let or Othello that Salvini gave us never complained that he failed to sustain the illusion, which is the first if not the chief duty of an actor-a power not to be dismissed as mere technique, for it alone is what gives to technique the breath of life. Browning said of the Hamlet that in it "the entire lyre of tragedy sounded magnificently." One critic spoke of it as a restoration of the "lost Hamlet," and George Henry Lewes thought it of all the Hamlets he had seen "the least disappointing."

Merely as actor,-in person, gesture, and wonderful voice, in range, in intens

ity, and in the dramatic conveyance of human nature,-Salvini is the greatest of his time; indeed, it is difficult to believe that there ever could have been a greater. His contribution to the history of the imagination, so to speak, has been immense.

THE CENTURY, to which he did the honor to contribute not only his "Recollections," but also illuminating studies of several of his characters, speaks for thousands of Americans in sending him their greetings, with our own felicitations on his honored age, and the hope of hale and happy years to come.

Hobart Nichols

(THE CENTURY'S AMI RICAN ARTISTS SERIES)

N his youth Hobart Nichols was a scientific

I draftsman in the United States Geolog

ical Survey in the city of Washington, where he was born and devoted his spare time to the study of art. In 1900 he resigned his position to accept an appointment on the United States Art Commission to the Paris Exposition, where he found ample opportunity to broaden his art education. Since then he has been able to devote himself to painting and has spent much time abroad in travel and study. In the old town of Katwyk, on the north coast of Holland, he found the motive for his picture "Vespers: Katwyk,' which is the frontispiece of this number of THE CENTURY. Working with equal facility in the two mediums, of water-color and oil, Mr. Nichols has on several occasions been awarded prizes offered by, and under the auspices of, the Corcoran Gallery of Art for pictures of both kinds. For many years he has been an exhibitor in the leading exhibitions of the country. Since his return from abroad he has lived in New York.

A Lost Kipling Poem

A FEW years ago I noticed that Professor Frederick Jackson Turner of the University of Wisconsin prefaced his well-known essay on "The Influence of the Frontier on History" with a beautiful and apt quotation of poetry. It was credited to The Foreloper" by Rudyard Kipling, and ran as follows:

"And he shall desire loneliness, and his desire shall bring

Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a people, and a king;

And he shall come back o'er his own

track, and by his scarce cool camp; There he shall meet the roaring street, the derrick, and the stamp;

For he must blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand

Till on his last won wilderness an empire's bulwarks stand."

Those lines were peculiarly appropriate in the discussion of the influence of the frontier. They have also proved stimulating to one studying and lecturing upon themes of history in this far-away Old Oregon country. Having grown fond of the lines, I asked Professor Turner where he got them, and whether the rest of the poem was as good as this sample. He astonished me greatly by declaring that he not only did not know the rest of the poem, but that he had been unable to find the lines in any of the works of Kipling.

Having my interest aroused, I also made a search through a collected edition of Kipling's works, but could find no "Foreloper," nor any lines that could exactly fit the ones we had. Then I wrote to Mr. Kipling at Bateman's, Burwash, Sussex, England, and in due time received this astonishing reply from his secretary, E. M. Blaikie:

"In answer to your letter of May 6th, Mr. Kipling has asked me to say that the lines to which you refer are his, but he can

not remember when or where they were published or what the rest of the poem is.'

The poem was undoubtedly published in full somewhere at some time, and there is surely enough interest in the man and his

work to start a search that will bring the lost poem back to its author and to the many readers who enjoy such stirring lines. Edmond S. Meany.

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.

Sometimes I want to hae my say,

I own wi' faltering zeal,

On some sma' thing about the hoose,
But hear her, "Verra weel!"'

'Now here's Jack Johnston out fra toon, An', wife, I hope you'll feel

Like giein' us a cup o' tea,"

How short her "Verra weel!"

It's no tae kirk I'll gang the day-
In vain I would conceal

My tremblin' fear to have it o'er,
Her crusty "Verra weel!"

Sometimes the Thistle-that 's my club-
Keeps me sae late I 'd kneel
To ask her pardon when I come,
But she says, "Verra weel."

