THE SUNDAY OREGOKIAX. PORTLAND, JULY 15, 1906.
39
Russian Reformer Excoriates New York,
Its Men and Manners
Vigorous Assault on Our Worship of
Mammon and Neglect of Art
(Copyright. 1906. by D. Appleton & Co. All
rizhts reserved.)
This article in Its entirety will appear in the
August isnue of Appleton's Magazine.
A GRAY mist hung over land and
sea, and a fine rain shivered down
upon the somber buildings of the
city and the turbid waters of the bay.
The emigrants gathered to one side of
the steamer. They looked about silently
and seriously, with eager eyes in which
gleamed hope and fear, terror and joy.
"Who ds this?" asked a Polish girl in
a tone of amazement, pointing to the
Statue of Liberty. Some one from the
crowd answered briefly, "The American
Goddess.'
I looked at this goddess with the feeling
of an idolater. Before my memory
flashed the brilliant names of Thomas
Jefferson and of Grant.
'The land of liberty!" I repeated to
myself, not noticing on that glorious day
the green rust on the dark bronze.
I knew even' then that "The War for
the Abolition of Slavery" is now called
in America "The War for the Preserva
tion of the Union." But I did not know
that in this change of words was hidden
a deep meaning, that the passionate ideal
ism of the young democracy had also be
come covered with rust, like the bronze
statue, eating away the soul with the cor
rosive of commercialism. The senseless
craving for money, and the shameful
craving for the power that money gives,
is a disease from which people suffer ev
erywhere. But 1 did not realize that this
dread disease had assumed such propor
tions In America.
The Treadmill of Toll.
The tempestuous turmoil of life on. the
water at the foot of the Statue of Liberty,
and In the city on the shore, staggers the
mind, and fills one with a sense of im
portance. Everywhere, like antedeluvian
monsters, huge, heavy steamers plow the
waters of the ocean, little boats and cut
ters scurry about like hungry birds of
prey. The Iron seems endowed with
nerves, life, and consciousness.
And It seems as if all the iron, all the
stones, the wood and water, and even
the people themselves are full of protest
against this life in the fog, this life de
void of sun, and joy, this life in the cap
tivity of hard toil. Everywhere Is toll,
everything Is caught up in its whirlwind,
everybody obeys the will of some mysteri
ous power hostile to man and to nature.
A machine, a cold, unseen, unreasonable
machine. In which man is but an insignifi
cant screw!
1 love energy. I adore it. But not
when men expend this creative force of
theirs for their own destruction. There
Is too much labor and effort, and no life
In all this chaos, in all this bustle for the
sake of a piece of bread. Everywhere
we see around us the work of the mind
which has made of human llfh sort of
hell, a senseless treadmill of labor, but
nowhere do we feel the beauty of free cre
ation, the disinterested work of the spirit
which beautifies life with imperishable
flowers of Ufegiving cheer.
Independence a Phantom.
Kir out on the shore, silent and dark
"skyscrapers" are outlined against the
fog. Rectangular, with no desire to be
beautiful, these dull, heavy piles rise up
in the sky, stern, cheerless and morose,
in the windows of these prisons there are
no flowers, and no children are anywhere
seen. These structures elevate the price
of land to heights as lofty as their tops,
but debase the taste to depths as low as
their foundations. It is always so. In
great houses dwell small people.
From afar the city looks like a huge
jaw wilh black, uneven teeth. It belches
forth clouds of smoke into the sky, and
sniffs like a glutton suffering from over
corpulency. When you enter it you feel
that you have fallen into a stomach of
brick and iron which swallows up millions
of people, and churns, grinds'and digests
them.
The people walk along the pavements.
