bureau, and in many instances a Korean school. In other words, each Korean colony was an autonomous little community in itself.

Almost invariably the alderman was one of the older settlers, in respect to age as well as length of residence, and an honest, conscientious fellow who enjoyed the general respect of his countrymen. His word, consequently, was considered as law. Since most of these immigrants were illiterate peasants accustomed to a patriarchal social system, they knew nothing of keeping accounts. Each individual made a small monthly payment into the community chest, the key of which was kept by the alderman. Whenever one of the members was in extreme want, he petitioned the alderman for assistance, whereupon the latter heard his case and advanced him what he seemed to need. The old patriarch who presided over the colony's affairs was generally a poor man himself who worked all day long and had no time to keep books. Of course, he was not paid for his services.

Now the Japanese, in pursuit of their policy of stirring up dissension among the Koreans in order to make them more submissive to their rule, began by attacking this patriarchal organization. As soon as one of their Korean agents arrived in the community to which he was assigned, he made himself first of all familiar with the colony's affairs, cultivating especially the friendship of any idlers, drunkards, or other rogues among its membersfor these were the most likely to be discontented and rebellious against the control of the alderman. I should add that the latter was almost invariably a real Korean patriot, intensely hostile to Japan. These hired agents always described the situation back in Korea in most glowing terms, thus playing upon the nostalgia of

their fellow countrymen. They said that life was now much easier there than it was in Siberia - thanks largely to the Japanese. The people were no longer persecuted. The Japanese authorities treated the Koreans like their own brothers. Having thus won the confidence of their homesick fellow countrymen, they would begin to inveigh against the man in charge of the local colony's affairs, asserting that he was just like the men who had ruined Korea before the Japanese came, and that he would ruin the immigrants if left in his present post. They declaimed against all the aldermen in Siberia as a pack of thieves who were enriching themselves at the expense of their own blood and kin. The Koreans, they said, were being used to bring Russia's wild country under cultivation, and to make it fruitful and prosperous, but as soon as this was done the Russian Government would expel them and give the lands they had subdued by the sweat of their brows to Russian peasants.

Another favorite argument of these agents was to tell the Koreans that Russia was in sore need of soldiers for a new war against Japan. For that reason she was enticing Koreans into Siberia and was glad to make them Russian subjects. They added to this the prophecy that Japan would again beat Russia, and that one of the terms Tokyo would impose upon the conquered country was the extradition of all Koreans residing in Siberia.

Such arguments naturally imposed upon the simple-minded immigrants. After the soil was thus well prepared, the agent for Japan would demand complete reorganization of the colony's affairs. In almost every case he got his way. The alderman retired from his office in disgust, without making much of a fight to keep it, and a protégé of Japan was put in his place. Rather

curiously, the actual agents of Japan invariably refused to accept this honor, evidently under instructions from their employers, but they placed men subservient to themselves in these posts. This enabled them to pursue their work undisturbed. An office would be set up and a set of books started for keeping account of the community funds. A new rule for assisting those in need was promulgated: only immigrants who had not opposed the new authorities were to receive subventions from the community chest.

With all the organized activities of the Korean colonies thus in their hands, the agents of Japan started an active propaganda for the Government that hired them. They distributed among their fellow countrymen newspapers from Korea and alleged private letters from home, all of which lauded the Japanese administration to the skies. Occasionally a Korean lecturer would turn up, who invariably was introduced as having just arrived from the home country, and his speeches described the conditions there in the most favorable light.

Needless to say, practically all of these agents and traveling speakers were also employees of the Japanese Army intelligence service. Many of the Koreans suspected this, but, being a timid and submissive people, they feared to tell the Russians. Moreover, the strict censorship over letters from home exercised by the Japanese authorities in Korea prevented any inkling of the true situation there from reaching these exiles. In order, however, to create no suspicions, a faked correspondence was kept up. This was possible because most of the Koreans, being illiterate, employed professional letter-writers, who were more or less in the pay of Japanese authorities and their agents, and who consequently wrote what the latter told them to

write and not what the senders of the letters dictated.

As a result of this propaganda, fewer Koreans were naturalized as Russian subjects than formerly. Moreover, their colonies were in constant agitation and the members seemed unable to settle down to everyday work, as if anticipating some great change about

to come.

