JAMES STEPHENS, AND "THE CROCK OF GOLD"

ARNOLD DALY

IT was dusk. At the end of the dusty road was a village. It had a quaint, restful look, and we entered it. Near the marketplace we saw a dozen sweating men pulling down a fountain. They had not the look of vandals; yet the thing seemed wanton and I paused to ask the reason for it. One of the men wiped his brow with a brawny hand, and said:

"Women do not need drink; and men will find it without fountains."

To this I said: "The fountain is beautiful —why destroy it?"

"It's this, way," the man replied. "This village is very charitable. We need this space that we may cure certain men who are suffering from a grave malady. In place of the fountain we mean to set up a great ball of yarn, then these afflicted ones may come and knit all through the day; they may also gossip and confide their little thoughts to each other. In this way other men will be spared the torture of hearing them."

"But what men are these?" I inquired. "They are the young saviors of men," said he, as he counted them upon his five fingers. "By name they are Shaw, Wells, Galsworthy, Conrad and Walpole."

"But," cried I, appalled, "these are men of letters!" He wagged a stubborn head.

"Some of them, indeed, seem to have the great gift; but all of them have misunderstood its purpose."

"Why, then," said I, "since you are sitting so confidently in judgment, in what modem scrivener is the gift applied aright?"

He looked at me for a moment and said, quite simply: "Why, in James Stephens."

TO understand a snub is a gift in itself, and so I resumed my journey. At the outskirts of the village my terrier looked back at me, and I saw that he was angry.

"To show your ignorance so!" said he. "It is too bad."

I took the trouble to catch up with him, for, after all, he is a good dog.

"In what have I shown ignorance?" I said.

He stared at me; deep reproach in his eyes.

"And do you really not know who James Stephens is?"

"I do not." He regarded me frankly.

"Oh, of course," said he, "you would not."

"Well," said I impatiently, "I'm waiting. At least, I'm willing to learn."

HE sat down in the dust of the road and

looked up at me with wise eyes; his voice was curiously patient and ironic, as he said:

"Stephens is a man who is working in Dublin for three pounds a week. He would like to get more; but as he has no hope of getting it, so also he will not be disappointed if it does not come to pass. He is one of the few who understand the gift of words; and so he is not trying to misapply it."

"'I shall sing with my pen,' " Stephens said. "For some angels had whispered to him that it's a great thing to bring joy to the hearts of men. For, you see, the angels know that the world is gray enough, and their promptings caused James Stephens to put into his finest book, 'The Crock of Gold,' all the laughter in the world, all the poetry, and all the wisdom. And if you can tell me what more should go into a book I would like to hear it. You must read 'The Crock of Gold,' " said he, "and then you must ask the man in the book shop for the other three. Perhaps it's best that I do not tell you their names. But this I will tell you. Get them one at a time, and read each of them at least twice, for Stephens is Irish, you see, and I doubt"—here he cocked his head at me valuingly—"well, perhaps you'll not understand him even then. No one but an Irishman could write these books. And no one but an Irishman could really understand them—unless, mark you, it be a person of rare imagination."

He must have seen, from my color, that I was growing somewhat warm, for lie did not pause.

"Further understand," proceeded he, "that no German, however great, could have written 'The Crock of Gold'; no dark-born Russian could have even attempted it. Wilde, Stephens's own countryman, would have given his soul to have written it; and as for Shaw, he stands in the valley, grimacing, with his cap and bells, peering enviously up at that far peak where James Stephens stands, smiling, and listening to the still voices of beings who are kind to the world.

"And remember what the workman said of the modern scriveners—some of them possess the gift, but have misunderstood its purpose. For it is not, mark you, the province of a writer to save men's souls, any more than it is a painter's or an architect's. The men who so try to misapply their gift are those who have never recovered from the surprise of discovering it. Their brains shook under the shock; they drew in long breaths and at once began to take themselves seriously—they immediately bethought themselves of the saving of men—they became young, neurasthenic Saviours. The presumption of trying to save anyone! My point of view is far enough removed from man's to see the folly of that. Man will never be saved; he will always continue a fool; for only as a fool does he fulfill the uses of nature. Wisdom for man is not normal; and if a man is not normal it leads to madness."

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Here he paused. As I looked ahead there was no horizon; the road was quite dark. And when I started forward, a little blindly, the terrier spoke again.

"Hadn't we better turn back?" he asked. Without questioning him I turned, and saw before us the lights of the village—lights that seemed to bid one not to think, but to rest. "You are going too far," said he, "that is your home; that is the place you have been so long looking for."

He gazed at me appealingly; and then, as I started to retrace my steps, he capered about, and leaped at me with vast contentment. feeling that it is the author's duty to let him get away safely. Besides, one could not help admiring Anthony Wells,—partly because Lowell Sherman

who played the part, has a pleasant personality, and partly because a man who can continue to make love to somebody else's wife while the husband is standing at his elbow with a revolver and a gang of Indians are waiting outside for him is some performer and compels respect.

THE HEART OF WETONA" is one of those plays which are supposed to draw automatically from the critic enthusiastic remarks about the genius of David Belasco. I suppose the thing is raised to sublimity by the Magic Touch of the Wizard and all that sort of thing, but myself I could not detect the symptoms. The play is adequately produced, but there is nothing wonderful about it, either in the writing or the staging. The acting is good, notably that of the aforesaid Lowell Sherman, John Miltern, William Courtleigh, and Lenore Ulrich. There is also a good kitten in the cast.

JOSEPH BROOKS' Annual and Amazing Aggregation of Astounding Stars broke loose this year in Haddon Chambers's excellent play, "The Idler," modernized and polished up and re-christened "The Great Pursuit." Marie Tempest, of course, made the biggest success. Honorably mentioned, Montague Love, better than he has been since Grumpy, Charles Cherry, and Jeanne Eagels.