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by the parishes, and this also was refused.

In March of the present year the Soviet Government ordered the Patriarch to issue an ecclesiastical decree directing the bishops and clergy to surrender the Church's treasures through out the country, because, as they said, of the famine, but with no assurance or guaranty that the proceeds from the sale or other disposal of these treasures would be applied to the feeding of the starving people. The Patriarch made The grave answer that he and his colleagues were forbidden by their oaths and the canons of the Church to dispose of the property of the Church, which was, and had been from time immemorial, devoted to sacred purposes. He did not say that it could not be disposed of by any means, but that it could not be disposed of in a reckless manner, or without the Church's knowing what was done with it; that the danger of sacrilege would certainly arise, and that he was not, therefore, in a position to do what was directed without violating his oath.

But he went on to say: "We are prepared on behalf of the Church to undertake to raise the very money you think you will get by the sale of these treas ures and to be responsible for seeing that the money goes to the famine areas, if you will leave the treasures where they are and allow us to deal with them as seems to us to be consistent with the oaths we have taken and the promises we have made."

The answer came at once: "We refuse to allow any such arrangement to be made," and the commissars were ordered to go into the churches, to tear down the ornaments, some of them of extraordinary interest, antiquity, and beauty-ikons, vessels, books, hangings, etc. to take them in defiance of their custodians (the priests of the Church), and to allow no interference at all.

Now the Russian people have always been devoted to their Church, and since the Bolshevist troubles have come they have resorted to the churches more than ever, for, since man seemed to have deserted them, they had no place to turn but to God. In fact, there has been a great religious revival throughout the whole country, which has been commented on by all observers. Naturally, when the commissars began their work of spoliation disturbances arose. There upon the Soviet arrested a number of priests and bishops, charged them with inciting the people to riot, tried, and sentenced them to death. Moreover, it was their opportunity to deal with Tihon. Here in New York, where he lived for some years as Archbishop, he was greatly respected; in Russia he was profoundly reverenced. Sir Paul Dukes, in his enlightening book on Russia, "The Red Dusk and To-morrow," quotes a workman as saying: "There is only one man in the whole of Russia whom the Bolsheviki fear from the bottom of their hearts, and that is Tihon, Patriarch of the Russian Church."

Tihon was arrested and thrown into prison. This was denied by the Soviet, who asserted that "he was living in a monastery." So he was-in the Donsky Monastery at Moscow, which is used as a prison for ecclesiastics. It was reported some time ago that he had been taken to Petrograd for trial, and if he is tried there is no slightest doubt that he will be convicted on some trumped-up charge and sentenced to death. Whether the Patriarch and the other bishops and priests who are under sentence of death will be executed will depend on whether the Soviet Government thinks it to its advantage in its dealings with the outside world, in the matter of loans, etc., to appear to be becoming more moderate in its policy. That it has changed its heart is unthinkable, for the same set of men are still in control who have deluged Russia with blood.

institutions have generally proved disastrous failures, often with shocking conditions, and recently in many cases parents have been directed to send and take their children back: "We are closing the house; come and take them away." No better sign of the failure of Communism in Russia could be given than this.

The misery of the starving people in the famine areas, naturally and properly, is what has been brought most to the attention of the American people, yet there are other forms of suffering which are hardly less poignant. One of these is the great blight which has fallen on the intelligentsia, the educated classes. The American Relief by its food parcel system has done a work for them which has been not the least of the benefits which it has brought to Russia. The condition of these people, especially those engaged in teaching, is inexpressibly pitiable, not only because of the under-feeding, not to call it slow starvation, which they are obliged to face, but because of their intellectual hunger.

As for the physical hunger, the ration for a professor in one university, not in the famine region, is eighteen pounds of food a month. The average American eats approximately four pounds of food a day. No wonder that a petition from this institution gave the names of six professors who had recently died, nor that the remaining two hundred ap pealed to "the Civilized Scientific and Humane Societies of the United States to extend help, without which the university within the ensuing year had only to finish its existence."

There is one other insidious method by which the Bolsheviki are attacking the Church, and that is by encouraging other sects to come into the country and do propaganda at the expense of the national Church. This would account, for instance, for its extremely friendly attitude towards the Roman Church, of which we have read lately in the newspapers. Certain American sects are engaged in this work, and it ought to be impressed upon them that by what they are doing, which weakens the national Church, they are only playing the Bolsh evists' game and working to their own ultimate disadvantage. If the Russian Church were destroyed, these newcomers would be easy victims. There ought to be churchmanship in America wise and An appeal for relief early in 1922 by resourceful enough to serve Russia the music teachers of one of the princispiritually without making common pal cities was addressed "To the citizens cause with the Communists, which is of our friendly country in the hope of a what some sects are doing now.

