noff said it was a pity that Petrograd was not taken by the Allied fleet.

On February 26 the Union of Associations for the Society of Nations, together with the European Bureau of the Carnegie Peace Foundation, gave a luncheon in honor of Ambassador Sharp and myself at the Cercle Interallié, at which M. Léon Bourgeois presided. There were present some seventy-five guests, mostly delegates and French officials, including Sir Robert Borden; Venizelos, the Greek delegate; the Rumanian Minister; M. Vesnitch, the Serbian Minister; and the Brazilian Ambassador. At the conclusion M. Bourgeois arose and, although there were to be no set speeches, expressed the regret of the French nation that Ambassador Sharp would in the near future relinquish his post, and complimented his Administration upon its work of the past four trying years. He praised my effective helpfulness in regard to the League of Nations, and stated that he not only greeted me as a twin, because he was born in the same year as I was, but also as a Frenchman, since my father, who was born in 1809,

was a Frenchman by birth, and because my great-grandfather was a delegate to the Conference which was summoned by Napoleon during the first decade of the past century.

In reply, I stated that an American, to be truly patriotic, should understand our early history, and that no American with this knowledge could fail to have a love and sense of gratitude for France, our ally in the establishment of democracy, as we had so recently been her ally for the liberation of the world.

LANSING IS SIDE-TRACKED

My conferences regarding the League of Nations while it was under discussion and formulation by the Committee of the Conference having charge of that subject were held with Colonel House and his secretary, Mr. Auchincloss. On February 27 I had lunch with Secretary Lansing. It had been quite obvious to me that even before this he had been practically side-tracked, and that Colonel House had replaced him from the beginning, doubtless by direction of the

President. This was very evident so far as the League of Nations was concerned.

Mr. Lansing informed me that he had pointed out a number of technical objec tions to the Covenant as formulated, which, he was sure, would prove a fruitful source of difference and would make trouble. It seemed to me that he was evidently not conversant with the various stages of discussion regarding the articles of the Covenant.

I referred to the entire omission in the second draft of the section respecting civil and religious liberty and the protection of minorities, which was contained in the tentative draft, but was finally omitted because Japan had insisted that the equality of races be included, whereupon the whole subject had been omitted. I suggested that the entire subject, which was in fact a Bill of Rights, now that it had been excluded from the Covenant, should be incorporated in the treaties to be made with each of the new nations. Lansing agreed with me that that should be done and would, under the circumstances, be the best plan.

I

N the big, bare inn at the top of the Jericho Road three travelers were sitting around an open fire, for the night was cold. They were persons of some importance in their time, being rich, and their many followers-servants, guards, horses, and beasts of burden-crowded the alcoves around the courtyard of the khân.

One of the three was a Roman taxgatherer from Jerusalem; the second was a Persian silk merchant from Ecbatana; the third was a Greek theater director from the rich city of Gerasa, beyond the Jordan. They had often met before at the same khân, for their business frequently called them to traverse this dangerous road. They were always glad of a meeting and a friendly talk over a cup of mulled wine, no religion having yet been discovered to forbid such cheerful and warming fellowship. So they rested and told their stories, as travelers like to do.

"But where is our old companion, the good man from Samaria?" asked the Roman. "He is usually on the road at this season, with his sacks of corn from Dothan and his skins of wine from Jezreel. There is a good market for them in Jerusalem now."

"Perhaps he is waiting," said the Persian, "for the market to rise a little

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

of mercy, to bind up the wounded, to pour out money for the distressed. And I never knew a man to have so many chances. I will wager that even now he is picking up some poor wretch on the Jericho Road and taking care of him. That is what delays him. It has become a habit."

At that moment, as if a bell had called him, the Good Samaritan entered. He was dusty and a little out of breath, but he made the Oriental salutations of politeness as usual, and sat down with his friends by the fire.

"Another?" asked the Roman.

"Yes," replied the Samaritan, "another-in truth, several others."

"How many does that make," asked the Greek, "since we first met here?"

The Samaritan threw up his hands.

