thoughts spread out like civilizing rivers and fructify the world. He ended by a humorous allusion to Mazzini's last remark: 'Let us stay here in the land of fiction, for fictions are what give magic to life and make it worth living-not truth, not reality.' Mazzini listened to him with almost startled attention, and in his turn forgot to eat.

We soon had to resume our journey. At the summit of the pass, we again stopped for some time at the Albergo S. Gottardo, for our guide to make a careful inspection of our whole procession of sixteen little sleighs. They were very simply built. Each one held two people. In front there was a board where the driver sat. While we were waiting, the beautiful dogs for which Gotthard is famouswhich rescue people lost in the snow came up to us and laid their heads confidingly on the robe in which we were wrapped. I gathered together all the remnants of food in our traveling hamper, and my brother asserted that he never had seen dogs eat with such self-respecting dignity as these. Mazzini and his companion got out of their sleigh and came over to mine. They teased me for feeding the dogs. Mazzini insisted that I did it solely from interested motives, because we were about to descend into Tremola valley, where the avalanches are very dangerous. I wanted to curry favor with the dogs so that they would rescue me first in case of an accident. We joked and laughed, no one taking the danger seriously. However, the guide showed some concern. In spite of the mild spring air, he wrapped us all carefully in our rugs and furs. I have often recalled, later, the conscientious concern he showed for the precious human cargo entrusted to his care. He certainly knew who Mazzini was, and he seemed to feel that my brother was

also a person of importance. When we started again, the guide, who had previously allowed our sleigh to lead out of courtesy for its lady passenger, inquired if it would not be better to let another sleigh go ahead on the descent. We readily agreed to this. It was a marvelous trip. The drivers drove at a mad pace, so that we felt as if we were flying. Such a deep snow had fallen that only a narrow roadway had been cleared. When we reached that portion of the way which is called Tremola Valley, where the Gotthard road descends from the summit to the valley level in forty-six bold spirals, and plunged downward at a gallop, I could look from our narrow highway into the fathomless depths below, and I had a feeling of liberation, as if my physical limitations had vanished. We swept past the verge of yawning precipices with such assurance that we seemed to have mastered nature. I could hardly keep from shouting with jubilant delight.

Suddenly, there was a piercing shriek ahead of us. The leading sleigh, the galloping horse, and the passengers, vanished instantaneously into the abyss. A moment of frightful confusion followed, when it was a miracle that other sleighs did not also plunge down the mountain side. As if by magic, rescue apparatus was produced. A rope ladder was let down, and our guide disappeared over the edge. A moment after, we heard his shout from below: 'It won't be so bad! It won't be so bad after all!' In fact, it obviously was not so bad, for our own driver, who had handed his reins to my brother and was lying flat in the road looking over the edge, began to make lively gestures, to laugh, to shake his head a moment, laugh again, and wound up by shouting gaily: Va bene! Va bene! The rest of the party took up the same joyous re

frain, and our composure was completely restored when the guide's face, beaming with gratification, appeared a moment later over the edge, with the almost incredible report that the sleigh was broken and the horse was lame, but none of the people had been injured in the slightest. 'But where are they?' I asked. The fine fellow began to laugh and said: "They've got a little ahead of us. They're waiting on the second turn below until we get there. Then they'll come along with us.' It was a remarkable accident. A few feet on either side, and they would have plunged to eternity. The sleigh, its occupants, and the horse had swept completely over the first turn in the road, into a deep pocket of snow beyond. But the snow was so deep and so soft that they had suffered no injury. As our guide observed: 'They fell like a mouse in a flour bag.' Since help was speedily at hand, and the unfortunates were at once liberated from their snow prison, their fall of a few hundred feet had done little harm.

Finally, we got under way again, but now proceeded cautiously, and it was quite a time before we reached the point where our companions had so suddenly landed. The man in the party was leaning a little heavily on his cane. His companion, who, I recognized to my surprise, was a lady, laughed merrily over the episode. She was wearing a peculiar fur cap and all day long I had taken her for a man. It occurred to me that the kind of a head gear she wore was to be highly recommended for people exposed to such experiences. Mazzini also, who came up to inquire whether the shock had unsettled us likewise, gazed in admiration at this immense fur cap. A couple of other travelers, vigorous men, congratulated the parties to the episode with affected envy. They insisted that they not only paid regular fare, but a

VOL. 22-NO. 1099

special fee for accidents besides, and had got nothing extra for their money.