I ken I'm a puir, sinfu' man,

But I'd rather face the diel

Than have her with that stony glare

Say shortly, "Verra weel!

Frances Grant Teetzel.

Old Calhoun 1

A VOICE FROM THE PHILIPPINES

THERE's an old log hut in the elbow of a hill, Back in old Calhoun,

Where through all the long June evenin's you can hear the whippoorwill

Back in old Calhoun.

There the moon comes up the mountain when the sun goes down,

And the coves are drenched with silver till the laurels drip and drown,

And the wood-dove stops her moanin' and the owl takes up the soun',

And the chirrin' of the crickets chills the dew out of the groun'

Back in old Calhoun

That's the place that I was born in ; Back in old Calhoun

That's the place for which I 'm
mournin';

There is something fair to see there-
There is something sweet to me there;
And I'm wearyin' to be there-
Back in old Calhoun!

There's a little girl a-standin' just within the cabin door,

Back in old Calhoun.

There's an old man in the corner and a baby on the floor

Back in old Calhoun.

There's a look that I remember underneath

her lashes black,

And it haunts me and it hurts me, till my

heart is on the rack-

For it's hungry for her kisses and the happiness I lack,

And I'd marry her to-morrow, if I only

could get back

Back to old Calhoun,

When the spring is just a-wakin';

Back to old Calhoun,

When the white frost's hold is

breakin'.

Here it's summer till I hate it. Ah, I would not so berate it, If I could but await it

Back in old Calhoun!

There's a crazy porch hangs over, where the big road bends,

Back in old CalhounCovered up with morning-glories that a white-haired woman tends

Back in old Calhoun;

And a gray house leans and loves it for the tendrils that have clomb

Up a roof the rain has rotted from the eavetrough to the comb. . . .

My eyes ache with the sun-glare-far away my glance would roam

This whole blessed bunch of islands is n't worth one sight of home!

Back in old Calhoun,

I can see the cornfields yellowin'; Back in old Calhoun,

I can smell the Bellflowers, mellowin'

Hear the cider-presses streamin';
Glimpse the white wheat-stubble
gleamin';

But I'm only in my dreamin'
Back in old Calhoun!

On the coast, or hikin' inland, it is all the

same to me

(Back in old Calhoun!)

The homesickness is upon me and I only want to be

Back in old Calhoun.

Strange the country all about me-strange the faces on the street;

I've my fill of "fightin' niggers "of the hardship and the heat.

God! I b'lieve they 'll let me die here, 'fore I know again the sweet

Breath o' locust blooms above me-the red clay beneath my feet

Back in old Calhoun!

(What's the use of all this grievin'?) Back in old Calhoun!

-See, the transport is a-leavin'.
Leaves some of us kind o' starey.
. . I'd die happy, if they 'd carry
What there's left of me to bury
Back to old Calhoun!

Frank Preston Smart.

The Waiting-Room

A MONOLOGUE

(Scene: The anteroom of a doctor's office. Several dejected-looking women sitting around. One leans over and addresses her neighbor.)

"EXCUSE me. Have you ever had any lockjaw in your family?

"I'm so sorry you have n't! Oh, not sorry in that sense, of course; I hope I'm not that sort of person. And if I were capable of wishing misfortunes to anybody, it certainly would n't be to anybody who was n't even a friend of mine. No, indeed! But I do so want somebody to tell me just what the premonitory symptoms are. Awful disease, is n't it? I'm more afraid of it than of anything in the world except hydrophobia. It's that I'm here for now. not hydrophobia; lockjaw. I stuck a sewing-machine needle in my finger last week, and this morning it seemed to me that my face had a curious feeling. But I did come very near having hydrophobia once, if I did n't actually have a touch of it. 'Twas then I started my blessing box.

No,

"You don't? Why, you just get one of these paper boxes with a slit in the top, or one of tin, or iron, or china would do as well, and you drop in a piece of money for charity whenever you are especially glad of anything. My youngest child had a desperate attack of croup about that time, and my husband was in a railroad wreck, and our house nearly burnt down; and so, with one thing and another, I got together quite a nice sum.

