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to blank despair. Our whole train is silent as the grave. Even the conductors, the engineer, and the fireman were eager partisans of Harvard. We did not expect Yale to win. While the rival train remains in its position, celebrating its victory, our train draws away in almost tragic silence, hastening back to our point of departure.

Sport is an element in the games of the United States. But it is found not only there. You discover it in education, in business, in politics, and in manners. It is everywhere.

In business as well as boxing and baseball, Americans figure chances. Instead of shirking risks, they seek them as a sport. They thus acquire quickness of conception, sureness in action, promptness in decision, a disciplined spirit of adventure, and great energy in execution. When the rules of a game are once agreed upon, rarely does either party violate them. If he does, then it is each one for himself, and any stratagem becomes fair play. The American's motive is not solely to make money, but also to win.

Politics interest average Americans only once in every four years, when they elect a president. The nominating conventions, where the opposing candidates are selected, are sporting preliminaries, when both sides line up for the final test. Betting on the result is heavy, and most voters regard the success of their candidates as a personal victory as well as a party victory.

So the sporting spirit expresses itself in every phase of national life. MarMarriage in the United States is a very different thing from what it is in France. It is a race for happiness, if you wish; but each one races for himself alone. Sex-competition supplants sex-coöperation. Each party preserves his or her individual interest and freedom of opinion. There is little or no real intimacy, though much luxury-supplied, it is

always understood, by the husband. But no matter how liberal the latter may be, his wife usually thinks, and often says, that he might be more so. Taming a husband has the same sporting interest for an American girl as taming a horse, hunting in the Rockies, or trout-fishing in Canada. However, when once the conquest is made and the fish hooked, there is less interest. That explains why divorces are more common in the United States than anywhere else in the world.

One of the most remarkable and unheard-of sports in the United States, however, is religious. What is still more astonishing is that the sporting spirit is a powerful agency of proselytism.

Billy Sunday, a former baseball star, is the most popular evangelist in the United States. One evening I went out to Ocean Grove, the Mecca of Evangelism, to attend the first session of one of his 'Hit-the-Trail' revivals. More than eleven thousand people were seated in a large wooden barn, called a 'hut,' or 'tabernacle.' They represented every shade of religious belief and every rank of society. Suddenly a vigorous man with a bulldog face, a pug nose, bright piercing eyes, athletic in appearance, wearing a jacket but no vest, crossed the hall and sprang upon the platform at a single bound.

Without other preparation he repeated in a stentorian voice this text from Daniel: 'Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.' Either because it was an oppressively hot night, or because he wanted to illustrate at once the truth of the text, he stripped off his jacket, and slinging it over his head several times, with a magnificent gesture of disdain, threw it like a feather into the attentive audience. That finished, he charged with lowered. head into the very centre of his subject.

His language was the spicy argot of New York, where Yiddish and some

fifty-five other dialects struggle for survival. His figures were for the most part shockingly vulgar, as were his gestures, which varied in an instant from creeping across the platform in search of the devil, to clearing the entire breadth at a bound, driving before him the 'filthy herd of the plutocrats of the smart set.'

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I recall the following gems from this sermon certainly the most acrobatic pulpit deliverance to which I ever listened:

'I'd not give a cent to know who wrote the Ten Commandments; but the man or woman who does not make them his guide in life ought to be put in jail. . . . Some men make money just as much their God as if they took a thousand-dollar bill from their pocketbook and knelt in worship before it. . . . This country is making money by the barrel and the hogshead; but it is going to hell by the cartload. . . . Don't pay attention to public opinion; pay attention to God. Remember that public opinion said that Dr. Jenner, Galileo, Bacon, and Christopher Columbus were fools, were bughouse, were nuts.'

I still have before my eyes a vision of him as he delivered his concluding remarks, begging the audience to 'Hit the trail.' With clenched fists he beat the air, gesticulating at a dizzy speed; then, suddenly, his face shining with perspiration, he sprang from the platform to one of the seats below, then to the choir-leader's stand, thence, by an immense leap over a table, to his original position. And during all this tremendous exhibition he constantly shouted in a voice of thunder: 'Hit the trail! Hit the trail! Hit the trail!'

I saw hands raised throughout the audience by people ready to hit the trail. The next day the papers published the fact that $1641.50 had been collected, and forty-three persons converted.

I questioned at the time whether this trail was truly the path of the evangelist; but I did not doubt that it was the trail of sport, which in America leads directly to heaven, as it does to hell; because in America sport leads everywhere.

