All in the Day's Work — Chapter 5: A Fresh Start - A Second Retreat

It was in June, 1882, that I went back home, dusted my desk in the Tower room now shared with my sister’s playhouse and dolls—set up my microscope and went to work on the Hydrozoa.

But not for long.

5 A FRESH START—A SECOND RETREAT

It was the custom of the Tarbell household to do its part in entertaining the Methodist ministers and presiding elders who periodically “filled the pulpit” of our church.

In the winter after my return from the Poland venture we had a guest, an important local personage, Dr. Theodore L. Flood, a preacher who had retired from active ministry to take the editorship of a magazine called _The Chautauquan_, published in the town thirty miles from Titusville where I had so recently spent four years—Meadville, the home of Allegheny College.

On this visit Dr. Flood asked me to “help him out” for a month or two in a new department in his magazine.

I was quick to accept, glad to be useful, for I had grown up with what was called the Chautauqua Movement.

Indeed, it had been almost as much a part of my life as the oil business, and in its way it was as typically American.

If we had a truer measure for values we would count it more important.

This Chautauqua Movement had grown out of a Methodist camp meeting held annually at Fair Point on the pleasant lake which in my childhood had been the terminus of our most ambitious all-day excursions.

The president of this Association by 1870 was a man justly respected in all that part of the world for his good deeds, as well as his business acumen—Lewis Miller, a manufacturer of Akron, Ohio.

Mr. Miller was to be known nationally as the father-in-law of Thomas Edison, but old-time Chautauquans put it the other way: “Edison is Lewis Miller’s son-in-law.

” That was enough recommendation for Edison in their minds.

Lewis Miller’s interest in Chautauqua went beyond the annual camp meeting.

He saw the opportunity to build up there a summer home where parents could give their children healthy out-of-door amusement, protection from the evil ways of the unregenerate, and sound modern instruction in the Bible.

Sympathy with this program induced a half-dozen families in the Titusville Methodist Church to join in the purchase of a lot on the outskirts of the grounds and start a Titusville settlement—a cottage with a mess hall and a few rooms—tents serving as sleeping quarters for extras.

Father joined the colony soon after we moved to Titusville.

We had a tent and a flat-bottomed boat.

Through the years I have been recalling, the years in high school, college, as Preceptress of Poland Union Seminary, part of all my summers had been spent at Chautauqua.

Lewis Miller’s laudable attempt to furnish attractive instruction in the Bible meant little or nothing to me at first; the flat-bottomed boat meant a great deal.

But in 1874 something happened that dragged me away from the water.

Lewis Miller had persuaded the most eminent advocate of the Sunday school in America, Dr. (afterwards Bishop) John H. Vincent, to select Fair Point as the home of a National Interdenominational Sunday School Institute which he and those who saw with him had been for some time planning.

The first session of this new organization was held in 1874 under the name of the Chautauqua Assembly.

It was recognized at once as a revolution upsetting the old order.

The most spectacular feature of the revolution was the Chautauqua platform, making as it did stirring, challenging contacts with current intellectual life.

There one heard the great speakers of the day on all sorts of subjects.

There fine concerts were given.

It was the scientific lectures which caught me, particularly those of Dr. R.

Ogden Doremus of New York.

His platform experiments, in which two skillful women assisted, excited me as I had never been before.

But what aroused me most were certain demonstrations with a magnificent microscope which they were giving in a little building at one side.

Nothing in the world seemed to matter to me so much as to be able to talk with these women, to ask their advice about the work I was beginning with the little instrument bought with my own carefully saved money.

Perhaps, oh, perhaps, I dreamed, they would let me look through the great beauty they handled so deftly, focus it, watch the life which went on in its field.

So one day I hung around after the talk was over, slipped up to them, steeled myself to tell them that I was going to be a microscopist, begged them to give me a few lessons, advise me.

The two ladies smiled down from their height, so plainly showing they thought me a country child with a queer behavior complex.

“Quite impossible,” they said, and turned back to their conference with Dr. Doremus.

Abashed, humiliated, but luckily too angry to cry I made my way back to my flat-bottomed boat.

I would show them, I resolved, clenching my fists!

It was years before I attempted again to get from a Chautauqua undertaking more than it was offering to the public at large.

There were many of these undertakings.

Dr. Vincent saw to that.