"Why, I don't see what is curious about it. Oh, of course, it is principally for things that don't happen. After that dog bit me, I used to have such dreadful feelings every time I thought about it, that often and often I would expect the next minute to break out

barking. And I never did; which, of course, was a great relief.

"Yes, I have n't a doubt myself that it was mad. It never had bitten anybody before, the woman it belonged to told me so herself, and why, if it was n't mad, it should have started up and bitten me, I don't see. I wanted to see her about doing some washing for me, and I would n't go into her yard until I had called to her to know if she kept a dog. And she said she did n't. But when I went in there was a yellow dog, and I asked her what she meant by saying she did n't have a dog; and she said she did n't call that a dog, because it never had bitten anybody in its life. And it does seem to me that it stands to reason that it must have been mad, or it never in the world would have bitten me in that ferocious way, when, by the merest accident, I stepped on its tail.

“Oh, of course, it may not have understood that it was an accident, but I have n't a doubt that its tail had been stepped on times without number, and why it should have picked out me

No, it was n't very much of a bite; I don't think it had more than two or three teeth, on account of being old; but it does n't take much of a bite to give you hydrophobia. It's like lockjaw in that-so deceptive. That is what I tell my husband when he laughs at me about being uneasy about sticking my finger. One of the surest signs of these really awful things is thinking nothing is the matter. I'm not sure yet that I won't hear from that bite. It's been nine years now, and nine years, I understand, is the favorite time.

"Yes, I had it killed at once; though the woman would n't consent to it until I gave her ninety-five cents. She said it was a thoroughbred hunting-dog, and asked a dollar; but I would n't hear of that imposition, and persuaded her to take ninety-five cents, which my husband said was ninety-five times what it was worth without suspicion of hydrophobia, which, of course, ought to have made it cheaper. He said while he was buying a dog, if he 'd been me, he would have bought one without hydrophobia, even if it had cost a little more. He pretended to think that I just thought I was getting a bargain. He said he might have known I could n't resist buying a dog with hydrophobia if it was marked down, which, of course, is perfectly ridiculous. By the way, that is really a remarkable sale of silk at Hofmeyer's this morning between 10: 45 and 11: 45.

Oh, no; nothing like over; it has n't begun. I have n't a watch, but I am sure of that as I am of anything. If I was n't, I would n't be sitting here this way. As I was saying, I paid the woman ninety-five cents and had the dog killed; but I was rather

sorry I did afterward; not on account of my husband, for every married woman knows you simply cannot listen to what men say about things, but because if it had gone on living it would either have proved it had hydrophobia by dying, or it wouldn't; and either way it would have been a relief.

"You don't? Oh, I don't know; anything is better than uncertainty.

"Yes, indeed, that is what makes waiting here so hard. What I do is always to prepare myself for the worst. Oh, well, the worst is generally pretty bad. Appendicitis? No, I never have had it myself; but I have lost several friends with it, which is almost the same thing; and I can't help being drawn to everybody that has it. Yes, I know the symptoms by heart as well as any doctor; I have only too much reason to know them.

"Yes, that is the very spot. Yes, indeed; I was just going to ask you if you ever had that feeling; that is right; I mean that shows it is all wrong. Very often it runs on a long time before it becomes acute; but always in the end- So long as that? Oh, you ought to have had it seen to long ago, then. Nine tenths of the cases are lost because they are put off too long; all the doctors say that. Oh, of course, it may not be too late in your case; I do hope it is n't. I was just thinking of a dear friend of mine. One of the saddest cases! Yes, she was operated on; but it was a mere form; there was n't any hope from the first, though she did n't at all realize her true condition, and was so hopeful of getting well! Oh, you must follow my friend's beautiful example and look on the bright side. You'll have twice the chance of pulling through if you can be hopeful and cheerful and expect the best.

"No, of course she did n't; but think how much suffering she escaped by not knowing!

"Yes, I understand exactly how you feel. It is only natural that you should be nervous. I'm sure I should be in your place, a great deal more so than you are. But then I am really foolish about appendicitis; I have such sad associations with it. I often feel that if I was ever taken with it I would simply set my house in order, and-and- By the way, can you tell me of a really good man to take up and shake carpets and do that kind of work?

