Ivy Lee is adviser in public relations to the Rockefeller and other important interests. He is the author, among other volumes, of a book on Soviet Russia, and has traveled extensively abroad. Sir John Campbell served many years in the Indian Civil Service, from which he retired in 1927. He is now the representative of India on the Opium Advisory Committee of the League of Nations. Julius Rosenwald is Chairman of the Board of Sears, Roebuck, and Company. He has not only given generously from wide resources, but has interested himself in a variety of causes, especially in negro welfare and educational work and in Jewish charities and colonization. He is a trustee of the Rockefeller Foundation and of the University of Chicago, and identified with many other public institutions. Δ Familiar to Atlantic readers is Archer B. Gilfillan, who passed from a theological school to the pastorate, not of a human charge, but of a literal flock of sheep. Merle Colby, born in Wisconsin, studied at Harvard and is now manager of one of the oldest bookstores in Boston. Eileen Shanahan is a singer of Erin whose work we are glad to welcome to the Atlantic.

The debate between Edward A. Filene and his brother, A. Lincoln Filene, is, so far as the Atlantic knows, unpremeditated. Each paper was sent us separately and on a different occasion, but so significantly do they argue the merits of the force that is shaping our modern world that it would have been a loss not to print them together. Both men are identified with William Filene’s Sons Company, prominent merchants of Boston, and both are known for their broader efforts to advance industrial and social organization. Lee Simonson is the gifted scenic director of the Theatre Guild in New York. He has been responsible for the setting of such diverse plays as Liliom, Back to Methuselah, and Marco Millions, to name but a few among many. His paper will eventually form part of the ’Book of the Theatre Guild,’ to be published in commemoration of the first decade of the society. Δ To Eleanor Ritdey adventures would How whether she found herself on the mountain top or in the valley. George Edward Hoffman is a teacher at the University of Alabama. He writes to the Atlantic: ’I shall treasure your remark that my verses are “imbued with an understanding of the negro,” since I am Yankee born and raised, and no Northerner ever understands the negro, according to the Alabama way of thinking. To me they are an absorbingly interesting people, and have been since I was a child.’ Edith Hamilton, former Headmistress of the Bryn Mawr School in Baltimore, offers a cure for disillusion. Arthur Train is the New York lawyer whose stories of crime and courts include the famous ‘Mr. Tutt’ series.

George P. Auld, former Accountant General of the Reparation Commission, writes with authority. Paul T. Homan, who teaches economics in Cornell University, finds ‘no light, but rather darkness visible’ ill the tariff situation. Kenneth Scott Latourette is Professor of Missions and Oriental History at Yale.

For those who may have missed an installment of Mazo de la Roche’s sequel to Jalna, we print a brief synopsis: —

The story up to this point is concerned with the struggles of young Finch Whiteoak to pass his examinations for college, and at the same time to follow his strong musical and artistic leanings. After a violent scene with his family, headed by his eldest brother Renny, he runs away from home, and arrives in New York. He seeks out his sister-in-law, Alayne, who is working there, having left her husband, Eden, on account of the latter’s unfaithfulness. Alayne helps Finch, and finds a job for him; but when the family at Jalna learn of the boy’s whereabouts his uncle Ernest is dispatched to persuade him to return home.

In our next visit abroad, we shall not dare to look at Notre-Dame de Paris or Westminster Abbey for fear of instantly discovering that they are shameless frauds.