They push hurriedly forward, all hastily
driven by the same force that enslaves
them. But their faces are calm, their
hearts do not feel the misfortune, of being
slaves; indeed, by a tragic self-conceit
they yet feel themselves its masters. In
their eyes gleams a consciousness of In
dependence, but they do not know it is
but the sorry independence of the ax In
the hands of the woodman, of the ham
mer In the hands of the blacksmith. This
liberty is the tool In the hands of the
Yellow Devil Gold. Inner freedom, free
dom of the heart and soul, is not seen in
their energetic countenances. This en
ergy without liberty is like the glitter
.of a new knife which has not yet had
time to be dulled, it Is like the gloss
of a new rope.
I nhappy New York.
It is the first time that I have seen
such a huge city monster: nowhere have
people appeared to me so unfortunate, so
thoroughly enslaved to life, as in New
York. And furthermore, nowhere have 1
seen them so tragi-comieally self-satisfied
as In this huge phantasmagoria of stone.
Iron and glass, this product of the sick
and wasted imagination of Mercury and
Pluto. And looking upon this life, I be
gan to think that in the hand of the
statue of Bartholdi there blai.es not the
torch of liberty, but the dollar.
The large number of monuments in the
city parks testifies to the pride which
its inhabitants take in their great men.
These statues covered with a veil of
dirt involuntarily force one to put a
low estimate upon the gratitude felt
by the Americans toward all those who
lived and died for the good of their
country. The mammoth fortunes of
Morgan and Rockefeller -wipe off from
memory the significance of the creators
of liberty Lincoln and Washington.
"This is a new library they are build
ing," said some one to me, pointing to
an unfinished structure surrounded by a
park. And he added importantly: "It
will cost JL',000,000! The shelves will
measure 150 miles!" .
Another gentleman told me, as he
pointed out a painting to me: "It is
worth $500."
That Theatrical Trust.
I meet here very few people who
have a clear conception of the intrinsic
worth of art, its religious significance,
the power of its influence upon life,
and its indispensableness to mankind.
It seems to' me that what is super
latively lacking to America is a desire
for beauty, a thirst for those pleasures
which it alone can give to the mind
and to the heart. Our earth is the heart
of the universe, our art the heart of
the earth. The stronger it beats, the
more beautiful is life. In America the
heart beats feebly.
I was both surprised and pained to
find that In America the theaters were
in the hands of a trust, and that the
men of the trust, being the possessors,
had also become the dictators in mat
ters of the drama. This evidently ex
plains the fact that a country which
nas excellent novelists has not pro
duced a single eminent dramatist.
To turn art into a means of profit is,
under all circumstances, a serious mis
demeanor, but in this particular case
It Is positive crime, because it offers
violence to the author's person and
adulterates art.
The theater is called the people's
school; it teaches us to feel and to
think.
But perhaps the Americans think
that they are cultured enough? If so,
they are easily in error.
A Lack of Culture.
The first evidence of the absence of
culture in the American is the interest
he takes In all stories and spectacles of
cruelty. To a cultured man. a human
ist, blood is loathsome. Murder by exe
cution and other abominations of a like
character arouse his disgust. In Amer
ica such things call forth only curios
ity. The newspapers are filled with de
tailed descriptions of murders and all
kinds of horrors. The tone of the de
scription is cold, the hard tone of an
attentive observer. It is evident that
the aim is to tickle the weary nerves
of the reader with sharp, pungent de
tails of crime, and no attempt is ever
made to explain the social basis of the
facts.
To no one seems to occur the simple
thought that a nation Is a family. And
if some of Its members are criminals, it
only signifies that the system of bring
ing up the people in that family is
badly managed.
I will not dwell on the question of
the attitude of the white man toward
the negro. But it is very characteristic
of the American psychology that Book
er T. Washington preaches the follow
ing sermon to his race:
"You ought to be as rich and as
clean outwardly as the whites; only
then will they recognize you as their
equals." This, in fact, is the substance
of his teachings to his people.
But in America they only think of
how to make money. Poor country,
whose people are occupied only with
the thought of "how to get rich!
Danger of the Trusts.