In fact, the Soviet was rightly alive to its danger from the Church. Not long ago a distinguished Russian remarked that his country had passed through several such crises as the present, and when he was asked how it had come out of them he replied, unhesitatingly, "Through religion and the Church." The Bolsheviki never forget that history may repeat itself.

In dealing with the home the Soviet's methods were a little less direct than in dealing with the Church. They began by taking away the home-maker, the mother, as much as possible. Everybody in Russia is more or less dependent on rations for food, and the Government rationed men who were employed, but not their wives, unless they too had jobs. This took the mother away from the home a great part of the day, necessarily. Then the Soviet established institutions where fathers and mothers, while not actually compelled to do so, were encouraged to send their children to be brought up. This served a double purpose-to break up family life and to give the Bolsheviki a chance to bring up the children as good Communists. tunately, it has not succeeded.


favorable answer to this entreaty of our starving artists. . . . We receive too little food and money. On the market everything is too dear, and our essential nourishment consists of cabbage, frozen potatoes, and scanty portions of bad rye bread. Our Association counts no less than 2,000 members, and among them not less than 500 are in bitter want of food." And almost more numerous than the appeals for food from the highly educated classes have been the requests that scientific material be obtained for them, since they have been cut off from it since the beginning of the war. Electricians, physiologists, and other specialists declare that they have heard nothing new in their spheres since 1914.

Something of the general frame of mind of these poor people may be gathered from the case of one woman, gently nurtured and highly cultivated, who came to see one of our Relief officers. When he had received her, the American stepped out into the hall, called a servant, and told her to bring a couple of cups of tea and some cakes. When they came, the young woman burst into tears. "What's the matter?" "Oh, I did not know that there was a man in Russia with so much courtesy left!"

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N William J. Locke's latest book, "The Tale of Triona," Alexis Triona wins fame through the publication of a volume which is, in fundamentals, a plagiarism. The lie is discovered by his adoring wife, Olivia; Triona, in shame, hides himself away for a year, is finally reconciled to his wife, and comes back to society with a confession of the part he played in the creation of the book.

Writing to the "Times," he tells how, finding the notes on the dead body of an espionage agent in Russia, he came to take the story as his own and wrote it as such, adopting the romantic name of Alexis Triona in place of the somewhat prosaic one of John Briggs.

Despite the fact that his own brilliance made the book, Briggs's part has of course been an ignominious one; but he is prepared, backed up by his wife, to make matters clear to the public and stand free of his guilt for all time. He expects all sorts of uproars from the publication of his letter of confession. Mr. Locke is wonderfully kind! This is what he says:

But as they had planned so did it. not turn out. Rowington gave news that Onslow and Wedderburn had dropped the question. Why revive dead controversy? But Triona and Olivia insisted. The letter on the origin of "Through Blood and Snow," signed "John Briggs," appeared in the "Times." A few references to it appeared in the next weekly "Press." But that was all. No one was interested. "Through Blood and Snow" was forgotten. The events of 1917 in Russia were ancient history. . . What did the reading world care what Alexis Triona's real name was or how he obtained the material for his brilliant book?

I repeat, Mr. Locke is wonderfully kind. Would that many more people were built the same way. Just what would have happened under the circumstances in real life is something like the following.

Scene: The news-room of half the newspapers in the city.

Time: Morning.

A lynx-eyed city editor sits in his chair reading. Suddenly he starts, pounces forward. There is quick play of right hand and a pair of scissors, and the sheet lies mutilated before him.

"Scott! Whalen!" he barks, and from nowhere appear two keen-faced young men, who stand attentively before the Great One.

"Seen Alexis Triona's letter in the "Times' smorning?" he asks, looking piercingly at them.

"No," they both answer.

"No, you wouldn't! What d'you do on

the way to the office? Sleep? Well,
anyway, you know the chap I mean?"
"Sure," from both.

"Right; get onto this. Read that let-

They read it together, while the other returns to his paper.

"Gee! This is good!" bursts from both young men.

"Glad you realize it," the C. E. says, without looking up. "Now get right on it. Find out what's back of it. You, Scott, get at Triona himself and his wife. Funny business this about being away for a whole year. See what it


There's a story somewhere."
He glances up. "Might be another
woman in it, you know.
Get at
the servants. Whalen, you get after
this publisher fellow, Rowington. How
much did he know when he published
the book? Has he been keeping it dark?
Is it a conspiracy between the two, and
is this "Times' dope just a free ad? You
know what I want. Right, first edition,
mind. Shoot!"