CONCORD, MASS.
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
I was both impressed and enlightened by Mr. Mather’s method of detecting artistic forgeries as set forth in his article, ‘Art and Authenticity,’in your March number, and at once applied it to the impressions brought home from a recent trip to Europe, with startling results.
According to Mr. Mather (I condense, but not, I think, with any sacrifice of accuracy): —
‘The masterpiece never has overtly primadonna manners; it does not “knock you out, ’ but keeps a certain aloofness, waiting in dignity upon your understanding. No authentic masterpiece has the kick, the exciting quality, the insistent charm, characteristic of the successful forgery. The forgery is aggressively effective, completely engrossing, demands to be accepted instanter for itself alone, does not consent to be compared with anything else, fills one’s entire æsthetic horizon.’
Applying this test to our party’s reactions before certain so-called masterpieces, we were able to nail as probable forgeries; —
The ‘Hermes,’ at Olympia, attributed to Praxiteles.
‘The Night-Watch,’ at Amsterdam, attributed to Rembrandt.
‘ Girl Reading a Letter,’ at Dresden, attributed to Vermeer.
‘Las Meninas,’ at Madrid, attributed to Velasquez.
‘The Burial of . . .’ (I forget who), an altarpiece at Toledo, attributed to El Greco.
‘ Descent from the Cross,’ at Antwerp, attributed to Quentin Matsys. (Rubens’s ‘Descent,’ as I remember, stood up nobly under the test.)
‘ Crucifixion,’ at San Marco in Florence, attributed to Fra Angelico — a most convincing example of the insistent charm characteristic of the successful forgery.
‘Laughing Cavalier,’ Wallace Collection, London, attributed to Franz Hals.
The so-called Byzantine Mosaics at Ravenna.
The third on the list, the ‘Girl Reading a Letter,’ is a remarkable example of the ‘knock-out’ theory, since a good deal of a certain sort of dexterity must have been required to impart a thrill by such simple means — a small picture of a not particularly prepossessing young woman reading an apparently commonplace letter in not particularly interesting surroundings. This picture is also of interest as being of the ‘handy size’ commonly affected by producers of and dealers in forgeries.
The fifth, the altarpiece at Toledo, is interesting as possessing the ‘prima donna,’ ‘knock-out’ quality to a superlative degree, a quality conspicuous by its absence in El Greco’s genuine works, which may emphatically be said to ‘wait upon one’s understanding in dignified aloofness.’
I feel that in thus fearlessly applying this simple touchstone provided by Mr. Mather I am doing a great service to the vast army of purposeful American tourists, since their time is usually limited and many of these so-called masterpieces are off the beaten track, the ‘Hermes’ most inconveniently so.
M. A. A.

Mr. Calkins’s paper, ‘Virgin Territory for Motor Cars,’ which appeared in the March Atlantic, has met with the recognition which seems always to attend his imaginative grasp of practical problems. But there were dissenters!

FRESNO, CALIFORNIA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
I could not believe at first that Mr. Calkins was serious in his article in the March Atlantic. What a perfectly horrible idea to urge more roads and more automobiles! Life would then be utterly intolerable. There is no hope of teaching tourists good manners (I was born in California) and there must be some inaccessible places of beauty left for that true appreciation which comes only with effort in reaching them.
Sincerely yours,
ROMAINE L. POINDEXTER

Readers who have stood by the Atlantic for several years past wall remember some earlier papers of Mr. Calkins which were later gathered into a book entitled Lauder Please! The Autobiography of a Deaf Man. Mr. Calkins recently received an appreciative letter from which we quote the following paragraphs.