"I do not know. I have lost the count. Since I began to travel this road, some thirty years ago, it has been the same thing every year, sometimes twice a year. Always robbery, outrage, murder

people lying in their blood by the road side, women violated, little children cut to pieces. This time it was a poor man of the sect called Nazarenes whom they beat till they thought he was dead. His wife they stabbed to death and two girl children they abused into madness. I and my servants did what we could for them and brought them here for safety,"

"Such things ought not to be in the Empire," said the Roman, gravely. "Who is guilty of these offenses against justice and the Roman peace?"

"Always the same tribe," said the Samaritan. "They call it 'taking toll.'

They say their religion authorizes it, and after they have done it they wash their hands and say their prayers. But the name of their god must be Satan, and the blood on their souls will not wash out."

"But this tribe must be subdued," said the Roman. "They must be taught and bound to keep the peace."

"Subdued is an easy word," said the Persian; “but in my country there are tigers which cannot be changed into cats. You cannot trust them if they smell blood."

"It is so with this robber tribe," said the Samaritan. "Time and again one army after another has beaten them, and they have cringed and fawned and promised to be good. But when they are forgiven and the army withdraws they break out again to rob and rape, to butcher and burn. True, they let us pass because we are strong and well armed. But for the weak and helpless they have no mercy but torture and no compassion but the grave. Year after year the same brutality, the same horror! My gorge rises at the bloodiness of the Jericho Road."

"But why," asked the Greek, very softly, "just why do you not go around by some other way? You would escape these sights that trouble you so deeply and cost you so much money in charity. It is none of your affair, after all. What are the Jews to you, except as customers? Why not abandon the Jericho Road?"

The Samaritan looked at him, and then answered, sharply and firmly, as

if he had often thought of the question and had the answer ready.

"For two reasons. The first is the same that brings you here. We all need that road in our business. It is the shortest and best way to Jerusalem. The second reason is one that perhaps you may not share. To avoid the Jericho Road would not deliver me from its horrors. I should still see them in my heart-the wounded, the outraged, the slaughtered-they would haunt me and cry for help. Are they not of the same flesh and blood as we are? God knows they have cost me enough. But I

give it willingly. I only wish I could do more for them."

"You can," said a deep voice close behind the travelers. They looked up in surprise, and saw a man clothed in rough garments of camel's hair, with a leathern girdle round his loins. He had come in quietly and stood leaning on his long staff, gazing sternly into their faces.

"You can do much more, all of you. You must do more if you would meet your duty. You are rich. You have power. Put a strong guard on this pathway of blood and shame. Make this

tribe of robbers and murderers afraid. since they understand no other argument. It is even more merciful to prevent cruelty than to heal the wounded. It is even more righteous to protect the helpless than to comfort them in their misery. This ought ye to do, and not to leave the other undone. I charge you in the name of God. Patrol the Jericho Road!"

The four travelers looked at one another with wondering eyes, for the stranger spoke with authority. When they turned around again to question him, he was gone into the night.

International

into existence. In the same year, and practically at the same time, the Silesian Convent at Faenza opened its huge iron door to admit a wild-eyed lad into the service of the Church. "He seems quite vivacious," remarked the rector to the hopeful mother of the lad, "but I reckon he'll do."

A number of years later a mass of workingmen were conducting a strike in an industrial section of Romagna. The strikers were alone in their fight, abandoned by their leaders, disowned by a hostile Camera del Lavoro. There had been plenty of mass-meetings, plenty of agitation. Demands were made and rejected. Hopes of victory were fast vanishing. At the eleventh hour out of the mob comes a youth with fire in his eyes

and hatred in his heart. He must speak. "Comrades," he shouts, "you have had

demonstrations, enough nonsense! You have the strength of numbers and the force of arms! You have no head! Here, take mine! This is the hour of revolution-revolution at once!" The discouraged mob stood aghast in the presence of this mere youth who dared to speak of revolution. But his words had penetrated. The mob reacted in all its fury. The passion of revolution took hold of the abandoned strikers. "To the railway! To the railway! Revolution!" shouted the frenzied men and women. But they had hardly advanced when a troop of cavalry compelled them to disperse. They fled to their homes. The revolution was blocked. The youthful agitator, beaten by superior force, downed in his plan of battle, was led away by a

kindly hand, disillusioned but not discouraged. He would try again. He was born for the revolution.

The wild-eyed lad at the Silesian convent and the youthful revolutionist urging the mob to action were one and the same. To-day, after thirty-odd years of agitation and leadership, Benito Mussolini is at the head of the Italian Government, realizing the aspirations of his youth.

