
EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY SIR: —
Perhaps you do not realize what times such as these have meant to Americans of German descent — what anguish and what heartache have walked with us everywhere. So long as we have had faith in the destiny of the Fatherland, the attitude of others did not matter much; now that we have lost it, I think it a kind of stoicism which leads us to believe in even our own country. But the German-American will be found as ready as any patriot to battle for America. After all, the longing of Schiller and Goethe was our longing for liberty and humanity.

To the author of that sprightly essay ‘To Bore or Not to Bore,’ in the April Contributors’ Club, Colonel W. J. Lampton, the distinguished inventor of the yawp as a vehicle of poetic emotion, addresses this searching query:
MR. CLUBBER:
After reading your didactic dissertation upon Positive and Negative Bores, in the Atlantic for April, may I, with some hope of reply, inquire which you consider the greater bore, the persons who talk you to extinction, or the person you must talk to extinction? A Boston friend, who makes public appearances, said to me recently that New York bored him, and when I ventured that perhaps he bored New York, he sniffingly said that I did not understand Boston. Which may be.
W. J. LAMPTON.
From the ‘ Clubber ’ comes this terse rejoinder: ‘ The Bore Positive, With the Bore Negative, see Proverbs XXVI; 20.’ For the benefit of our readers whose Bibles are not conveniently at hand, we will look up the quotation:
‘ For lack of wood the fire goeth out; and where there is no whisperer, contention ceaseth.’

For reasons which will be obvious to every reader, the name of the author of ‘ The Wives of German-Americans ’ cannot be disclosed. She is, however, personally known to the editor of the Atlantic, and has written this article at his suggestion.