DEAR MR. CALKINS: —
Your delightful book, Louder Please! came to me late yesterday afternoon for the first time. Taking it up at bedtime, the next thing I know is that the telephone is ringing; it is 7.30 A.M., time to get up and face another day! But in the several hours’ interval I have read your book, and made it mine! What a wealth of reminiscence is yours, so delightfully and so adequately told. Of your boyhood, the scant mention you make of places nevertheless brought back to memory the several jaunts that I have taken through the State of Illinois. In my various wanderings to and fro on the earth, several times have I been in Galesburg, know Knox College, and often marveled at the number of Knox graduates who have come out and on and up in the world — perhaps in proportion to the number of students a larger number than many of the older and more famous institutions can show. Is it that the somewhat repellent face of the earth in that section — somehow I have always seen it in the late spring — leads a man to rely more upon the inner than the outer surfaces of life?
And of course I knew John Phillips and Colonel S. S. McClure. My first contact with Colonel McClure was in my husband’s office, in the old New York Sun Building, when he was syndicating Rudyard Kipling’s work in leading American newspapers. Having known the Kipling family in India (and maintained a friendship with Alice Kipling, later Mrs. Fleming, that has lasted through many changes and chances of life for both of us), Colonel McClure asked me to write an article, and he used that as a sort of proem, or preface, to the syndicated Kipling stories.
Your mention of the breakfast food Force makes me want to ask if you recall Ralph Tilton, who had something or other (I don’t quite recollect what) to do with that. A curious happening was that one afternoon, quite by accident, I introduced Ralph and Henry Ward Beecher II to each other. After my husband’s death I made my home with the Beechers, and, although there is no kinship, either by blood or by marriage, we adopted each other as uncle and aunt and niece. Quite a friendship struck up between Harry Beecher (grandson of the famous preacher) and Ralph Tilton, son of Theodore, which was ended only with Ralph’s sudden and tragic death.
On page 170, your mention of ‘Polly’ Chase and the Pink Pajama Girl takes me hack to those days when I was running a fashion syndicate and she was one of my models. I had known her mother in Washington; and she asked me to use any influence I might have in Pauline’s favor. Others in that same association were Elsie Ferguson; the present Mary Pickford (then Gladys Smith, and with her whole family appearing as extras in Frances Starr’s play, The Rose of the Rancho, antedating by several years the acknowledged extra work in The Warrens of Virginia); her mother as a dresser; Mabel Normand, who was really the one responsible for that group going into pictures; the Gish girls and their mother, who likewise assisted as a dresser on occasion; the now Mrs. William Randolph Hearst and her sister; rarely Norma Talmadge; and many others who held their place in the public eye for a space. It was in a subsidized effort to promote pajamas for women that Pauline came to wear a pink pair around the studio; and when Charles Dillingham — ‘ I knew him when ’ he was the dramatic critic of the old Evening Sun — put on The Liberty Belles at the little old Madison Square Theatre on 24th Street I had him drop in at the studio to see Pauline wear the pajamas and to select the dishabille costumes (delightful paradox!) for that play.
But this must come to an end. All sorts of delightful reminiscences came to mind in reading your book; and, being almost entirely of the forward-looking folk, it has been many, many years since such a Niagara of the past presented itself.
Admiringly yours,
VALERIE YORKE BELL

Comments on Mr, Traquair’s thesis that men in America are not (at present) having a fair chance to live and enjoy themselves seem to have come solely from feminine readers.

CROOKSTON, MINNESOTA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
‘ Do men to-day in America have a better opportunity for the full, rich development of their lives than women? ’ asks the author of ‘The Regiment of Women ’ in the March Atlantic. Then he undertakes to show that the situation is rather the reverse.
Such a novel point of view is refreshing and humorous, but if one were to take everything that Mr. Traquair says seriously, the only solution to his problem would be some scheme like that of King Ferdinand of Navarre, in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost — to renounce the pleasures of society, to attend sedulously to the culture of the mind, and to separate one’s self entirely from the company of females. If women are no fit teachers for boys, and if college men are distracted in a mixed class, and, finally, if women are the cause of the materialism of this age, the only thing for man to do is to seek some secluded place where, unmolested, he may develop his superior creative imagination and abstract thought.
Mr. Traquair claims that from past experience it can be shown that creative imagination and abstract thought are manly qualities, while organization and administration are womanly ones, and hence, in this woman-made world, materialism reigns.
That theories must have a scientific basis before we can believe in them is one of the less deplorable features of our materialistic age. Mr. Traquair’s theory does not have a scientific basis. The best psychologists do not support him in ascribing different character traits to the sexes. Alfred Adler, for example, says that there is no foundation for the differentiation of ‘manly’ and ‘womanly’ character traits. The old idea that man is more highly sexed than woman is as obsolete as the notion that woman is by nature purer than man. Politics have not been cleaned up since woman entered them; did Mr. Traquair really expect them to be? Is man more passionate than woman, or does he just behave that way, just as woman has been purer because purity has been expected of her?
Nor does his theory have an historic basis, even though he says that it does. If Mr. Traquair has among his acquaintances a woman with three or four small children, he probably knows that she, at least, has little chance for developing creative talent along artistic lines. And then, if he should recognize the fact that marriage has been considered the only respectable occupation for woman, he could hardly point to history as the source of his conclusion that woman is doomed to mediocrity by a natural inferiority, (Certainly administration and organization are mediocre as compared to creative genius!) Woman’s place has been in the home, and, while many splendid things can be said for the home, a life confined to its narrow limits is hardly stimulating to expression. Universities have been open to women for only fifty years. How well qualified is an uneducated woman, whose place is and always has been in the home, to express Life? She might write fantasies, but even imagination necessitates a certain breadth of experience.
I have heard the materialism of our decadent age attributed to various causes, but never before have I heard woman blamed for modern man’s craze for money making. If woman had really been behind this overvaluation of money, then man has shown himself a most docile pupil. He has been surprisingly amiable in sublimating his creative genius for the sake of woman’s mercenary ambitions. Think of the Rhapsodies that Rockefeller might have composed, had not some organizing and administrating woman trained all his intellectual tastes out of him!
GENEVIEVE LORING