Several interesting incidents occurred about this time that threw more light on these proceedings. For instance, at Krasnoyarsk the former alderman of the Korean colony, who was a highly esteemed Korean and had great authority among his people, observing the true trend of things, presented himself at a meeting of the local Koreans and made a powerful speech against his successor, whom he denounced as a traitor to Korea and a Japanese spy. The latter's followers attacked the speaker, beat him until he was half dead, and dragged him to the police office, where they accused him of being a Japanese agent stirring up the Koreans against Russia. The old man, who knew only a little Russian, was unable to explain the situation without the help of an interpreter. The only interpreter who could be found belonged to the Japanese party. To make the story short, the alderman was found guilty of the charge against him and expelled from Krasnoyarsk. This incident disheartened the loyal immigrants, who now believed that the Russian authorities were siding with Japan against Korea.

Such was the situation when the trouble I have described occurred at Harbin. My friend T-, who was a born fighter and a man of unusual alertness and intelligence, saw at once what the Japanese were trying to do. Feeling that their first blow would be aimed at himself, he prepared himself to meet it. As soon as the usual

naught.

Thereupon T took the offensive. He denounced the Korean 'traitors' in several brilliant speeches. He stripped the mask from several of the secret agents of Japan and held their wearers up to public contempt. As a result several of the latter were beaten up by loyal Korean residents.

TIME effaces the gilt. When finally one stands face to face with highly colored objects, they have lost their splendor. The everyday spirit of democracy does not suffer pomp and magnificence. All worldly monarchs have begun to reduce external display, and the Holy Father follows their example.

Only a few years ago the Vatican messenger carrying invitations to papal audiences was attired in gala. Now an ordinary little Italian in mufti hands you the big letter sealed with the crossed keys. On the envelope is printed in both French and Italian that he is not to receive a tip. Nevertheless the physiognomist reads five lire in his face. They are accepted, too, with an understanding smile.

The Holy Father lets me be informed that he will receive me the following day. 'Sua Santità receverà in udienza Signor Centerwall.' The card looks imposing, and it has regulations for dress printed in four languages. Ladies

1 From Göteborgs Handels och Sjöfarts Tidning (Swedish Liberal daily), March 20

should wear long, black, high-necked gowns and black veils; gentlemen, full dress.

So it says on the card; but I very well know that in reality these regulations are no longer observed by the men. One may come in street clothes to the Pope's great audiences. The ladies, however, must still follow the old custom.

Several hundred persons are invited to public audiences and distributed in different rooms. The private audiences form a special chapter, but it is not hard to obtain one if one has something at heart. The general audiences, after all, must be counted among ordinary tourist amusements; with the aid of the legation or consulate anyone may be admitted. The present Pope once remarked that these audiences are his only open window to life.

My friend Johannesson, the Swedish papal sculptor, tipped me off before the audience, 'Wear full dress, and you will be placed much better.' I followed his advice and attired myself in a dress

coat at noon may my English friends forgive me. At the Vatican, just as at inaugurations of expositions in some countries, full dress is the correct formal wear all day long.

It is self-evident that ecclesiastics seeking an audience should appear in full robes before the head of the Roman Church. Since for the rest of us jacket and black tie are not effective enough, we have no choice if we wish to be present on goes the dress coat.

Having groomed myself, I take a cab and drive to the Vatican. The driver is told that I come for an audience, and he stops in the colonnades of the Piazza di San Pietro. The Middle Ages stand on guard and inspect my card.

The papal Swiss Guards are quite decorative. They stand on the landings of the stairway, resting on their long halberds, caps coquettishly over one ear, short balloon-breeches swelling, yellow, blue, and red ribbons intertwined.

Once this stairway led to the Sistine Chapel. To-day, however, I have not come to the Vatican for the sake of Michelangelo or of Raphael; I have come to see Pius XI, the man, and to press his hand.

Other Swiss Guards direct me further. Finally I stand in a gallery that serves as the cloakroom. Lackeys in wine-colored livery take charge of the overcoats. These attendants are fat and well-fed, like monks on German beer signs.

The double doors to the great audience room stand open. Papal functionaries inspect the cards for a last time. In the background stands the throne on a dais. Along the walls sit dark-clad, solemn individuals seeking audience. None of the men has bothered to put on full dress; I see only street clothes.