Millions of newspaper readers the world over are asking, Who is this Mussolini? What kind of a man is he?

Not excepting the romantic d'Annunzio, this enfant terrible is the most picturesque figure in all Italy. If I could find his prototype in America, I would engage in comparisons. But, fortunately, or unfortunately if you will, America breeds no Mussolinis. Men of his type are to be found in Latin countries, where temperament and impulse abound. As a man he is unique, sui generis. As a leader he is not to be compared. At this time of writing he has his country in the palm of his hand, to crush it if he pleases, to save it if he so wills. He is the organizer and the builder of the Fasci. He is also their master mind.

He comes from the soil, and he hates democracy. He speaks with provincial

de Costa, where, forty years ago, he first saw the light of day. His father, an iron worker, was an ardent Internationalist who suffered imprisonment for his loyalty to Marx. His mother, not unlike many Italian mothers of her day, hoped to have her Benito a priest of the Church. But, as destiny would have it, Benito was a rebel from the day of his birth, a rebel against the clergy, against society, against law and order. The Silesian fathers got rid of the vivacious lad with a sigh of relief, and he later took to teaching. He did not teach for long. The atmosphere of the schoolroom, like that of the chapel, bored him. He craved for action, for adventure, for life. He abandoned the schoolroom and set out for Switzerland. The news of

his father's arrest on the day of his departure failed to hold him back. He is not a man wlro will hold back. He went right ahead to Yverdon, arriving there with two lire in his pockets. After roaming for days from job to job, he was finally arrested and imprisoned on a charge of vagrancy. He returned to Italy, determined to "upset the world and everybody in it." He did.

Mussolini was born for the pen, and he followed his inclination. As a boy he had written many articles and much bad poetry. In Switzerland he had worked as a mason. He would be a journalist. In Trento he joined the martyr Cesare Battista and wrote for "Il Popolo." He gave himself to the cause of Italian irredentism, employing his pen, which was also his sword, with fierce hatred against Austria and the Austrians. He left Battista and founded "La Lotta di Classe" in Forli. His articles and editorials were so bitter, so venomous, so belligerent, that all Italy came to know Mussolini, the merciless revolutionist. He demanded the leadership of the Socialist party, as he has demanded the Government, and the party surrendered. He assumed the editorship of the "Avanti," the official organ of the Socialist movement, and, fearing "neither Rome nor hell," set out to "put blood, nerves, and iron in a huge empty body." Under his leadership the Socialist party assumed a belligerent attitude in Italian politics. Mussolini was the bitterest agitator and the most aggressive propagandist the Italian Socialists had ever seen. He was not for the class struggle. He was for class war.

Then the World War came. A deep love of country, slumbering for years in the heart of the revolutionary, came to life with the first booming of the guns. Mussolini could not resist its magnetism. He was a born fighter, a man for the trenches, a dynamic human force. The policy of neutrality decided upon by his party was not for him. He would not be a pacifist. He could not be. He cried out for war, and he ceased to be a Socialist. "Traitor!" shouted his comrades. "Scoundrels, cowards!" thundered Mussolini.

On November 15, 1914, the first issue of "Il Popolo d'Italia," the bitterest antiSocialist organ in Italy, appeared on the news-stands of Milan. Through its columns Mussolini cried out for war-for war against Austria and Germany, for war against the Socialist and Communist parties, against all the enemies of Italy. He fought for and in the war. All Italy listened to the emotional, dramatic, inspiring war speeches of Mussolini, the redeemed. Four years later he began the organization of the Fasci. The first to respond to his call were the Arditi.

What has happened since then is practically a matter of common knowledge. With his million Fascisti, who compose the most remarkable movement of youth in the history of any nation, he has brought the Socialist and Com

munist parties to their knees. He has assumed absolute control of the Italian Government. It may truly be said that in the hands of this man lies the fate of Italy.