Who can doubt the utility of the cowboy’s costume when even a President has worn it?

DENVER, COLORADO— DEAR ATLANTIC, — Having had some experience in sheep herding, I read with a great deal of interest the articles on sheep tending by Archer B. Gilfillan in the Atlantic Monthly.
And then I turned to the Contributors’ Column and was dismayed to read the following statement from Mr. Gilfillan’s pen: — ‘ In this age of debunking, the one person that needs debunking most of all is the cowboy — that is, if you can debunk someone who has ceased to exist.’
I have herded sheep and stand ready to support the authenticity of Mr. Gilfillan’s observations of their habits and conduct, and of the descriptions he so graphically drew of the sheep herder’s lot. But I have also herded cattle, and have been a cowboy, — high-heeled boots, leather chaps, spurs, and all, — and I, at least, have not ceased to exist.
The cowboy to-day is more numerous by far than the sheep herder. True, the open, fenceless range is gone forever, and gone, too, the trail herds and the great round-ups. But the cattle still roam millions of acres of forest and plain, tended by legions of hard-riding, hard-working cowboys.
The cowboy still rides his bucking horses, for horses must be broken, and nearly every colt will buck when first ridden. He still is expert with rope and branding iron.
Mr. Gilfillan states further: ‘There is a traditional dislike between the sheep herder and the cow-boy, and there is abundant reason for it. The cowboy has been romanticized and all but translated. The herder has been correspondingly vilified, and with just as little reason.’
The dislike existing between the men of the two occupations had its origin in the old lawless days when sheep first encroached on the land the cattleman believed was his by right of conquest. The sheep tramped out the cowman’s water holes and ate the grass down so short that the cattle could not reach it. The cowboy immediately retaliated by slaughtering the sheepman’s flocks, killing his herders and burning his wagons — instituting a reign of terror in an effort to drive the woolies from his pastures.
The result was a deep and bitter hatred that exists to this day, and which even now sometimes bursts forth in open warfare.
The moving picture and storybook cowboy seems to have no work to do, but spends his employer’s time riding madly in pursuit of bandits and heroine kidnappers, or in shooting out all the arc lights in Main Street.
When he is not engaged in either of these thrilling pastimes, he is playing cards for unbelievably large stakes, and shooting the villain who slipped in an extra ace.
This romanticized type of cowboy does not, and never did, exist. The real cowboy, as he exists to-day in several of our Western states, is one of the hardest-working individuals in the world.
His costume is picturesque, but each article of his clothing is a necessary part of his equipment. His chaps prevent the brush and mesquite from tearing the trousers from his legs; the high heels prevent his foot from slipping through the stirrup; his spurs are to make his horse behave; the wide brim of his hat protects his face from the sun and wind, and the crown is very high in order to afford an air pocket above the hair, giving a coolness not known to those who wear low-crowned hats. The neck scarf, not worn now as much as in earlier times, is warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and may be pulled up over the nose and mouth to protect the lungs from dust stirred up by trampling herds.
Not one article of the cowboy’s equipment is worn as a decoration, or for vanity’s sake. Each part of his clothing is as necessary to him in his occupation as are hammers, saws, and chisels to the carpenter. That the cowboy’s particular brand of equipment happens to be picturesque and appealing is no fault of his own.
In reality the cowboy’s life is hard, monotonous, and unremunerative, disagreeable and, at times, exceedingly dangerous. Ten to fourteen hours a day in the saddle, in all sorts of weather; three changes of horses a day (for the animals tire out, but the cowboy is not supposed to); hastily eaten meals of coarse food, and a bed on the ground, which may or may not he dry.
The cowboy will continue to exist in large numbers just as long as the West is blessed — or cursed — with millions of acres of land unfit for cultivation, or for anything else except pasturing the herds of cattle that help feed the world.
Sincerely yours,
HARRY RUBINCAM, JR.