A man better fitted by experience, conviction, and personality to persuade a half-asleep, wholly satisfied community to accept a new order could not have been found in the America of the eighties.

John Vincent was forty-two years old when he came to Chautauqua—handsome, confident, alert, energetic, radiating well-being.

And he was an orator, and orating at Chautauqua made men tolerant even of heresy.

He went about his business of organizing the work of the Assembly with a skill which commanded the admiration of everybody, even those hostile to the secularization of their beloved camp meeting.

As a platform manager I never have known his equal.

He had magnetism, but he knew when and how to turn it on; he was shrewd, cunning, pungent.

He pricked bubbles, disciplined his audience.

The Chautauqua audience came to be one of the best behaved out-of-door audiences in the country.

The fact that we were out of doors had persuaded us that we were free to leave meetings if we were bored or suddenly remembered that we had left bread in the oven, or that the baby must have wakened.

When the performance had been stopped once or twice to “give that lady a chance to go out without further disturbing the speaker” we learned to stay at home or to sit out the lecture.

There is only one word to describe what Lewis Miller and Dr. Vincent now did to Chautauqua, and that is “electrification.

” The community was made up mainly of hard-working men and women who wanted a vacation in surroundings where they would not “have to worry about the children.

” Certainly if high fences with gates through which you could not pass in or out after ten P. M.

—never pass without your ticket, and not even with one on Sundays—if watchful guards and ten o’clock curfew, if a mass public opinion on the part of elders in support of these restrictions, could have suppressed all the mischief and lawlessness in the youth which swarmed Chautauqua, parents were right in sleeping tranquilly.

As a matter of fact I never knew of any serious offenses, though there probably were many which I was still too much of a little girl to recognize.

The worst mischief in which I personally assisted was playing tag up and down the relief model of Palestine, which skirted the lake as Palestine does the Mediterranean.

It was spotted with plaster-of-Paris models of towns from Damascus to Bethsaida.

I remember one rule of our game was that you could not be tagged if you straddled Jerusalem.

The most serious vandalism of which I knew and in which I had no part was stealing Damascus or Nazareth or Tyre and carrying it away bodily.

Dr. Vincent did not change the restrictions, but he made them more endurable by the fresh interest he put into our lives.

His effect on the community physically was immediate.

It began to grow.

The sound of the hammers nailing together the, for the most part, flimsy cottages was never still.

The result was very like what Mark Twain found in the summer colony of Onteora in the Catskills in its first year—“the partitions so thin you can hear the women changing their minds.

” Housekeeping improved.

It had been as sketchy as the cottages—picnic housekeeping.

You saw them at it, out in the rear of their cottages, over an old wood stove or stone fireplace, the men in their shirt sleeves, the women in big aprons, if not wrappers.

Planks on sawhorses for tables, mats (we had not learned to say “doilies” yet), benches for seats.

The natural practice of bringing discarded furniture from home to furnish the cottages led to the only distinctive piece of Chautauqua furniture I recall—a long high-backed bench made from an old-fashioned four-post bedstead.

There were few garrets in all the country about Chautauqua that did not harbor one or more such bedsteads.

They had been hidden away when families could afford the new-styled quartered-oak or walnut bedroom suites.

Some ingenious mind had seen that by shortening the sidepieces of a four-poster to seat width, using the headboard for a back, you had a commodious and, with cushions, a comfortable seat, even couch.

They were scattered all over the place.

With the coming of Dr. Vincent, Chautauqua rapidly developed a Promenade along the south end of the lake front.

Cottages here were lathed and plastered, had wicker chairs on their verandahs, and the residents soon were taking their meals at the really stately Athenaeum Hotel.

It was in this front row that Dr. and Mrs. Vincent came to live in a tent, a tent de luxe with a real house—so it looked to us—behind it.

Sometimes when we were properly dressed and shod we walked past the hotel and the cottages housing our aristocrats, and if by chance we saw Dr. or Mrs. Vincent or, best of all, the “Vincents’ little boy”—George, we later learned his name to be—why, then we boasted of it at the supper table as one might say today, “I saw President Roosevelt, Mrs. Roosevelt, Sistie, Buzzie.

” Dr. Vincent kept the place on its toes not only by the steady improvement of its platform, its amusements, in the quality of the people who came to teach and preach, but by a steady flow of new undertakings.