Eventually, we reached a stopping place at a lower altitude, where we again exchanged our little sleighs for a heavy mail wagon. We four preferred to walk ahead a way, and let the wagon overtake us. We thus came to a point from which there was a wonderful outlook far, far down the valley to the South. Mazzini's young companion shouted joyfully: Italia! Of course we were still in Switzerland, but the sunny land beyond the Alps was already in sight. Corinna's words in Madame de Stael came involuntarily to my lips though to-day they would hardly occur to myself or to any other German. That was a time when we all loved Italy, so I shouted with enthusiasm: 'Italy, empire of the sun, cradle of letters, mistress of the world, I salute thee! How many times has the human race done homage to thy arms, to thy art, and to thy skies!' Mazzini seized my hand and pressing it with a sort of religious fervor said: Patria mia! My brother was deeply moved by this scene, and, later, remarked to me: 'Happy the land whose sons speak of their fatherland with such devoted fervor.'

Evening at last arrived, and we took leave of our companions, just at dusk, in a little inn at Airolo. Mazzini told us that his journey took him in another direction, and asked our destination. I said joyously: 'Lugano. It's said to be a paradise.' Mazzini replied with a melancholy smile: 'Every place is paradise for youth.' He promised to visit us either at. Lugano or at Basel. We all were saddened by the parting. Each had moist eyes, and we repeated over and over again in all three languages: Auf Wiedersehen! But we never met again. Soon afterward Mazzini fell ill, and hardly a year had passed before this noble, passionate fighter closed his weary eyes forever.

Poem Written by American Lady Wins Place in Imperial Contest

[From the Japanese Times and Mail]

MRS. CHARLES BURNETT, wife of the Military Attaché to the United States Embassy in Japan, is accorded the distinction of being placed among the foremost ranks of Japanese poets in consequence of her New Year's poem, 'Before the Shrine of Ise at Dawn.'

Mrs. Burnett is the first foreign woman to have her verse read before the imperial family in Phoenix Hall at the Palace. Her contribution, submitted anonymously and judged from a purely literary point of view, was selected from among some seventeen thousand sent from all parts of the Empire. It was written in Hira-kana, Japanese characters, and conformed in every respect to the requirements of the time-honored custom of O Uta Hajime (The Opening of Imperial Poems) dating from the ninth century, when imperial poems came into existence as a court function.

Mrs. Burnett's verse is considered most remarkable in view of the fact that it is technically perfect, written in character, and is the first instance of a foreigner composing original verse in Japanese. The vernacular papers have published verse she has written on ceremonial occasions with most favorable comment, but this is the first imperial recognition accorded her. Her first compositions, written during a former residence of three years in Japan dating from 1911, were written in Romaji,

until she finally came to write wholly in Japanese characters.

'Japanese literary authorities regard Mrs. Burnett's genius for interpretation as being of an unusual order and she is the first foreign woman ever recognized in Japan, as a poet in the Japanese language.'

Paris Mid-Lent Carnival

LATIN QUARTERStudents have elected their queen for the Mid-Lent Carnival. They have not followed the voters in other wards of Paris and chosen a brunette. The Queen of the Students is a blonde, and so are her maids of honor. It was a joyous, and, at times, turbulent election, held in an old convent, now a hostel of the Association of Students, to which we were bidden by the 'escholiers,' and given a voting bulletin. Over four hundred lusty young men, wearing velvet caps, acclaimed the eight candidates as they trooped on the platform, with numbers pinned on the corsage of their pretty frocks. Their faces glowed as the students shouted out the numbers which marked their choice. The first vote was not conclusive it seldom is but the second gave a clear majority for Marie Lecca, a beautiful Corsican, with a simple charm reminiscent of Trilby, only she is not an artist's model, but a typist. How the students cheered her triumph!

The duty of conveying to her the official congratulations was entrusted to no less a person than the Maître Villette. He was a striking figure in his black velvet suit, relieved by a decoration of the Legion of Honor, and his

aureole of gray hair and his panegyric of French beauty were cheered uproariously. The students love the famous old painter, and their admiration for him was increased when he sang three cabaret songs off the reel and gallantly kissed Lisette, which is the name the students give to their Queen, for she is supposed to personify the Lisette of Berenger. There are strong bonds of affinity between the Latin Quarter and Montmartre. The free commune has elected its queen, also a blonde, and she came, with her cavaliers, to greet Lisette. The two queens will be driven in the car typifying the 'Chanson Française' in the coming procession.

Artists' Studios in the City Walls

AN An attempt is being made by the commune of Rome to remedy the studio shortage, which is only one phase of the general housing crisis, by the original plan of allotting some of the more habitable towers and turrets in the ancient city walls to various artists. Many of these old towers can be made perfectly habitable, and when fitted with electric light and comfortable furniture will provide large and picturesque studios for a number of painters. The 'master of the walls,' Signor Francesco Randone, has instituted a school of educative art for children, in the tower of Belisarius.

The new artist-tenants of the turrets and towers will have to assume the nominal duty of keepers or custodians in addition to their responsibility as tenants, but this duty will be only a formal one. Some of the new studios, though they have the disadvantage of being a little distant from the centre of the city, will have fine views over the campagna, and will form extremely picturesque abodes. A kind of summer house in the Villa Borghese (the Hyde Park of Rome) has been offered to a well-known artist without a studio.

