for their removal. The new device fixed the material in about half a minute, without the use of nails, and was highly appreciated by the polishers. Further, a bench, arranged to hold the wardrobefitter's tools and nails, thus avoiding the previous loss of time in searching for them and clearing them away, proved to effect a considerable economy in time thus wasted.

A saving of about 37 per cent was effected in a tin-can factory by providing the workers with sheet metal cut to appropriate size. Over one hour per worker per day was saved by the abolition of needless stooping in order to pick up lids fallen to the floor. In the soldering department the optimum weight of soldering-iron causing least fatigue to the worker was ascertained, and readily adopted both by the management and the worker.

An average increase in output of over 35 per cent was effected in five chocolatepackers, chiefly by the introduction of an improved form of bench on which the workers could arrange their chocolates, so that their work came to depend less upon a series of voluntary decisions than upon rhythmical movements. Preliminary timings had indicated that the packers wasted much effort in discriminating between different chocolates and in overcoming states of mental indecision. The packers spontaneously testified to the fact that, despite their vastly increased output, they went home feeling much less tired after the day's work. The hourly records of output throughout the day bore them out. After the introduction of the new methods of work by the institute's investigators, the output was not only higher throughout the day, but it was maintained at a high level toward the end of the afternoon, instead of falling considerably as under the old conditions of work.

Similar results, involving an increase of over 34, 17, and 16.6 per cent in output, were obtained in packing boxes of mixed confectionery, sweets, and bonbons, respectively. By improved arrangement of material and redistribution of work, a diminution in labor cost of over 16 per cent was obtained in cocoapacking.

In the process of stalking raisins a new method involving the use of both hands was introduced, yielding an increased output of over 11 per cent. In almondblanching the introduction of an improved form of desk increased the output by over 23 per cent. Increases of 10, 22, and 30 per cent were obtained in coating chocolate biscuits, making meringues and packing biscuits, respectively. In other departments of the same firm the following increases were obtained by improved arrangement of material and better equipment and redistribution of work: Rollmaking, 32 per cent; frame-cleaning, 14 per cent; tin-cleaning, 36 per cent; applecrushing, 40 per cent; cake-packing, 31 per cent; labelling, 12 per cent; bottlepacking, 18 per cent.

In a Lancashire coal-mine, the miners' confidence was so completely obtained that they consented to be trained in the use of the pick by improved methods recommended by the institute's investigators. The latter spent the first period of their work in familiarizing themselves with mining conditions, and in getting to know the miners and to interest them in the investigation. They were carefully observed at their work and their methods noted. It was observed that energy was needlessly spent in checking the upward stroke of the picking, and in regaining speed for the downward stroke. The investigators trained the workers to wield the pick in a continuous curved path. They also determined the varying optimal rate of swinging the pick, according to the hardness and nature of the material against which it is employed. The weight of the picks also received study, and it was found that many of them, owing to repeated sharpening, weighed only 75 per cent of their supposed weight. A considerable number of groups of miners were trained according to the methods just mentioned. They were found after training to maintain the rhythm they had been taught, and expressed themselves highly satisfied with the new method after the initial difficulties of adaptation had been overcome. Here are a few of their remarks: "I can now use the weight of my body when picking coal." "The movement is easier.' "I have more strength at the stroke

I

T was a fortunate moment both for John Galsworthy and for English literature when he first happened to think of the Forsyte family. "The Man of Property," which is still in many respects his best novel, appeared in the year 1906; the Forsytes and their creator became famous. I wonder if at that time Mr. Galsworthy fully realized the magnitude and significance of that particular book. Years later, finding that no matter how many other works he produced, the world persisted in talking about the Forsytes, he returned to the old theme, and with much more success than is customary in such hazardous undertakings. Finally he brought together five books under the sardonic title, "The Forsyte Saga," assembling a prose epic dealing with the conflict between property and beauty. I supposed it contained his last word on the family.