He planned incessantly to stir not only our souls but our minds.

We came to expect new ideas at each successive session and were never disappointed if sometimes a little bewildered.

Behind all these various undertakings was the steadying hand of Lewis Miller, the silent partner, who had begun by spying out the land, establishing a community, laying the foundations for the Institution as it exists today—a center of democratic, Christian culture.

Dr. Vincent’s masterpiece, as I always thought, came in 1878 when he laid before his Chautauquans a plan which had been long simmering in his never quiet mind.

He did this in the finest of what we call inspirational talks that I ever heard—at least it stirred me so deeply that I have never forgotten the face of the orator nor, more important, the upturned faces of his hearers.

He announced a scheme for a four-year course of home reading under the direction of the Chautauqua management adapted to men and women who had missed a college education, but who felt a deep desire for knowledge and were willing to adopt any practical plan which would give them a college outlook.

It was to be called the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.

Now this does not sound exciting; but as a matter of fact it was deeply exciting, for the speaker was pouring out his heart.

He had never had a college education; he had never ceased to feel the lack of what he believed it would have given him.

He had struggled to make up for his loss by persistent, systematic daily reading and study.

Establishing the habit as a boy, he had never abandoned it.

It had given him deep satisfaction, supplied, he thought, the college outlook.

He believed there were thousands of men and women in the United States, scores, possibly hundreds, in his audience, who had been forced, as he had been, to sacrifice their early ambitions for education.

They had hidden the hunger in their hearts where at times it still gnawed.

He was offering them the same help he had found, and confidently, glowingly, he outlined the course of home reading which Dr. John H. Finley has so aptly named the American Adult Education Pioneer.

The uplifted faces all about me told the story, particularly the faces of the women of thirty or more.

Women of that generation had had their natural desire for knowledge intensified by the Woman’s Rights movement, in which the strongest plank had been a demand for the opportunity for higher education.

These women were now beyond the day when they could go to college, but here was something which they saw intuitively was practical.

The immediacy of their response was in a degree accounted for by their devotion to Dr. Vincent.

I suppose most of the women who frequented Chautauqua were more or less in love with him, the worship a man of overflowing sentiment receives from the benches, but most of his audience would have preferred to die rather than reveal their secret passion.

Well, it was a great emotional experience with large and immediate practical results, for, before the summer session was over, eight thousand people had joined the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.

They had joined, and they were buying the books chosen.

The most important volume in that first year’s course was Green’s “Short History of the English People”—in my judgment the most important book save one that the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle ever included, that exception being W. C.

Brownell’s “French Traits.

” The sudden demand for so large and expensive a volume as Green’s History, outside of regular trade channels, followed as it was by spectacular sales of other books from which neither publisher nor writer had expected anything out of the normal, set the whole publishing world agog, and naturally raised the question, “How are we to get in on this new market?

” There were many approaches, all legitimate enough so far as I know.

I

found a rather amusing proof of one not long ago in Marjorie Wiggin Prescott’s fine collection of manuscripts and rare books—a volume of Lew Wallace’s “Ben Hur” enriched by a letter to the publisher, signed by Mrs. Wallace and dated November 24, 1884. The letter, which is self-explanatory, is reproduced here with Mrs. Prescott’s permission.

Crawfordsville, Nov.

24, 1884. Dear Sir Because of inquiries of correspondents as to the _number_ of _wives_ Gen. Wallace has had, I have thought best to instruct you to add to the dedication of _Ben-Hur_, making it: To The Wife of My Youth who still abides with me This with Gen. Wallace’s consent.

Several literary clubs have made it a handbook for study in connection with Roman History.

If by some means you could have it adopted by the Chautauqua Club, which numbers twenty thousand members, it might be worth while to try.

Pardon the suggestion.

May I ask you to furnish me a report of the sales of _Ben-Hur_, year by year, from the beginning?

With high regard, Very truly yours SUSAN E.

WALLACE.

As the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle grew, there came increasing necessity of a steady sympathetic administration.

To help in this task it was decided in 1880 to establish a monthly organ—_The Chautauquan_, it was to be called—in which portions of the required readings could be published more cheaply than in book form, and through which by counsel and suggestions the leaders could keep in closer touch with the readers—better meet their needs.