‘Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance.’ We knew Dr. Sullivan’s standing, and judged ourselves of the merits of his paper, but we were not informed of the course of his life.

BILLINGS, MONTANA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
In the March number of the Atlantic appears an article entitled ‘Our Spiritual Destitution,’ by William L. Sullivan. The writer places his finger upon the pulse of fevered America, and diagnoses the disease with the skill of a great physician. One feels like shouting for joy at the Jovian thrusts hurled at the professorial Messiahs who provide new religions overnight. More than one part of their anatomies must have tingled at the sound spanking administered.
But I have a complaint, not of the writer, but of you. I turned with eagerness to the Contributors’ Column to learn something more of this modern prophet with the passion of an Isaiah and the bluntness of John the Baptist, and you supply the following information; ‘William L. Sullivan, protesting against the ease with which new religions are summoned from the vasty deep by the academicians, reminds us of Hotspur’s rejoinder to Glendower.’ Now I maintain that this is not scholarly self-restraint on your part. It is an impertinent reticence. Wantonly to tantalize ns you do in this instance is not fair. Certainly it is legitimate for your readers to desire a few biographical details. Even the New Testament with its impressive reticences at least supplies the information that a certain prophet of that day ‘had his raiment of camel’s hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins; and his meat was locusts and wild honey.’ I am not asking what breakfast food our modern prophet favors, nor am I curious as to his habiliments even in this day of changing fashions, but I do confess to a curiosity as to his mental diet and by the banks of what Jordan his habitat is to be found.
DOUGLAS MATTHEWS

Mr. Sullivan is himself reticent, as a prophet should be; but there is no mistaking the prophetic note in the letter he writes us.

MT. GRETNA, PENNSYLVANIA
DEAR EDITOR, —
You are kind indeed in wishing to know a detail or two concerning me, and I thank you and the readers of the Atlantic who have shown this generous interest. There is little, however, to tell. I can indeed hardly imagine a more meagre subject for biography. I am a Christian minister; for the present retired, not through age or other infirmity, but simply seeking in a wooded solitude in Pennsylvania an opportunity to pursue studies upon which the roaring life of cities has closed and banged the door these many years.
There’s the whole thing, and for outer incident what could be less? But while I am about it, let me pass from outer incident to inner conviction. I feel that the extinction of the primary trust of the human soul in an eternal Perfection, an extinction preposterously asserted in the name of science, and preposterously compensated by a comfortable earthly paradise populated by the doomed, means the senility of civilization, the ruin of genius, and the decay of character. And with these sharp words, which may, perhaps, reveal more of your contributor than any amount of inconsequential detail, I end my answer to your inquiry.
My response, however, to the unknown friends who have asked for a word about me must have a different end. Through you they have brought into this lonely and quiet cottage the sense of presences warm and friendly and fragrant. I am deeply touched by it and very grateful.
Sincerely yours,
WILLIAM L. SULLIVAN