Mussolini is an eccentric man of remarkable force and initiative. Though he betrays a childish sentimentalism in his acceptance of political ideas, he is inclined to be egotistical, cruel, and unscrupulous. He is not a cultured man. He abhors the academic mind and hates the doctrinaire. His articles are superficial, his speeches abound in adjectives. But he is as aggressive with his pen as with his tongue. The editorials in "Il Popolo d'Italia" are venomous, menacing, and always polemical. One of the editors of the Fascista organ gives this picture of Mussolini at work in his office:

In the editorial offices there is complete silence. Mussolini is at work. Facing him, on the wall, hangs the black flag of the Arditi, with its prominent skull and dagger; on the table, between the barricade of books and the mass of manuscripts, rests his revolver; a bit further, on a volume of Carducci, a hunting knife, with its blade of steel, glitters in the sunlight; close to his inkwell is another revolver, a smaller one of feminine elegance. On the bookcase-rather, on a mass of manuscripts never to be published--are boxes of bullets; near by rests his Fascista cane. In this formidable armory, standing out in perfect contrast to the black flag, Mussolini loads, murmurs, shrieks, threatens, and explodes. He hammers out his thoughts. His pen cuts deep into the paper. He works like a workman. He glories in his work.

"Clemenceau," says Nitti, "has been throughout his whole life a formidable man of destruction." Mussolini differs from Clemenceau only in that he can

also build. He is a doer of things. He believes in accomplishment, in achievement, and has no patience with men who will not act. In his large, protruding eyes there is bitter determination and much iron. He built up the Socialist party and then abandoned it. He followed with the building of the Fasci. He will now build an iron government.

Mussolini, unlike many of the party. leaders in Italy, cannot be credited with firm political convictions. He is continuously in a state of political change. Even to-day the public opinion of the country is hopelessly divided on what Mussolini actually believes and desires. He has been a Socialist and a Socialist leader for many years. But was he truly a Socialist? Did he fully grasp the Marxian theories of government? It is difficult to answer the question. I am inclined to believe that he was lured by the romanticism of the Socialist movement. He loved to fight, and the Socialist party, the class struggle, offered him the opportunity to fight. He has never believed in reform through the ballot. He believed and believes in the right of might. As a youth he believed in industrial and political revolution. As a leader of the Socialists he believed in settimane rosse and la guerra di classe. In the war he was a soldier of the trenches. In peace he guided his Fascisti through civil war.

To-day, with the reins of government in his hands, this man, ferocious as a tyrant and human as a child, promises to restore law and order. "Democracy," he has said, "has failed in Italy. This is the day of the dictatorship."

Will he restore the Government to all the people of Italy or will he continue to dominate single-handedly, as he has dominated from that day in Romagna when he urged the striking workmen to revolution? The nation awaits breathlessly the next move of Benito Mussolini.

"Y

OU ought to write something

about that," said the head of the English Department in a big preparatory school. "Those are two unusually interesting experiments."

The two other English teachers completing our group, talking shop after a full day of reading for the College Entrance Board examinations, urged the same thing. And so I have done so. There is nothing new about the experiments, but perhaps my writing about them may help to encourage some of us teachers who in the routine of the daily task may have become tired, discouraged, or mired.

So much for introduction, except-they really aren't experiments; they are proved facts.

Four years ago I wished to demonstrate to myself the truth or falsity of certain theories of my own as to a boy's liking for poetry. For years, in classes corresponding to eighth grade or a little higher, I had had some very interesting results in getting boys not only to read poetry, but also to compose verse. I wanted to see what could be done, while carrying the regular work of the course, with a class a year older, corresponding roughly to first-year high school boys, in which there should be no picked boys except such as the alphabet in its natural order dropped into my lap. Accordingly, I took a class of youngsters from thirteen to fifteen years old.

Now I believed that the supposition, held by many, that boys as a rule dislike or hate poetry is absolutely false. I held, and still hold, that almost all boys have within them a genuine fondness for poetry. If a teacher believes that they have not and proceeds to teach with that view-point, he will not discover their liking, and beyond question he will arouse in most boys so great an aversion to poetry that he may shut the door to their enjoyment of it, not only during the period of adolescence, but possibly for all time. On the other hand, if a teacher really loves poetry and takes the standpoint that men are but boys grown up and have in common an inherent love for that which is clean and true, strong and brave, and fine and beautiful, he will find, if he shows any wisdom in his teaching, that there will be a ready response to his love for poetry on the part of the boys. This response will of course vary with the boy, but rare indeed is he who does not care for some kind of poetry.