Dr. Vincent was quick to sense weak places in the organization, and ingenious in devising ways to take care of them.

It was to try out one of his devices that Dr. Flood was now asking my temporary help.

Here was the situation that had been uncovered—hundreds of those who had joined the great circle and bought its books were without dictionaries, encyclopaedias, explanatory helps of any kind, and they lived too far away—on the Plains, in the mountains, on distant farms—to reach libraries.

Headquarters were inundated with questions: How do you pronounce this word, translate this phrase?

Who was this man, this woman?

What does this or that mean?

“Could not _The Chautauquan_ take care of this difficulty,” suggested Dr. Vincent, “by annotating the portions of the various texts to be read in that particular month?

Let some one try it out.

” As I happened to be the “some one” within reach when Dr. Flood received the suggestion, the attempt was put up to me—temporary trial, I was made to understand.

Now I had known from childhood homes and towns where there were practically no books beyond the Bible and the children’s spellers.

As books had always come after bread in our household I naturally pitied those who did not have them; so I undertook the notes with the determination to make them as helpful as I could.

To my surprise and delight Dr. Vincent sent word to me that I had caught his idea, and that he had advised Dr. Flood to ask me to prepare similar notes each month.

“Will you do it?

” asked Dr. Flood.

I jumped at the chance, calculating that it would take not over two weeks of my month, give me pin money, and leave time for the microscope—that my future was in it, I did not dream.

But my task required better equipped libraries than Titusville offered;

Meadville, only thirty miles away, headquarters for _The Chautauquan_, had them, and so I arranged to do my work there, remaining until I had read the proofs—an exacting job which never ceased to worry me.

What if the accent was in the wrong place?

What if I brought somebody into the world in the wrong year?

Something of the kind happened occasionally, and when it did I quickly discovered that, while there might be many Chautauqua readers who did not have books of reference, there were more that did and knew how to use them.

Once in touch with the office of _The Chautauquan_ I began to see things to do.

Dr. Flood had little interest in detail.

The magazine was made up in a casual, and to my mind a disorderly, fashion.

I could not keep my fingers off.

A woman is a natural executive: that has been her business through the ages.

Intuitively she picks up, sets to rights, establishes order.

I began at once to exercise my inheritance, proved useful, was offered a full-time job, and threw myself heartily into an attempt to learn how to make up a magazine in the way I suspected a magazine should be made up.

When the long-suffering foreman of the printing office discovered I was in earnest he undertook my education, taught me the vocabulary—the only galley I had heard of up to that time was a war vessel of the Middle Ages—suggested dummies, and offered a model.

He installed a proper respect for the dates on which copy was to be in, and forms closed: showed me the importance of clean copy by compelling me to see with my own eyes the time it took to make a correction, trained me until I could stand over the closing of the last form and direct the necessary changes to be made in order to make room for a three-line advertisement which had just arrived, and which, such was the need of _The Chautauquan_ for advertising, must under no consideration be thrown out.

When I could do that nonchalantly I felt as if I had arrived.

And this training I owed to as fine a craftsman as there was in the trade at the time; as well, he was a courteous and patient gentleman—Adrian McCoy, long the head of the pressroom where _The Chautauquan_ was printed.

My willingness to take on loose ends soon brought to my desk much of the routine office correspondence—letters to be answered by a more or less set form, signed with Dr. Flood’s name and mailed without troubling him to read them.

In this grist were many letters from readers, women chiefly, who laid their troubles and hopes on our shoulders, confident of understanding and counsel.

Dr. Flood’s answers to such communications were courteous but formal.

Probably he appreciated as I did not that there lay safety.

I felt strongly that such an appeal or confidence should have a personal, sympathetic letter, and I began producing them, pouring out counsel and pity.

I shudder now to think of the ignorant sentiment I probably spilled.

But my career as a professional counselor was checked suddenly by the unexpected result of a series of letters to a contributor.

This gentleman, a foreign lecturer and teacher, had been chilled by the lack of understanding by Americans of his ideals.

And all of this he was expressing in letters to the office after our acceptance of one or two of his articles.

I was deeply touched by his outpourings and answered in kind—of course signing my editor’s name.

Then one day Dr. Flood received a letter saying that on such a day the gentleman would be in Meadville.

He must see the one who so understood him.

And come he did.