I am never in the least dazzled by
the amount of money a man possesses;
but his lack of honor, of love for his
country, and of concern for its welfare
always fills me with sadness. A man
milking his country like a cow, or bat
tening on it like a parasite, is a sorry
sort of inspiration. How pitiful that
America, which they say has full po
litical liberty, is utterly wanting In
liberty of spirit! When you see with
what profound Interest and Idolatry
the millionaires are regarded here, you
involuntarily begin to suspect the
democracy of the country. Democracy
and so many kings. Democracy and a
"Higher Society." All this is strange
and incomprehensible.
All the numerous trusts and syndicates,
developing with a rapidity and energy
possible only in America, will ultimately
call forth to life Its enemy, revolutionary
socialism, which, in turn, will develop as
rapidly and as energetically. But while
the process of swallowing up individuals
by capital, and of the organization of the
masses is going on, capitalism will spoil
many stomachs and heads, many hearts
and minds.
Speaking of the National spirit, I must
also speak of the morality of the Nation.
That side of life has always been a poser
to me. I cannot understand it: and when
people speak seriously about It. I cannot
help but smile. At best, a moralist to me
Is a man at whom I wink from the corner
of my eye. and, drawing him aside, whis
per in his ear:
"Ah, you rascal! It isn't that I am a
SOME GORKY MAXIMS
Nowhere have the people appeared to rue so unfortunate, so thoroughly
And furthermore, nowhere have I seen them so tragi-comically self-satisfied.
In the hand of the statue of Bartholdi blazes not the torch of Liberty, but-the dollar.
I have seen poverty a-plenty. But the horror of the East Side poverty is sadder than everything that I
have known.
The first evidence of the absence of culture in the American is the interest he takes in all stories and spec
tacles of cruelty.
But perhaps the Americans think that they are cultured enough? If so, they are easily in error.
In America they steal money very frequently, and lots of it. .
The rude vigor of political and social youth is fettered by the rusty chains of the old Puritan morality bound
to the decayed fragments of dead prejudices.
I regard all discourses on morality
skeptic, but I know the
to my sorrow."
The most desperate
come across was my
world, I know it
moralist I have
grandfather. He
heaven, and con
them to everyone
knew all the roads to
stantly preached about
who fell Into his hands
the truth. He knew to
He alone knew
a dot everything
that God wanted, and
he used to teacu
mi
nans
V I fVMi WA 111'
nnirif-"
MARIAN SHELDON was an only
child, accustomed to every luxury
up to the time of her father's
death. This sad event had brought about
many reverses, not the least easy of
which to be borne was the bitterness of
giving up their handsome home and mov
ing into the adjoining old-fashioned cot.
tage.
This cottage had been her parents' first
home, and ever since, for sentimental rea
sons, her mother had retained possession
of it in her own name, thus Insuring them
a shelter from the winds of adversity.
Another comforting thought to Mrs.
Sheldon was the assurance of Marian's
uncle that all school expenses of the lit
tle girl would be met by himself. Marian
was sensitively proud, however, and this
sudden dependence and poverty made her
at times just a trifle bitter. This bitter
ness tinged her manner on reaching home
one day, after 'a discussion by the girls
at the academy of where and how they
should spend their Summer vacations.
And so, when her mother requested her
to gather some raspberries for supper
while she set the table, Marian took up
the little basket with an unwilling ges
ture quite unlike her usually cheerful
self.
"What is It. dear?" asked her mother,
with a detaining hand upon the basket.
"Nothing, mother nothing at all!"
came the answer, born of a brave deter
mination not to worry her mother. But
her lips were quivering, and suddenly, in
spite of all resolutions, Marian burst into
tears. And then, seated beside her moth
er, on the veranda steps, the whole story
came out between sobs:
"I am so tired of being questioned about
my vacation. None of the girls seem to
understand the difference between this
year and last with me. I wish I needn't
go to the academy any more, where I
must always be explaining things. Every
girl in school who is really anybody is
going some place all but me."
Marian added pathetically, surprised
that her outburst had elicited no response.
"It's very humiliating, mother, when one
has saved but 50 cents."