A PROFESSOR IN SPAIN

BY FRIEDRICH DESSAUER

From Frankfurter Zeitung, July 24
(RADICAL LIBERAL DAILY)

As the Paris-Madrid express approaches the Spanish border, in the early dawn, a great gray wall seems to loom up for a moment to the west. It is the Atlantic Ocean. Then the railway begins to ascend through green rolling foothills, clothed with seemingly endless forests, until at last it reaches the high uplands of Castile. Hour after

hour, until late in the evening, we speed forward across this interminable plateau, which is every varying and yet ever the same. In the distance we catch glimpses of sandy hills and an occasional rocky precipice. It is a lonely, deserted country, with here and there an isolated farmstead, and rarely a village, hardly distinguishable from

the brown landscape which surrounds it. At intervals we pass the ruins of a castle, or see a mounted peasant or a pack-train of mules. Hour after hour we stare out at the same picture of boundless space and glaring sunlight. Toward evening the distant hills grow yellow and then ruddy, and a purple haze hangs mistily over the vast plain. When darkness falls, the train is climbing the first mountain grades of the Sierra Guadarrama. Snow still lies on the north flanks of the higher summits. We speed on through the darkness, and then, in a moment, plunge into the brilliant lights of a great metropolis.

Though the great plateau which surrounds the city sleeps silently under the stars, Madrid is noisily awake. It begins to be at its best about nine o'clock. Its white houses and clean, handsome avenues are brilliant with lights. Well-clad people hurry hither and thither in countless automobiles and carriages. The fashionable dininghour is half-past nine; then comes the theatre; and it is not until two A.M. that the street throngs begin to ebb, tram-cars become rarer, and windows are darkened.

Spain has become a wealthy country, and is spending ostentatiously its new riches. Madrid is now one of the world's great capitals. Its palaces, gardens, museums, avenues, and hotels vie with those of any metropolis. A table-d'hôte dinner consists of ten courses and five kinds of wine. In the ballrooms an international public amuses itself with the latest dances. Dinner-jackets and dress-suits are the universal mode.

But it would be a great mistake to judge all Spain by these externals. To richer country be sure, it has become a

by its prudent policy during the war.
But it is something more. Wherever I
I went, I discovered evidences of new
ambitions and new aims in life. Mu-

665

seums, cathedrals, and monuments are being repaired; waste lands reforested; streets laid out and improved; unsettled districts colonized, and railways extended. Manufacturers are exerting themselves to make their country independent of its neighbors. A hightariff wall has been erected to protect them.

To be sure the nation has in some cases overshot its mark. Its customsduties are absurdly high; machinery and chemicals cost more in Spain than elsewhere. The object, of course, is to compel its people to depend on their own resources. But I feel certain that they will eventually learn that they have taken the wrong way to reach their object. Two or three generations of workingmen must first be trained. Even if the country had all the industrial equipment it requires, it would still lack skilled labor to make that equipment productive. To train such labor will require decades, perhaps a century. All economists with whom I spoke admitted this.

Great reforms are also occurring in the scientific world. University professors are selected on a new plan. Magnificent laboratories and clinics are being erected. I noticed many German scientific books in the shops: and though Spanish scholars have great difficulty in understanding and speaking the German language, a large number of them can read it. By the advice of my friends, I had my lectures translated into Spanish and read them in that tongue. My audience and I was fortunate enough to have a select body of hearers in the ancient auditorium of San Carlos could understand me better thus than if I spoke my own tongue, and I found myself well paid for the trouble I took, in the grateful appreciation of the learned world.

I discovered that my Spanish col

leagues were excellently grounded in my own specialty. Roentgenology, particularly in its therapeutic application, is better understood in Spain than in France, where, for the last eight years, the medical profession, to its own great detriment, has obstinately refused to recognize the revolutionary progress which has occurred in Germany. All of the professors whom I met, and many of the principal physicians, had studied in my country. Many had been my own pupils before the war. The King himself assured me, in a long private interview, that Spain would send many students to us hereafter.

Thanks to the hospitality of my distinguished Spanish hosts, I was able to see more in a short time than I might otherwise have seen in months or years. Among these special opportunities was an automobile trip through southern Spain, during which I came into closer contact with the land and its people than do most hasty visitors.

At five o'clock in the morning, the high-powered machine of my host stands waiting in front of my hotel, to take us on our six-hundred-mile journey through the southern provinces. Soon the metropolis lies behind us, and we plunge through clouds of whitishyellow dust. People are just rising, in the suburbs. Goats and sheep, and graceful little brownish-gray pigs that look like immense mice - encumber the streets. Long pack-trains of sleek mules are winding their way through the gray morning light toward the city. Toward the north the rugged mountain range of Guadarrama looms behind us, until it is cut off by the wild mountainous district of Credos. We travel on for hours, meeting scarcely a human being.