Stevenson and France

AN interesting development in France since the war is the cult of the adventure romance, with Stevenson as the accepted model. True, among French readers only his Treasure Island is as yet widely known, but the new novelists have studied every line of him, and some of the young critics seem to know all that has been written

about, as well as by, him- a proficiency that might be held to indicate a misspent youth. In their enthusiasm for Stevenson they sometimes belittle his Sir Walter and their own Dumas; and that helps us to understand the new romance- not in France only, but all over as an evolution from the psychological novel, not a revolt against it. The adventure must not be a fortuitous happening outside the hero, but must issue from his own nature and mood - hence (the question of form apart) the preference of The Master of Ballantrae over, say, Catriona. And the curious thing is that in consequence the 'love element' in recent French adventure, story seems to be taking on quite a British char

acter.

Mr. Conrad's Déshabillé*

IN the characteristic introduction to this reprinting of his short articles Mr. Conrad alludes to himself as being as near to déshabillé as he ever will be in the public eye, and he likens this collecting of papers to a tidying up

process.

Perhaps it will do something toward a better vision of the man, if it gives no more than a partial view of a piece of his back, a little dusty (after the process of tidying up), a little bowed, and receding from the world, not because of weariness or misanthropy, but for other reasons that cannot be helped: because the leaves fall, the water flows, the clock ticks with that horrid pitiless solemnity which you must have observed in the

*Notes on Life and Letters. By Joseph Conrad. (Dent. 9s. net.)

ticking of the hall clock at home for reasons like that. Yes! It recedes. And this was the chance to afford one more view of it.

It is to be hoped that Mr. Conrad is unnecessarily pessimistic, and that he will continue to write and express his views for many years to come, for he holds a peculiar and distinctive place in contemporary literature, albeit his novels do not appeal to everyone. To use his own phrase about De Maupassant, Mr. Conrad's 'renown is universal, but his popularity is restricted.'

The articles reprinted in this volume were written between 1898 and 1920, and represent the author in reminiscent and controversial mood, together with some views on politics and literary contemporaries. He has much to say, of course, about Poland and its recent history, for part of his youth was spent in that country. The paper entitled 'Poland Revisited' is an interesting piece of autobiography, and the best of the collection from the literary point of view. It contains a trenchant opinion of the national character of Germany: That promised land of steel, of chemical dyes, of method, of efficiency; that race planted in the middle of Europe assuming in grotesque vanity the attitude of Europeans among effete Asiatics or barbarous niggers; and, with a consciousness of superiority, freeing their hands from all moral bonds, anxious to take up, if I may express myself so, the 'perfect man's burden.' Meantime, in a clearing of the Teutonic forest, their sages were rearing a Tree of Cynical Wisdom, a sort of Upas tree, whose shade may be now seen lying over the prostrate body of Belgium (this was written in 1915). It must be said that they labored openly enough, watering it with the most authentic sources of all madness, and watching with their be-spectacled eyes the slow ripening of the glorious blood-red fruit.

Mr. Conrad is at his best in the articles which give scope for his somewhat mordant humor. He ranges from the anachronistic Censor of Plays to the causes which led to the loss of the Titanic. I like, particularly, the paper entitled 'The Life Beyond,' which con

tains an amusing diversion on circulating libraries, and a powerful protest against the futility and foolishness of ordinary spiritualistic manifestations:

An Immortality liable at any moment to betray itself fatuously by the forcible incantations of Mr. Stead or Professor Crookes, is scarcely worth having. Can you imagine anything more squalid than an Immortality at the beck and call of Eusapia Palladino? That woman lives on the top floor of a Neapolitan house, and gets our poor, pitiful august dead, flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone, spirit of our spirit, who have loved, suffered and died, as we must love, suffer and die she gets them to beat tambourines in a corner and protrude shadowy limbs through a curtain. This is particularly horrible, because if one had to put one's faith in these things one could not even die safely from disgust, as one would long to do. That is well put.

Miss Ellen Terry's Unique Flat MISS ELLEN TERRY, whose birthday was recently observed, is about to move into a small flat in the heart of London, which is being decorated for her, as a birthday gift, by artists, who are not only designers but executants. Miss Terry's favorite color is daffodil, and the flat will be a study in yellow.

In the passage (for it cannot be called a hall) a visitor receives the impression of bright and vivid daylight. The walls are painted in brilliant orange, and the dado, also called orange, approaches flame color. An arch midway down, and the outline of the doors are black. A living room and bedroom are painted in deep daffodil yellow, and the woodwork is in gray verging on green. The maid's living room is in primrose, and the little kitchen is white with woodwork of the color known as French vermilion.

The painted walls have none of the ordinary flatness; their lights and shadows are associated with the use of lacquer. They received first a coat of white, then of chrome yellow, and fin