Marian's mother smiled an odd little
smile, and patted the bowed little head
lovingly.
"Well, run along now. dear, and gather
the berries." was all she said.
Not one word of comment or sympathy.
as a useless waste of time.
even the dogs and cats how to conduct
themselves in order to attain eternal hap
piness. But, with all that, he was greedy
and malicious he beat bis domestics, on
every spare and suitable occasion, with
whatsoever and howsoever he desired.
I tried to influence my grandfather,
wishing to make him milder. Once I
threw the old man out of the window, an
appuVaccrtion
Bjj Louise
and the little girl's heart was so heavy!
But when Marian returned, a pretty
surprise awaited her. The table, with its
snowy cloth, was right out on the veran
da, and the most tempting of little spreads
was laid thereon, the best china appearing
as though guests were expected.
To Marian's surprised inquiry her moth
er said:
"Go upstairs and change your gown,
dear. Put on your pink lawn. It rests
one so much to dress up a little."
When Marian came downstairs her ber
ries were disposed about the edge of a
gelatine mound, and Mrs. Sheldon was
whipping some cream to accompany the
dish.
The whole picture her mother singing
cheerfully at what had once been a ser
vant's task, the vista through the door
of the pretty table against the scarlet
Ramblers smote her to sudden penitence,
and she exclaimed:
"Oh, mother, you are the dearest! I'll
never hate our little suppers any more.
No dinner could be lovelier than this little
picnic. How I wish there was some
one to enjoy It with us!"
"I telephoned while you were out, ask
ing Miss Briggs over," Mrs. Sheldon then
told her. "She seldom comes home from
sewing until about this hour, and then has
to cook her own little meal-in her room."
"But. mother." Marian hesitated, a little
guiltily, "Miss Briggs used to be our
seamstress."
"And a very good seamstress, too,"
smiled her mother. "Besides that she is
one of the finest gentlewomen I have ever
known."
Marian kissed her mother, once more
heartily ashamed of herself, and ran down
the path to gather some choice rosebuds
for favors and some sprigs of parsley for
the cold meat.
Miss Briggs wu delighted with the lit
tle entertainment, and when she finally
left it was with a visible reluctance that
was a sincere form of gratitude. After
clearing the things away, they returned
to the veranda with their books, and
Marian's face wore a decidedly happy ex
pression. "Mother, think of living like Miss Briggs
does, in one hot little upstairs room,"
she said, and added: "We have much to
be thankful for. haven't we?"
"Oh. my dear, yes!" assented her moth
er, glad now to discuss the subject, since
the little girl's attitude of mind was so
' Jt ' Iff
enslaved to life, as in New York.
other time I struck him with a looking
glass. The window and the looking-glass
broke, but grandpa did not get any bet
er. He died a moralist. Since that time
I regard all discourses on morality as a
useless waste of time. And, moreover,
being from my youth up a professional
sinner, like all honest writers, what can
I say about morality?
lbexingEon
changed. She closed her book and con
tinued thoughtfully:
"Poverty and wealth are only relative
terms. When we lived here before, your
father used to say it all depended on
whether we compared ourselves with
Borthwick-street neighbors, at our front
door, or Perry-street neighbors, at the
back. If we compare our lot with our
front-door neighbors, such as the Gear
hards or the Van Brents, I admit we are
bound to feel rather shabby. But there
are some of the very nicest people on
Perry street, in whose eyes I daresay we
seem quite affluent. There are little Ollie
Sutherland and Miss Briggs. for Instance,
who both room at that cheerless 'Perry
House.' It seems good to them to be
able to enjoy even from their windows
our lovely rose garden and trees."
Mrs. Sheldon continued: "I told Ollie
last week to gather some roses each morn
ing as she went by to her work, and she
declared the days had not seemed so
long or tiresome since that a whiff of
them during work hours would instantly
bring to mind the coolest, sweetest spot
she knew. I fear Ollie would think us
very ungrateful to complain."