Scott and Whalen rush out of the



The city editor picks up the telephone. "Harry? Say, Harry, we're running a page feature on this Alexis Triona stunt. See his letter in the Times'? You did, eh? Thought you would. . . . Well, Harry, I want you to fix me up with two or three pictures. You know the stuff. Triona and his wife. . . . Have they got any kids? H'm! Pity! Tell you what, rake up some of these Russian starvation pictures, will you? All right; let me know. 'By!"

The city editor of half the papers in the city then jumps to his feet and barges through the door of the Sunday Magazine Section, disturbing the peace and quiet that reign therein.

"Say, Jim," he cracks out, and the spiders up in the corners look down in amazement at the disturbance. "What did we say about Triona's book 'Through Blood and Snow' when it was published last year? Hunt it up, will you? And get me a copy of the book as well. I want some quotations from it."

Five minutes later he is glancing over the review.

"H'm," he mutters disconsolately, "this won't do! 'Wonderful . . . thrilling. . . the mark of truth is stamped on every page. It is only too clear that the -author has lived through the agonizing experiences he so vividly describes. . . . Something more than a book. ...' Jim, what d'you mean by it? Spoiling the story like this! I wanted to say that at the time of publication the 'Daily Squeal' had been the only newspaper in the country to point out that the story should be taken with a pinch of salt. We can't do that now."

He thinks for a moment.

"Tell you what! Find out what the sales of the book have been, will you? And (if you can) just what Triona has brought in from his little deception."

The man of books is moved to protest.

"But, I say, old chap," he ventures, "don't you see this fellow Triona is doing a pretty big thing with this confession? Why treat the story this way?" "Which way is that?"

"Well, it seems pretty obvious, doesn't it?"

"That's my affair. Don't the people want the news?"

"Well, God in heaven," cries the other, "hasn't the fellow given it them in his letter?"

The city editor (of half the newspapers in the city) becomes immersed in documents.

Scene: The office of the manager of half the photographic agencies and film news bureaus in the city.

Time: Morning.

The manager sits in his chair reading the morning paper. Suddenly he starts, pounces forward, and peers into the news sheet as if in recognition of a longlost friend. Throwing down the paper, he raises grateful eyes to heaven, and as his hand reaches for the telephone he murmurs, wonderingly, "For the love of Pete!"

"Say, Eddy," he bawls down the tube, "have you seen the letter in the Times' 'smorning from that guy Alexis Triona? You have, eh? Some story, boy! How many men have we got out on it? Eh? Good for you! Let's see the results when you get 'em."

The manager then puts down the telephone reverently, leans back in his chair and twiddles his thumbs. Closing his eyes, he whistles softly to himself the "Song of Love."

Scene: The office of the manager of half the film-producing companies in the city.

Time: Forenoon.

The manager sits in his comfortable chair reading. From his table a bevy of beautiful women smile dazzlingly towards him, but he ignores the photographs, his attention having been drawn to something of more than ordinary interest in the news. Leaning forward, he pushes one of the row of white buttons in his table.

A minute later the door is opened noiselessly and a tall, well-groomed man enters the room.

"Ah, Ward," booms the man at the table, "I suppose you have done something in the matter of this Triona confession?"

"We have." answers the newcomer. "We are negotiating now for the film rights of the book 'Through Blood and Snow.' As you know, we have tried in vain to get in touch with Triona during

the past year. But now I have Smith out on the job, and have already prepared the ground by a series of wires and phone calls. It appears, however, that Triona is besieged this morning."

"Naturally, naturally," comes testily from the Mighty One, "but it was up to you to get in first. Let me know what progress you make."

Ward silently withdraws, and the manager, frowning, leans back in his chair and mutters: "Too bad, too bad! These fellows of mine want waking up badly."


Many scenes of a similar nature are being enacted all over the city, but we spare you them, and leap ahead.

The scene is the interior of all the elevated trains, surface cars, and subway carriages of the city. The time is early evening on the same day.

Packed masses of humanity are swaying and rolling with the lurch of motion. With eagerness they con the flaring headlines of the newspapers which, in some mysterious way, they have contrived to bring safely and untorn through the crowds.

Snatches of conversation can be heard above the roar and rattle of steel. Even the heavy breathing does not entirely drown the voices.

"... Some guy, eh? . . ."

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". . . And his name! Some name, boy!... Say, did you see that bit? . . ." "... She's not much to look at, is she? . . ."