But the Forsytes have now become something more than a theme; they are so close to their maker's heart that they seem essential to his happiness. Thus "The White Monkey," a well-wrought and brilliant novel, takes the Forsytes along into another generation, and we have an accurate picture of contemporary life. One of its most interesting features is the author's treatment of Soames. In "The Man of Property" Soames was a combination of dulness and brutality; he was so repellent that it seemed as if he incarnated everything that Mr. Galsworthy hated. In the later portions of "The Forsyte Saga" Soames rises so rapidly both in moral stature and in amiability that the reader passes from disgust through tolerance, through sympathy, to admiration; in "The White Monkey" Soames is an attractive man. If any reader should turn without pause from

"The White Monkey" to "The Man of Property," he would be impressed by the improvement in this man and by the change in the author's attitude toward him. Perhaps it is simply another illustration of the pardon that follows understanding. Soames must have risen in Mr. Galsworthy's estimation before he rose in ours; as one grows older and knows people better, one becomes more tolerant. Young persons, I think, are more apt to be severe in their judgments than their elders.

Two of the most remarkable instances in fiction where a character has gradually gained his maker's respect and affection may be seen in Mr. Pickwick and Dick Swiveller; compare the unpromising first appearance of these men with their development. Dickens could not have imagined any such growth in grace when he conceived of these characters; they won his heart in spite of himself.

Clyde Fitch used to say that he would begin a play with a perfectly definite idea of what his characters were to be and to do; and then the characters would insist on behaving in a totally different fashion and he was forced, in spite of himself, to obey and follow, rather than have his own way with them.

I can never have enough of the Forsyte family; and I am glad that in "The White Monkey" Mr. Galsworthy returned again to the original theme. Incidentally, toward the end of the book, there is a good advertisement for M. Coué.

Mr. Galsworthy, unlike many contemporary authors, always writes like a gentleman, because he cannot help it; not only in reading his books, but in talking with him, he is to me the ideal English gentleman. Virility and intellectual power are accompanied by a lack of affecta

tion and by that finest flower of character, "high humility."

He seems to have no theoretical philosophy, because life is to him an insoluble riddle; but his practical philosophy may be summed up in the word "kindness." He is, although he does not know it, a Christian in everything except creed.

Mr. Ansley Newman, of Buffalo, a young man who won many literary prizes in college, nominates for the Ignoble Prize books with uncut leaves. After mentioning one, he says: "But even worse has been the slow progress of slitting my way through my Manaton edition of Galsworthy. There is a set with type that is truly a 'sight for sore eyes' such as mine, and gorgeous paper. But that very paper makes reading a series of ocular hiccoughs, because it is so tough to cut. It seems to me that books with uncut leaves were meant for people who keep their libraries behind glass doors."

Now it so happens that I particularly like books with uncut leaves. They look so attractive that I wish all books except dictionaries, encyclopædias, and reference works would come to me with the leaves uncut. Yet I knew of a citizen in Mystic, Connecticut, who returned a book to the publishers because of this feature. She thought it was not "finished." Uncut leaves have a true literary flavor, though I cannot tell why.

Mr. Newman wishes to join the "I" Club, which reminds me that I have just received a letter from one who perhaps ought to be regarded as the original member. Miss Celia Baldwin, of Denver, informs me that in a book she published in 1880 she came out in her preface uncompromisingly for the first person. I hope there are many of my readers who see I to I with me in this matter.

Few recent books of reminiscences are more entertaining than the anonymous "Uncensored Recollections" and "Things I Shouldn't Tell"; and although the author says he gives himself away in every chapter, I haven't the remotest idea who he is, my acquaintance with the British nobility being extremely limited. In one of the few serious moments in these frivolous volumes, I find the worldly minded author in exact harmony with that

gloomy prophet, Jeremiah. He is talking about one of the most interesting and mysterious of all subjects-the human heart. He says:

Abraham Lincoln once said to Lord Lyons, who

told me the fact himself, "There are two people to whom even the most naturally truthful person is apt to tell a lie-not wilfully, of course, but rather out of a desire to be specially correct-the doctor and the interviewer." Lincoln was by no said he was, but merely quite an ordinary man means the extraordinary man silly people have with courage, honesty, and knowledge of men— far more useful in a crisis than a man of genius— but what he then said to our ambassador in WashUncle Abe knew that curious hostelry, the human ington is profoundly true, and shows how well heart; that is, knew it as well as a shrewd student of his fellow beings from the outside can know it. Joseph de Maistre says, "I don't know what the heart of a bad man is; but I do know the heart a good man; and it is a very repellent thing!" But an outside view of human nature teaches really nothing; it is too thickly shrouded in conventionalities, mendacities (both voluntary and unconscious), and the like, to provide any really reliable data. There is only one man who knows humanity as it really is-the Roman Catholic priest to whom the penitent confesses. The father doesn't know; the mother doesn't know; the lover doesn't know; and the mistress doesn't the husband doesn't know; the wife doesn't know; know. But the priest knows; and he alone.

of

The reason for saying that this Weltkind is here in harmony with the prophet Jeremiah is found in the latter's profound remark, "The human heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it?"