Marian made no answer, but looked very
thoughtful as she rocked to and fro.
"Mother." she asked, presently, with a
bright smile, "what do you think would
be a nice way to spend our vacation
with only 50 cents?"
"In giving a little pleasure to some
body who is less fortunate than our
selves," came the answer, without a bit
of hesitation.
"That's just what I've been thinking."
Marian confided. "It seems to me when
we've so much, and others have so little,
we should be willing to share it. I've
been thinking of the Perry-street neigh
bors. Now there's Mrs. Williams. Her
little children have no place to play but
in the dusty street. And here's our great
big lawn and the croquet set, and every
thing cool and inviting. Don't you think
we might ask them to make use of it as
often as they like?"
"Yes, dear," her mother responded, "and
I believe Mrs. Taggart would enjoy com
ing over of afternoons with her sewing
and sitting in our big rustic chair."
Marian broke in eagerly: "Then there
are the Mitchell twins; they take our
cherries and berries, I know; but I don't
believe they'd be so mean if we invited
yenr , i in , ii m&
I wish it to be understood that in thus
speaking of moralists I do not mean those
who think, but only those who judge.
Emerson was a moralist, but I cannot
Imagine a man who, having read Emer
son, will not have his mind cleared of the
dust and dirt of worldly prejudices.
Man is by nature curious. I have more
than once lifted the lid of the moral ves
sel, and every time there issued from it
such a rank, stifling smell of lies and
hypocrisy, cowardice and wickedness as
was quite beyond the power of my nos
trils to endure.
I am willing to think that the Ameri
cans are the best moralists in the world,
and that even my grandpa was a child in
comparison. I admit that nowhere else
in the world are there to be found such
stern priests of ethics and morality, and,
therefore. I leave them alone. But a word
about the practical side. America prides
itself on Its morals, and occasionally con
stitutes itself as judge, evidently presum
ing that it has worked out in Its social
relations a system of conduct worthy of
imitation. I believe this Is a mistake.
Affecting American Society.
The Americans run the risk of making
themselves ridiculous if they begin to
pride themselves on their society. There
Is nothing whatever original about it; the
depravity of the "higher classes of so
ciety" is a common thing in Europe. If
the Americans permit the development of
a 'higher society" 'in their country, there
is nothing remarkable in the fact that
depravity also grows apace. And that no
week passes without some loud scandal in
this "high society" Is no cause for pride in
the originality of American morals. You
can find all these things in Europe, also.
I must yet mention the fact that in
America they steal money very' frequently
and lots of it. This, of course, is but nat
ural. Where there is a great deal of
money there are a great many thieves.
To imagine a thief without money is as
difficult as to imagine an honest man
with money. But that again is a phenom
enon common to all countries
Horror ol the East Side.
A magnificent Broadway, but a horrible
East Side! What an Irreconcilable con
tradiction, what a tragedy! The street
of wealth must perforce give rise' to harsh
and stern laws devised by the financial
aristocracy, by the slaves of the Yellow
Devil, for a war upon poverty and the
Whitechapel of New York. The poverty
and the vice of the East Side must per
force breed anarchy. I do not speak of a
theory; I speak of the development of
envy, malice and vengeance: of that. In a
word, which degrades man to' the level of
an anti-social being. These two irrecon
cilable currents, the psychology of the
rich and the feeling of the poor, threaten
a clash which wjjl lead to a whole series
of tragedies and catastrophies.
America is possessed of a great store
of energy, and therefore everything in it.
the good and the bad, develops with
greater rapidity than anywhere else.
The children in the streets of New York
produce a profoundly sad Impression.
Playing ball amidst the crash and thunder
of iron, amidst the chaos of the tumult
uous city, they seem like flowers thrown
by some rude and cruel hand into the
dust and dirt of the pavements- The
whole day long they Inhale the vapors
of the monstrous city, the metropolis of
the Yellow Devil. Pity for their little
lungs, pity for their eyes choked up'with
dust!