In my experimental class, besides our work in grammar, composition, and prose reading, we read Thompson's "British Verse" from the beginning. After we had discovered that Dan Chaucer used a form of simplified spelling and got away with it when we

couldn't, worse luck!-and had a deliciously humorous way of picturing the people of his day, who were remarkably like ourselves in spite of their queer clothes and manners, we raced through the ballads and found that, naïve and crude, exaggerated and absurd, though they might be in places, they had swing and sincerity, incident and plot, and appeal in every case. Then we came to the lyric poetry of Elizabeth's age and of Shakespeare. One week I read to the boys in the class the four or five of Shakespeare's sonnets included in the "British Verse," taking up one or two a day and explaining them very carefully. After that I asked each member of the class to choose the sonnet he liked best, and to bring in for the next recitation a carefully written paraphrase of it. When that was done, I told the boys I wished each one to memorize the sonnet of his choice. They of course found that they were able to learn it in no time. Shortly after that they studied Milton's sonnets. It was simple then to compare the Shakespearean and the Italian types of sonnets.

It was now some time after Christmas, and I was ready for the experiment, of which the boys had no inkling. One Monday morning I said, "Now, boys, we'll try something new to-day. We'll all write a sonnet. I think most of you can do it in the forty-five minutes."

The expression of surprise and incredulity on the faces of some of the youngsters was most amusing. Most of them had never tried to write verse. What was there that they could write upon? I told them that the subjectmatter was simple. They had been reading a good deal of love poetry. They, being experienced in all such matters, could easily write a love sonnet. They could write the octave on a description

loop for many minds awaits the readers of The Outlook's "Book Table." There is Lloyd Morris's review of "Ariel," by José Enrique Rodó, entitled “A Philosopher from the Plate." There is interesting biographical mate rial in Henry C. Shelley's "Centenary of Thomas Hughes." Herbert Gorman has given us an article which might be called "Confessions of a Book Reviewer," and Hubert V. Coryell continues his previous essays on boys and books by an article giving the boys' point of view of "What Makes a Book Worth Reading."

of "her," though who "she" was I did not know except in the case of Jack. The sestet could begin with "but," though what the "but" would lead to, I had no idea. What more did they, being intelligent boys, need? Keep quiet and get busy.

Their inagination was tickled. The competitions they had had in rhyming words and in synonyms and the training they had had in the rhythm of verse now stood them in good stead, and they tackled the new game in earnest. I had asked them to write a sonnet in fortyfive minutes if they could. I knew well enough that I could not have done such a thing at their age, and I question whether many of my day and generation could have. Could any of these boys do it? Quietly and eagerly they worked-no sound in the room except once in a while a boy tipsoed to me to ask for advice. By thirty-five minutes one boy was through; by forty, three more; by forty-five, eight out of the class of sixteen. All but two had more than eight lines. The work of all of them was in true sonnet form with correct versification. The boys who had not finished were allowed two or three days extra, but were asked to get their sonnets in as soon as possible. They did.

When we discussed the sonnets, some of which were humorous, some serious, all better than I had dared hope for, we realized that writing verse was not so difficult, after all. We next decided to write ballads. Accordingly, we took twenty minutes of a recitation for each one to think out plots for ballads. These were read in class and criticised by the boys. Then I asked that they try to get their ballads in within a week. Well, we had some great ballads. They ran the gamut of mystery, disguise, and the supernatural, lily-white maids, damsels with golden hair, true love triumphant, tragic death. There were flaws in the meter at times-as there should be in all true ballads!-and in diction and in plot it was still possible, if one desired, to criticise; but, as in the case of the sonnets, I was able to congratulate the boys heartily for the fine work they had done.

We had great fun one recitation with limericks. Then a little later I told the boys I wished to try another experiment. I wanted them to put either the First or the Twenty-third Psalm into verse. And I told them why I thought such an exercise would be heipful. Again I gave them plenty of time. They found this versification harder, as I expected; but I was astonished at the results they obtained. Most of the boys chose the Twenty-third Psalm, and they used all kinds of meter. One boy, I remember, used an anapestic trimeter for the First Psalm. When we read and discussed the verse, mixed in with the boys' versions, I gave them a number of poetic (?) paraphrases from an old