At intervals the silhouette of a mountain shepherd stands out on some distant yellow hill. Occasionally, we

slow down to thread our way through a herd of cattle. Small eagles soar above

us.

Finally, we reach a district where the reddish-yellow soil bears olive trees. Peculiar-colored birds, striped red and yellow like zebras, flutter around us for a time, only to vanish again as we get farther south. Pack-trains and mounted peasants wearing fantastic hats, and two-wheel carts drawn by six mules in tandem, begin to enliven the road. The villages we pass assume a Moorish aspect.

As the sun rises higher, the night wind falls. Our swift, easy-riding motor slows down and finally stops in a little village. Black-haired women are carrying dough across the street. Men and animals are drinking companionably together at a great cistern, where we get water for our automobile before we hasten on. The air grows warmer. Here and there huge powerful steers block the road until their mounted herdsmen drive them to one side. We thread our way for a time through dusty olive groves standing in yellow fields. At last, the mountains of Toledo rise hazily to the southward. I know the city already, with its ornate cathedral and Arab architecture, and so we hasten by.

It grows hotter and hotter; the dazzling sunlight is pitiless. The road begins to ascend. It seems only a moment until we have wound our way up a long serpentine to a mountain pass. Beyond it stretches again the seemingly limitless plateau.

At midday, sunburned and dusty, we pause at Trujillo. Centuries ago famous Spanish explorers set forth from this city to conquer new worlds. Pizzaro's palace is still standing, its lofty wall towering over one of the city streets. After a short siesta we resume our journey.

In Spain storks seem to have changed

their profession. Here no one knows the legend that they bring children. Instead they guard the churches. You see them, in flocks of twenty or even fifty, perched upon the lofty gables. We catch glimpses of gigantic unfamiliar insects in the odd-looking hedges. A red flower flames in the wayside shrubbery. Our host calls it pacifico. Locusts are chirping everywhere.

Late in the afternoon we reach Merida. It is one of those remarkable places, so common in Spain an old Roman city. An ancient acqueduct still brings its water across the valley. It retains Roman walls and a Roman amphitheatre, and a bridge built by Roman hands, over which we cross the river.

Here the land becomes fertile. Numerous olive groves, broad grain fields, and vineyards clothe the yellow-red soil. Craggy islets are scattered far and near over the wide plateau, like immense boulders dropped from heaven. The red poppies in the fields remind us of Germany. At Villafranca we catch sight of our first railway train, approaching the white secluded city. The sun sinks in a bed of flame. The reddish-yellow landscape becomes redder. The distant groves and sand-hills are veiled in gloomy purple. Night overtakes us before we are across the Sierra Morena. One of the rare villages looms up in the darkness. Through the lighted doorways and windows we catch glimpses of pleasant courtyards, with flowers and slender columns. Women and children call to us as we speed past.

Hour follows hour. Mountain summits, like the flanks of huge black animals, cluster about us. The broad landscape is bathed in a dim, misty starlight. On either side of the white roadway the land is black. The air changes. We are in Andalusia. A waft of the sea reaches our nostrils. VOL. 310-NO. 4027

The Spaniards call Andalusia one of the fairest lands in the world. We must wait for the morrow to confirm this. At last we see lights ahead. Suburbs, then a great city: Seville. It is

one A.M.

The next morning we do what everyone else does: visit the Cathedral. We also climb the Giralda, the old Moorish tower which rises high above the surrounding city. We wander through the Alcazar, the old Moorish royal palace, - drive through the park, and watch sea-going steamers ascend the Guadalquivir. Last of all, we make an excursion through the shabby crooked streets of the suburbs, where the poorer classes live. Men and animals mingle aimably here on terms of perfect equality. We come across little artisan shops in the narrow, ill-smelling alleys, and perhaps a step further on, an iron grating, which is a masterpiece of the smithy's art, or a flower-adorned courtyard with slender columns and Moorish ornaments and bright hangings. The streets of the poorer quarter are in very bad condition; but the schools seem excellent. Bad streets, good schools - better than if it were the other way about.

Another morning bids us again en route. We make a detour through Cordova, deeper and deeper into the heat of Andalusia. We reach a land of fan palms, occasional date trees, and orange and lemon groves, where the roadway is often bordered by grotesque cacti and occasional Spanish bayonets. The sisal plant shoots tall blossomcrowned pillars into the air. Great stretches of grain fields and olive groves greet us. Little rural oil-mills appear here and there. Mules are treading out the grain on the threshing floors. Mounted peasants pass, with countenances that recall good Sancho Panza. In the distance we see herds of gigantic cattle, and far away in the background

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