You could tell by his picture

he wasn't an author. . . ."

"... It's my opinion. . . ." "... I haven't read the book, but I think it's a downright. . . ."

"... They're getting divorced. was found at the. . . ."


"... It was an awful book, anyway. I never read it, but my sissy says she couldn't understand a word. . . ." "... He's not a Russian at all. . . What are the police doing, any

Courtesy of Scott & Fowles

Diddlety, diddlety, dumpty,
The cat ran up the Plum tree.


sitting together the same evening, a look of terrible bewilderment in their eyeswondering whether, after all, it had not been the better part to go on acting the lie.

Trifling little scenes, these. But they

will be understood by the unfortunate people who have gone through this mill. In their sad eyes I might be able to raise a gleam of understanding and pity. But would the pity be for Triona and his wife?


PAINTING ARTHUR RACKHAM: A LIST OF BOOKS ILLUSTRATED BY HIM. Compiled by Frederick Coykendall. With an Introductory Note by Martin Birnbaum. Privately printed,


Collectors and bibliophiles as well as illustrators will be interested in this beautifully printed little brochure, the product of the printing house of W. E. Rudge, of Mount Vernon, New York, and designed, we understand, by Mr. Bruce Rogers. Mr. Birnbaum's introduction "... Wonder what his game is presents an enthusiastic yet discriminow?..."

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nating appreciation of Mr. Rackham's work, which, as every one knows, has made many good books better during a score of years or more. Perhaps Rackham's children are his most characteristic as well as his most popular creations; though Milton's "Comus" has very recently been illustrated by him, while in an earlier period he was attracted by Washington Irving's books. A recent exhibition of Rackham's work at the Scott

and Fowles galleries in New York City has presented his original drawings for the first time to the public, and makes the issuing of this appreciation especially appropriate. We reproduce above one of the characteristic drawings from "Mother Goose" as shown in this exhibition.

JULIAN ALDEN WEIR. By Duncan Phillips and Others. Illustrated. E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. $15.

This handsome book contains thirtyodd full-page plates showing in monotone the best of Weir's work. With the appreciations by Duncan Phillips, Royal Cortissoz, Childe Hassam, J. B. Millet, and others, it constitutes a worthy memorial of one of the most distinguished of American painters.


GIRLS. By Charles K. Taylor. The Acad-
emy Press, Orange, New Jersey. $2.
Mr. C. K. Taylor's Cutlook articles on

physical standards for boys and girls evoked a wider response than perhaps any other articles which appeared last year in this journal. A statement of the principles behind his standards and the method of their application, together with complete tables for the measurement of boys and girls, is now available in book form. This compact and authoritative volume should be in the hands of every one interested in the physical welfare and development of children.


ENCHANTED YEARS (THE). Edited by Professors John C. Metcalf and James S. Wilson. Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York. $1.50.

Although a few of the poems contributed to "The Enchanted Years" have already appeared in periodicals and volumes, the majority of them are printed here for the first time. When it is pointed out that among the contributors to this volume are Lord Dunsany, D. H. Lawrence, H. D., Vachel Lindsay, Edwin Arlington Robinson, John Drinkwater, Ralph Hodgson, Thomas Hardy, Arthur Symons, and Walter de la Mare, tò enumerate a few of the eighty poets present, it may readily be seen that the anthology is not without importance as an addition to the season's poetry. The writers whose work appears in this book contributed their efforts as a centennial offering to the University of Virginia,

REAT rivers like the Yukon and the Mackenzie, moving forever toward a distant goal, enthrall the imagination with a sense of irresistible power and perpetual motion that never comes to him who travels on still water. Old-timers who ran the Athabasca or the Slave River rapids in their canoes deplore the passing of the ancient order: for, if the change reduced the personal risk, it also did away with the tingle and the thrill of battle amid the rocks in the foaming torrent to bring the scow or the York boat through. That bris tling adventure counted for more than a man's pay. If there was peril, there was also the true romance, with "the bright eyes of danger." The passenger learned to place his trust in Providence. his own paddle, and his tight-lipped pilot and not to rock the boat. The miracle was that so many frail cockle-shells came through unscathed. The wary river pioneers did not despise the dangers; familiarity never bred contempt. But they read the river as a scholar reads a book. They interpreted by a flash of intuition the meaning of every white ripple, every darkling patch or shifting color or revolving eddy. They seemed to possess an uncanny faculty for the divination of that which lay beneath the surfaces. They had cool judg ment and unshaken nerve.