I have seen poverty aplenty, and know
well her green, bloodless, haggard coun
them inside to swing In the canvas ham
mock." Suddenly Marian laughed out gaily:
"O mother, If Mr. Peters looks across and
sees those children romping on the grass
he has tended for so long I really believe
he will have a fit. It's lucky we're on
this side of the fence, and no longer un
der his iron rule."
Mrs. Sheldon smiled a trifle sadly. "Poor
old Peters," said she, "who loves a rose
and hates a child. I feel truly sorry for
him."
Thus did the Sheldon garden become a
sort of Summer park for their poorer
neighbors. Contrary to their usual ex
perience, the fruit was unmolested, the
Mitchell twins constituting themselves a
special guard of the great Royal Ann
cherry tree, much to the surprise of the
small boys whose raids they had once
captained, in the attempt to outwit old
Peters, the gardener.
Miss Briggs was Induced to take a two
weeks' respite from all work, and spend
it at the home of her late mistress. Ollie
Sutherland, too, although she could not
afford to lose two weeks' salary by quit
ting work, made the Sheldon cottage her
home for a like period, making her work
seem much lighter.
Neither Mrs. Sheldon nor Marian found
the many people about them in the least
tiresome. On the contrary, the change
from absolutely quiet life benefited them
as well as their neighbors.
When school reopened the following con
versation took place, which shows that
Marian not only gained In health and spir
its, but in strength of character as well,
losing In her democratic associations
much of the false pride which had made
her so unhappy.
"O Marian, you look lovely. Where did
you spend the Summer?"
"Right at home. Alice, seeing how many
people I could make happy."
"At home! Why, you should write a
book and tell all about it. Call It 'How
to Be Happy Without a Vacation.' "
"No, Alice, its title should be 'A De
lightful Vacation for Fifty Cents.' "
GETTING EVEN WITH HUBBY
How She Induced a Muscular Stran
ger to Enter a Family Row
London Tit-Bits.
The other evening as a muscular person
was passing a house a lady who stood at
the gate called out to him:
"Sir, I appeal to you for protection!"
"What's the matter?" he asked, as he
stopped short.
"There's a man in the house and he
wouldn't go out of doors when I ordered
him to."
"He wouldn't, eh? We'll see about
that." Thereupon the man gave the
woman his coat to hold and rushed into
the house. He found a man at the sup
per table and took him by the neck and
remarked, "Nice style of a gentleman, you
are, eh? Come out o' this or I'll break
every bone in your body."
The man fought and it was not until a
tenance. But the horror of East Side
poverty is sadder than everything I have
known. Children pick out from the gar
bage boxes on the curbstones pieces of
rotten oread, and devour It, together with
the mold and the dirt, there in the street
In the stinging dust and the choking air.
They fight for it like little dogs. At mid
night and later they are still rolling in
the dust and the dirt of the street, these
living rebukes to wealth, these melancholy
blossoms of poverty. What sort of a
fluidruns in their veins? What must be
the chemical structure of their brains?
Their lungs are like rags fed upon dirt;
their little stomachs like the garbage
boxes from which they obtain their food
What sort of men can grow up out or
these children of -hunger and penury?
What citizens?
America, you who astound the world
with your millionaires, look first to the
children on the East Side, and consider
the menace they hold out to you! The
boust of riches when there is an Bast Side
is a stupid boast.
However, "there is no evil without a
good." as they say in Russia, country of
optimists.
This life of gold accumulation, this
Idolatry, of money, thi'i horrible worship
of the Golden Devil already begins to
stir up protest in the country. The odi
ous life, entangled lr. a network of Iron
and oppressing the soul with its dismal
emptiness, arouses the disgust of healthy
peo; !e, and they are beginning to seek
for a means of rescue from spiritual
death.
Compared to Europe.