Poor Dr. Flood did not know what it was all about.

“But these letters,” the visitor exclaimed.

“Oh,” Dr. Flood said, “Miss Tarbell wrote those.

We’ll speak to her.

” And so he was presented—letters in hand—Dr. Flood looking sternly at me and leaving me to my fate.

“Did you write these letters?

” the bewildered and disappointed stranger asked.

All I could say was, “Yes, I wrote them.

” “And Dr. Flood never saw them?

” “No,” I said, “he never does.

” “I might have known it was a woman,” he groaned, and fled.

And that was the last we ever saw or heard of him.

But it made a vast difference in my editorial correspondence.

I was not satisfied, however, with setting things to rights and counseling the unhappy.

Having convinced my editor-in-chief that I could keep his house in better order than he had been interested in doing, I became ambitious to contribute to its furnishing, to extend its field beyond matters purely Chautauquan.

I began by offering contributions to what was called the Editor’s Table—the Editor’s Note Book.

I began to write articles, even went off on trips to gather information on subjects which seemed to me to be fitting.

The first and most ambitious of these undertakings was an investigation made in the Patent Office in Washington of the amount of inventing the records showed women to have done.

I had been disturbed for some time by what seemed to me the calculated belittling of the past achievements of women by many active in the campaign for suffrage.

They agreed with their opponents that women had shown little or no creative power.

That, they argued, was because man had purposely and jealously excluded her from his field of action.

The argument was intended, of course, to arouse women’s indignation, stir them to action.

It seemed to me rather to throw doubt on her creative capacity.

Power to create breaks all barriers.

Women had demonstrated this, I believed, again and again while carrying on what I as an observer of society was coming to regard as the most delicate, complex, and essential of all creative tasks—the making of a home.

There was the field of invention.

At the moment it was being said in print and on the platform that, in all the history of the Patent Office, women had taken out only some three hundred patents.

I had seen so much of woman’s ingenuity on the farm and in the kitchen that I questioned the figures; and so I went to see, feeling very important if scared at my rashness in daring to penetrate a Government department and interview its head.

I was able to put my finger at once on over two thousand patents, enough to convince me that, man-made world or not, if a woman had a good idea and the gumption to seek a patent she had the same chance as a man to get one.

This was confirmed by correspondence with two or three women who at the time were taking out patents regularly.

These dashes into journalism, timid and factual as were the results, gave my position more and more body, began slowly to arouse my rudimentary capacity for self-expression.

At the same time my position was enriched by a novel feature of our undertaking, one that any editor of a monthly journal can appreciate.

We published but ten issues, suspending in July and August in order to get out on the grounds at Chautauqua an eight-page newspaper—the Chautauqua Assembly _Daily Herald_.

This meant moving our Meadville staff bodily to the Lake late in June.

I was soon contributing two columns of editorials a day to the _Herald_, comments on the daily doings of the Assembly, and making many stimulating acquaintances in doing it.

Among them I valued particularly Dr. Herbert B. Adams and Dr. Richard T. Ely of Johns Hopkins University, men who were stirring youth and shocking the elders by liberal interpretations of history and economics.

We felt rather proud of ourselves at Chautauqua that we were liberal enough to engage Dr. Adams and Dr. Ely as regular lecturers and teachers, and that our constituency accepted them, if with occasional misgivings.

It was not only the faculty of Johns Hopkins which was adding to my friends.

One who remains today among those I most value came from its student body—Dr. John H. Finley.

Dr. Finley gave several summers to the Assembly _Herald_, reading its copy and its proofs among other things.

It was he who read my two columns and, no doubt, kept me out of much trouble; but once there did slip by him a misquotation over which he still chuckles when we talk of Chautauqua days.

I made it a practice to head my first column with a digest of the day’s happenings—a line to an event and, as a starter for the paragraph, a quotation.

I had been rather pleased one day to select a line from James Thomson: [Illustration: _Office staff of The Chautauquan, 1888: Miss Tarbell at left, sitting_ ] The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews.

A copy of the paper was always thrown on the verandah of my upstairs room around five o’clock in the morning, and I hopped out of bed to see what had happened to my column.

That morning something dire had happened, for my quotation ran: The _weak_-eyed _Worm_ appears, mother of dews.

Eminence came from across the water annually and gave color and importance, so we thought, to our doings.