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and because this is so a number of the poems are concerned with the University itself, with Virginia, and with Edgar Allan Poe. However, most of the poems are on general subjects, and the reader may discover such delightful efforts as "Egypt," by H. D.; "I Know All This When Gypsy Fiddles Cry," by Vachel Lindsay; "Saul," by George Sterling; and "Afterthoughts," by Edwin Arlington Robinson.

SELECTED POEMS. By Laurence Binyon. The Macmillan Company, New York. $2.

Mr. Laurence Binyon is an admirable example of what assiduous application in almost any art by an intelligent and sensitive man will do. When he first started writing verse, he wrote probably the worst poetry that any man of his prominence had ever perpetrated in England. But time went on and Mr. Binyon's work grew better, until it reached that authentic plane which placed him among the lesser contemporary figures in English poetry. He has now reached that proud eminence which entitles him to a volume of "Selected Poems." Some of the work included is mediocre, much of it is charming though not especially important, and a few pieces possess that distinguished ring of finality which proclaims the achieved poem.

He is essentially a conservative in verse, employing time-honored meters, writing about Tristram and Iseult, Sirmione, and "The Death of Adam." His phrasing is clear and vibrant, albeit it


BY FULLERTON WALDO "There was I lying in the bottom of the boat," said a canoe passenger of the Athabasca Rapids, "and Colonel Cornwall sat there in the stern steering with his paddle, never once showing the faintest trace of concern. I saw the blue sky and the clouds shooting by like steam blowing off. There was a roaring in my ears we struck a rock, and caromed off again; we scudded out of a twisting, boiling chute into a placid reach, and I thanked my stars we had come to the end of the passage. And then I learned that it was only the beginning, and the merest ripple to what was to come. From a whirlpool where we spun like a helpless insect we were thrown against two rocks, the water rushing under the boat as we hung there. We had to get out and unload the canoe, then hoist it round the obstacle and let it down into a foaming pool. Colonel Cornwall grinned and said it was fun. I was gladder than Pollyanna when it was over."

The reckoning comes when the men who passed down the swift-flowing stream so lightly must ascend it. Great Bear River has a course of ninety miles between Great Bear Lake and the Mackenzie at Norman. The distance is descended by canoe in a day. When Inspector La Nauze, of the Mounted Police, went up in quest of Eskimo murderers in 1915, he needed thirteen days. He had to take with him a scow laden

is but seldom that the truly distinguished phrase flashes before the reader. He is frequently delicate in his apprehensions of beauty. Here is an example of his lyric note at its best:

MORN LIKE A THOUSAND SHINING SPEARS Morn like a thousand shining spears Terrible in the East appears.

O hide me, leaves of lovely gloom, Where the young Dreams like lilies bloom!

What is this music that I lose
Now, in a world of fading clues?
What wonders from beyond the seas
And wild Arabian fragrancies?

In vain I turn me back to where
Stars made a palace of the air.
In vain I hide my face away
From the too bright invading Day.

That which is come requires of me
My utter truth and mystery.
Return, you dreams, return to Night:
My lover is the armèd Light.

Brash Perkins. Illustrated. Boni & Live-
right, New York. $3.

Two women who loved adventure and beauty and the wild outdoors went to Death Valley, and one of them has made a good book about the trip to and in that desolate region, full of the atmosphere of the real desert. The account of the difficulties that beset the travelers in reaching their goal is entertaining and at times humorous, and the descriptions of desert scenery are unusually good.

with provisions. This means the wearisome process known as "tracking." by which the river-men must haul the vessel along the bank with tow ropes. All the old-timers can tell a generation fond of desk work and afraid of blistering its hands the wide difference between gliding down-stream and "bucking the current." It is still a formidable feat to descend in a canoe the river Mackenzie, explored in 1789. To-day the canoeist. returning. can put his boat aboard a steamer; but Mackenzie, uncomplaining. worked his passage with his spruce paddle all the way back to Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca. To paddle your own canoe had meaning then.

Within fifty miles of Hay River, a hamlet at the southwest corner of Great Slave Lake, are the Alexandra Falls, on the stream that bears the same name as the settlement. The upper falls are eighty-five feet high, and a mile down the river are the lower falls, fifty-five feet high, a total drop of one hundred and forty feet. Twelve miles from the lake are rapids. Yet before it enters the lake the stream is moving so slowly that it seems stagnant. It is as brown as coffee, and an iridescent scum with a displeasing aroma forms upon it On either hand the banks exhibit vegetation of an almost tropic luxuriance. The traveler might imagine himself on a waterway of Amazonia, amid this lush growth of long grasses, willows, alders,


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