And so we see millionaires and clergy
men declaring themselves socialists, aud
publishing newspapers and periodicals for
the propaganda of socialism. The crea
tion of "settlements" by the rich intellec
tuals, their abandonment of the luxury
of their parental homes for the wilds of
the East Side all this Is evidence of .an
awakening spirit; It heralds the gradual
rise In America of the human life. Little
by little people begin to understand that
the slavery of gold and the slavery of
poverty are both equally destructive.
The important thing is that the people
ha.ve begun to think.
After all that I have said. I am In
voluntarily drawn to make a parallel be
tween Europe and America. On that side
of the ocean there is much beauty, much
liberty of the spirit, and a bold, vehement
activity of the mind. There art always
shines like the sky at night with the liv
ing sparkle of the imperishable stars. On
this side there is no beauty. The rude
vigor of political and social youth Is fet
tered by the rusty chains of the old Puri
tan morality bound to the decayed frag
ments of dead prejudices.
Looks for a Conflagration.
Europe shows evidence of moral decrep
itude, and, as a consequence of this,
skepticism. She has suffered much. Her
spiritual suffering has produced an aris
tocratic apathy, it has made her long for
peace and quiet.
America has not yet suffered the pangs
of the dissatisfied spirit, she has not yet
felt the aches of the mind. Discontent
has but Just begun here. And it seems
to. me that when America will turn her
energy to - the quest of liberty of the
spirit, the world will witness the spec
tacle of a great conflagration, a conflag
ration which will cleanse this country
from the dirt of gold, and from the dust
of prejudice, and it will shine like a mag
nificent cut diamond, reflecting In its
great heart all the thought of, the world,
all the beauty of life.
chair had been broken and the table up
set that he was hauled out by the legs
and given a fling through the gates.
"Now, then, you brass-faced old tramp,
you move on, or I'll finish you!"
"Tramp! Tramp!" shouted the victim,
as he got up. "I'm no tramp! I own
this property and live in this house."
"You do?"
"Yes. and that's my wife holding 'your
coat."
"Thunder!" whispered the muscular
man, as he gazed from one to the other
and realized that It was the wife's meth
od of finishing a row she had been hav
ing with her husband. And then he made
a grab for his coat and disappeared Into
the darkness.
BASEBALL, THEN AND NOW
Rapid Changes in the Game During
the Past Fifteen Years.
New York World.
A pilgrim who had not seen a big league
game of baseball in nearly 15 years wan
dered out to the Polo grounds. He found
a seat back of the plate and settled down
on a 10-cent cushion to watch Chicago
trounce New York In the opening game
of the series.
The faces of the players were new, the
names were new. Curiously enough. Ger
man names predominated over Irish, a
thing which In former days would have
been unthinkable. The game itself had
changed very little in spite of persistent
tinkering of rulee.
The great improvement in the game
seems to lie in the fielding. Anson, Kelly.
Latham, Brouthers, Bennett. Sunday.
Ward, Connor. White, Rowe, Flint and
other diamond heroes of an older day
would find themselves in fast company
If they could return to the game. It is
more than doubtful if they could keep the
pace. The men are much better trained
and play much sharper ball than they
used to. Fielding has become almost a
science. Plays that would have been
sensational a dozen or so years ago are
now accepted by the bleachers as a mat
ter of course.
Base-throwing has improved no less
than fielding. Even so clever a base
runner as Latham would soon learn that
it was dangerous to take liberties with a
Bowerman or a Kling. If his feet could
not save him he might be sure that tricks
would not.
While there may be lovers of baseball
who sigh for a return of the good old
days, it is not because the game was bet
ter or because the teams played cleaner
or faster baseball. Perhaps they miss the
uncertainties which used to contribute so
much to the excitement and Interest.
More or less of a mechanioal element
necessarily enters Into a game In which
the scorers turn to mark the batter out
the Instant a fly leaves his stick.
Princess Fehim was Margaret Morgan, an
American circus rider. Prince Febim saw ner
ride, fell In love with her. and married hr.
He has been banished by the Sultan and the.
Princess expelled from Turkey.