A foreign visitor with whom I had a pleasant acquaintance running over some years was Dr. J.

P.

Mahaffy of the University of Dublin.

Dr. Mahaffy had contributed a series of delightful articles to the required readings in _The Chautauquan_—“Gossip About Greece”—and in the summer of 1889 he came over for two or three courses of lectures at the Assembly.

A

distinguished figure, he was, and such a contrast in his tweeds, his free movements, his spirited wide-ranging talk to most of us.

My acquaintance grew out of our mutual interest in the flora of any spot where we happened to be.

One day as I came in from a botanizing expedition outside the grounds carrying stocks of the lovely field lilies common in the region, Dr. Mahaffy seized my arm: “You care for flowers and plants?

I thought American women had no interest in them.

” A libel I quickly hooted.

In defense of my sisterhood I went diligently to work to show him our summer flora.

But he cared for nothing as much as our summer lilies, begged me after the flowering was over to send him bulbs, which I proudly did.

In exchange I received from his Dublin garden seeds of a white poppy which, he wrote me, he had originally gathered in the shadow of the statue of Memnon in Egypt.

Those poppies have always gone with me; they flourished in my mother’s garden in Titusville—now they flourish in my Connecticut garden.

My life was busy, varied, unfolding pleasantly in many ways, but it also after six years was increasingly unsatisfactory, so unsatisfactory that I was secretly, very secretly, meditating a change.

I was scared by what _The Chautauquan_ seemed to be doing to the plan I had worked out for the development of my mind.

I had grown up with a stout determination to follow one course of study to the end, to develop a specialty.

The work I was doing demanded a scattering of mind which I began to fear would unfit me for ever thinking anything through.

I

realized that an editor of value must have made up his mind about more things than had I, feel himself ready to fight for those things if necessary.

I had no program in which _The Chautauquan_ was interested.

Moreover, I did not want to be an editor.

But to break with _The Chautauquan_ meant sacrificing security.

I had always had a vision of myself settled somewhere in a secure corner, simple, not too large.

I never had wanted things; I always had a dislike of impedimenta, but I wanted something cheerful and warm and enduring.

There I could work over that which interested me, day in and day out, with no alarm for my keep.

Now _The Chautauquan_ was a secure berth; so far as I could figure, it would last through my time at least.

To give it up meant complete economic insecurity.

I probably should not have been willing to sacrifice what I think I had honestly earned if there had not been growing upon me a conviction of the sterility of security.

All about me were people who at least believed themselves materially secure.

They lived comfortably within their means, they were busy keeping things as they were, preserving what they had.

They were the most respectable people in town, but secretly I was beginning to suspect their respectability.

One day, listening to a fine elderly Scotch Presbyterian minister who had in his congregation a large group of these stable, secure, best citizens, I was startled when he leaned over his pulpit and, shaking his fist at us, shouted, “You’re dyin’ of respectability.

” Was that what was happening to me?

I saw with increasing clearness that I could not go beyond a certain point on _The Chautauquan_, mentally, socially, spiritually.

If I remained, it was to accept a variety of limitations, and my whole nature was against the acceptance of limitations.

It was contrary to the nature of things as I saw them; to be happy, I must go on with fresh attempts, fresh adventuring.

The thing that frightened me earlier in my youth came to the top now: that thing that made me determine I would never marry because it meant giving up freedom, was a trap.

It was clear enough that I was trapped—comfortably, most pleasantly, most securely, but trapped.

As time went on I realized that this security to which people so clung could not always be counted on.

They might think so, but had I not seen beautiful homes sold under the hammer in Titusville, homes of those whom the town had looked on as impregnable financially?

In my years on _The Chautauquan_ in Meadville I had been a shocked observer of one of the many dramatic political failures of the eighties, the defeat of the Republican candidate for Governor of Pennsylvania at a critical moment—a Meadville banker, Wallace Delamater.

I was too much of a mugwump to sympathize with the Republican platform, but I liked Wallace Delamater.

I believed him, as I think the records show, to be a tool of a past master of machine politics—Matthew Quay.

Taken up by Quay, the resources of the Delamater bank and of allied banks in Meadville at the call of his party, he made a campaign which was called brilliant.

There was no doubt of the result in Meadville.