Swiss who have not yet begun their guard duty. I place myself near them, and I can hear them conversing in Swiss German. I am really a bit irritated with my friend the sculptor who fooled me into donning full dress; I am the only one so clad in the gathering.

Now, however, two wine-red lackeys emerge from a side chamber with an individual in full dress looking the English butler to a T. They inspect the people along the walls, and one of them asks me to follow him. I am conducted through several rooms and placed in a corner room among ladies in silk veils and gentlemen with white ties. Instead of the Swiss, Italian patricians of the Noble Guard are on duty.

I have come considerably closer to the Holy Father's study, in which private audiences are taking place. The uniformed nobles who walk up and down the floor suddenly stand at attention, and Mr. Paus, the Pope's Norwegian chamberlain, accompanies from the papal study a much-decorated gentleman of Nordic type in full dress. A few minutes later he returns with a small lilac-colored French bishop.

As usual, the Pope apparently is giving private audiences in his library; for I am able to orient myself when I look out through the windows. Standing down on the Piazza di San Pietro, one may without difficulty find the three windows of the Pope's study. His desk stands between the first and the second window, so that the light falls on his back and in the face of his visitor.

At a private audience one should genuflect three times before one is allowed to kiss the Pope's ring, and also before one leaves the room. It is told of Pius XI that he does not exact

One is always kept waiting for the Pope, and, although my card said. 12.15, it is now after half-past twelve. The butler who, as I have learned, is the Pope's body servant, appears again and selects some ladies and gentlemen whom he invites to follow him. Thanks to my tailor, I belong to those chosen, and receive a place among the first.

A small room with a throne, next to the Pope's study. Papal chamberlains are walking back and forth. We are placed standing along the walls there are no chairs to sit on here. All the gentlemen in this room are in full dress, and the ladies' mantillas and black silk gowns are of the best. No one wears gloves, and I recall that there exists an old rule against gloves dating from the Renaissance. At that time the Popes feared that someone might hide poison in his gloves. Pius XI need have no such fear, but the old rules are respected.

The Pope still keeps us waiting. I am flanked on one side by two English ladies, on the other by a French couple. It is difficult to say how many nationalities are represented in this room. I see two elderly ladies who must be Spanish, judging from combs, mantillas, and busts. A fat couple with a hopeful small son in white could hail only from Germany.

With the possible exception of the little boy, no one looks as if pious motives had brought him here; curiosity must have been the motive in most cases.

Two blue-blooded yeomen of the guard in helmets and with drawn swords parade before the closed door. A papal chamberlain entertains a couple of ladies in flawless French. The body servant returns. Pius XI is about to appear. The yeomen stretch themselves. The chamberlain leaves.

certain that the ladies' gowns close tightly at the throat.

The double doors swing open. The yeomen kneel. The chamberlains kneel. The rest of us follow their example. Pius XI is standing in the room. Silently and quietly he approaches, followed by a chosen few. Next to him walks the tall master of ceremonies in black and lilac. A cardinal in purple follows. Two winecolored lackeys, each carrying something resembling a peddler's box, close the rear.

Pius XI enters the audience chamber in a very simple and dignified manner. Leo XIII's grand apparatus with silver trumpets and sedan chair has disappeared, most likely for ever. His successor, Pius X, probably was one of the humblest men who ever wore the triple tiara. The greatest simplicity marked his audiences, and he seldom spoke to his visitors, for the simple reason that he knew only his own language. Benedict XV, on the contrary, the present pontiff's immediate predecessor, was an aristocrat and a diplomat. He liked pomp and display and reintroduced some of Leo XIII's ceremonies. That he was not carried in a sedan chair to his audiences was because he suffered vertigo as soon as he was hoisted up.

History shows that in most cases a Pope tries to differ as much as possible from his predecessors. Evidently it would never enter the mind of Pius XI to emulate Benedict XV. Pius X, rather, is his ideal type; and it is significant, moreover, that there is now talk of canonizing that simple and good-hearted man.

The present Pope is a very learned man. His Doctor's thesis caused such a stir in the Catholic world that old Leo XIII wished to see him. His career also probably began on the day