Speaking of Catholic priests, I cannot agree with my friend John Jay Chapman in his protest against having a Catholic on the Harvard Board of Overseers. I agree with Mr. Chapman in so many things that it is almost a luxury to find myself for once in opposition. He says: "The outspoken purpose of the Roman Church is to control American education." Although I am not a Catholic, I do not believe this. I do not think that Catholics are plotting to control American education; what they want is to control the education of children in their own church; and I cannot see why they should be blamed for this, or why in a country supposedly free they should not be allowed to do it. I was very glad indeed that the Constitutional amendment in Michigan, which would have prevented them from giving their children a religious education,

was voted down last autumn by an impressive majority.

The great scholar of the seventeenth century, John Selden, wrote in Greek on the flyleaf of every one of his vast accumulation of books, "Above all, Liberty." It is a good motto, and never more needed than in the year of grace 1925.

I knew that my attack on Burke's Speech on Conciliation would shock many, but I have received thus far only one strong protest. Mr. Harry Eugene Kelley, of Chicago, courteously but positively dissents from my opinion, and quotes a considerable number of authorities, all of whom are more weighty than I. Now if there is any right and wrong in a matter of personal taste, these men are right and I am wrong. But my sole object in these essays is to state facts as I like; and to me that famous speech by Burke is a bore. My articles are not hortatory; they are confessional. No candidate for the Ignoble Prize can be received unless it is a shock to orthodox opinion.

When I was in Honolulu in 1916, in the course of a public address delivered on the occasion of the seventy-fifth anniversary of Punahou School, I said that Hawaii ought to be ashamed that it had no orchestra of its own. I am highly pleased by a letter just received from the Reverend Brewer Eddy, who writes, "This afternoon is the first effort of the Hawaiian Symphony Orchestra of 25 or 30 members! So your words bore fruit."

Those who have travelled all over the world inform me that there are two places which are more beautiful than any others, the Hawaiian Islands and Ceylon. I have never seen Ceylon, but I think, in vernacular phrase, Hawaii will take a lot of beating. It is an earthly paradise. In his old age, Mark Twain used to return again and again in memory to the happy days of his youth spent in those delectable isles; and although I have read many glowing descriptions of their charm and beauty, Mark Twain's account is still the most vivid and the most persuasive.

That admirable newspaper, The Christian Science Monitor, recently contained

an article by Franklin Snow, in which he commends my emphasis on personality in railway trains. I am glad to be supported by such an authority, not only because it appeals to my vanity, but mainly because I welcome anything and everything that elevates human beings from machines to individualities. One man sees a group of section hands, and he is interested only in the amount of work they can do in a given time; another observer cannot help imagining what goes on in the mind of each worker, where he lives, what is his home life, what are his thoughts and dreams.

The long-awaited "Autobiography" of Mark Twain, while it is not so valuable a book as the "Life" by Paine, contains many pages of intense interest. It certainly repays a careful reading, and all who are interested in the career of one of the greatest of Americans will not neglect this work. With Mark Twain, democracy was a religion, in fact, his only one. Page after page shows his fierce hatred of injustice and cruelty, his fierce passion for individual liberty. Although Mark Twain said that nobody had an original thought or ever made an original remark, I can find no resemblance between him and any other writer. He was unique. His bitterest satires, his hottest denunciations, sprang from his love of justice and his unfathomable tenderness.

Apart from more important ideas in the "Autobiography," his remarks on Night particularly appeal to me. Speaking of his boyhood, he says:

and after each tragedy they happened every night My repentances were very real, very earnest; for a long time. But as a rule they could not stand the daylight. They faded out and shredded away and disappeared in the glad splendor of the sun. They were the creatures of fear and darkness, and they could not live out of their own place. The day gave me cheer and peace, and at night I repented again. In all my boyhood life life in the daytime or wanted to. In my age I I am not sure that I ever tried to lead a better should never think of wishing to do such a thing. But in my age, as in my youth, night brings me many a deep remorse. I realize that from the cradle up I have been like the rest of the racenever quite sane in the night.

That last sentence is a true generalization. Why is it that, no matter how long we live, we never outgrow our terror in