I went to bed early, the night of the election, expecting to be aroused by the ringing of bells, the blowing of whistles, for there was to be a celebration.

When I awakened with a start it was broad daylight.

Had I slept through the celebration?

A sense of doom hung over me; I dressed hurriedly, went down to get the paper.

Wallace Delamater was defeated.

Promptly the Delamater bank closed and, one after another, four banks of the town followed.

There was a heavy run on the one remaining, the one where I had my little deposit.

The panic in the town was desperate;

everything was going.

I don’t think I have ever been more ashamed of anything in my life connected with money than I was when I took my bank book and went to my bank to ask for my deposit.

It was all the money I had in the world—times were bad.

But I have always continued to be a little ashamed that I yielded to the panic, the more because my bank didn’t fail!

No, the security men flattered themselves they had achieved was never certain.

Moreover, my security was costing more in certain precious things than I was willing to pay.

Take the matter of making something professionally sound, useful, justifiable, out of myself, which is the only one of these “precious things” that I am talking about!

I could do no more towards it where I was.

To begin with, I at last knew what I wanted to do.

It was no longer to seek truth with a microscope.

My early absorption in rocks and plants had veered to as intense an interest in human beings.

I was feeling the same passion to understand men and women, the same eagerness to collect and to classify information about them.

I find the proofs of this slow and unconscious change of allegiance in an accumulation of tattered notebooks tucked away for years, forgotten and only brought out after I had set myself this curious task of tracing the road I have traveled through my eighty years, trying to find out why I did this thing and not that, getting acquainted with my own working life.

I seem to have begun to enter observations on human beings soon after I had settled down to learn how to put a magazine together in an orderly fashion.

I applied the same method that I had used for so many years in collecting and classifying natural objects which excited my curiosity.

Take leaves, on which I was always keen.

I started out in high school to collect them from all the flora in my territory, classifying them by shapes, veins, stalks, color.

Rarely do I take up a family book of those early years that there do not fall out from between the pages leaves of one thing or another that I had pressed to help me carry on my scheme of classification.

I suspect that I did not get much beyond a glib naming of parts.

Something analogous happened when I recognized that men and women were as well worth notes as leaves, that there was a science of society as well as of botany.

What had happened was undoubtedly that the tumults, the challenges of my day had finally penetrated my aloofness, and that I was feeling more and more the need of taking a part in them.

The decade I spent in Poland and on _The Chautauquan_ had a background not so unlike that of the present decade.

At its beginning we were only fifteen years from a civil war which had left behind not only a vast devastated region with the problem of its reconstruction, but the problem of a newly freed people.

It had left bitterness which in intensity and endurance no war but a civil war ever leaves.

We had had our inflation, a devastating boom followed by seven years of depression, outbreaks of all the various forms of radical philosophy the world then knew.

Youth talks glibly of communism today as if it had just appeared in the country; but Marxian Communists transferred the headquarters of the International to New York City in the seventies.

More conspicuous than the Communists were the Anarchists.

Every city in the United States had its little group, preaching and every now and then practicing direct action.

Indeed, they were a factor in all the violent labor disturbances of the period.

In 1879 prosperity had come back with a whoop, and, as she usually does after a long absence, had quickly exhausted herself by fantastic economic excesses.

By the time I undertook to annotate the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle’s readings the country had begun to suffer again from its wanton speculation and reckless overbuilding of railroads.

Factories and mines and mills shut down; and when work stopped disorder began, particularly on the railroads of the Southwest, the awful massacre of Chinese in Wyoming—more awful, the Haymarket riot in Chicago followed as it was by the execution of four men, all counselors of violence to be sure, but no one of them found guilty either of making or of throwing the bomb.

The eighties dripped with blood, and men struggled to get at causes, to find corrections, to humanize and socialize the country; for then as now there were those who dreamed of a good world although at times it seemed to them to be going mad.

_The Chautauquan_ interested itself in all of this turbulent and confused life.

Indeed, it rapidly became my particular editorial concern.

We noted and discussed practically every item of the social program which has been so steadily developing in the last fifty years, the items which have crystallized into the Square Deal, the New Freedom, the New Deal.

The present argument for high wages, we made in the eighties.

We called it “the new economic coefficient in our industrial life.

” “It is the well-paid workman,” said _The Chautauquan_, “who is a relatively large consumer.