"Yes, that is certainly so. If there is any such thing as a good one, I have n't succeeded so far in finding him, either. If they don't bother you in one way, they will in another. If they don't jerk the carpets up and make a hole for every tack, they are morally certain just to pretend to shake them, and fold them up with half the dust in them. But they do say dust is a preventive of moths.

(Moves over to another lady.)

'QUITE a trial, is n't it, to be kept waiting so long with one's fate hanging in the balance? And, besides, I have a most important engagement between 10:45 and 11:45; at least, not an engagement exactly, but- Oh, you have a watch? Thank you. That is just about the time I thought it was. I do hope the lady who has just gone in won't be long. I really have n't very much time to spare. She is here for appendicitis, and dreadfully nervous. I tried to cheer her up all I could; but I'm just as nervous as I can be myself. Do you suffer much with your nerves? Well, you are blessed, indeed; but of course there are many more serious things. Oh, indeed? You are fortunate if it is so slight. Taken in time, and with proper attention to diet, and exercise, and all that, you may even get over it altogether, though I must confess I'm tempted sometimes to think that there is n't really any cure for anything. That is one effect of reading patent medicine advertisements. Oh, of course, they say so; and there are the pictures of the people. Did you ever notice, by the way, how much alike they are? Every man that patent medicine cures has the very same flat curls at the top of his forehead, and the women all hold their heads exactly alike sort o' stiff and sideways. Yes, they do claim wonderful cures; but it does stand to reason that by this time there would n't be any sickness left if all of them could do all they say they do. And it does make your regular doctor rage so if you take patent medicine.

"Oh, yes, now and then, when a new one comes out. It is the advertisements of the ones that you have tried and that have n't done you a bit of good that discourage you so of course not the brand new advertisements; and I do occasionally. Yes, that is what my husband says. He says that when you take one of these things that undertake to cure everything, it sets to work to cure all sorts of things you have n't got, and upsets everything that was n't wrong to start with.

And maybe it does, which would certainly be an objection. I suppose they guard against that by not really making it to cure anything. That would be the only safe way. Yes, I really take very little interest in patent medicine myself; but when you don't know just what is the matter with you, and you are not sick enough to go to the doctor, it is rather convenient to take something that does n't have to be for any particular thing. And, anyhow, it is something like a lottery: if it does anything, it may do wonders; whereas those things without any names that the doctor gives you certainly won't. The most that you can expect of them is to put you back in your usual condition; which, as a general thing, is n't so very desirable. I don't know whether you 've had much sickness in your life

Ah, indeed? Well, the average amount is bad enough. There is n't any blessing like health. Whenever I hear of the sickness of anybody I know, I always feel so thankful. Oh, you have your watch out? And it is now- Thank you. How the morning is slipping away!

Don't you? That must be the strain of waiting, though it does n't affect me so. Still, the suspense is dreadfully trying on a nervous person like I am. You say you are not at all nervous? But then it seems to me that nobody can help being apprehensive about what a doctor is going to say.

"Well, I hope sincerely it will turn out to be as simple as you think. It is a good thing anyway to look on the bright side, though hopefulness is n't generally a characteristic of dyspepsia. It is strange how much more hopeful really hopeless diseases often are. It is almost a sign of them, I think. There is n't anything more mysterious than sickness, is there? I invariably quake when I tell a doctor the smallest symptom, because the simplest and most insignificant thing may mean all sorts of horrors; and I feel as if I might be sealing my doom unawares. Now, this stiffness that I felt this morning in my jaw- Tired? Why, that is what my husband said! But what could make it tired? No, I can't help thinking it is the beginning of lockjaw.

"Oh, do you really and truly think there's no reason to be uneasy? If I just could think so! I'm so anxious to get away in good time. It is at least eleven now. Eleven five? Thank you. Then I really must go. What is to be, is to be. If it is lockjaw

Oh, I can't be as sure as all that; but it is lovely of you to be so consoling. Anyhow, the lockjaw will keep for another time; and those silks at Hofmeyer's won't. Goodby; and thank you ever so much!"

Annie Steger Winston.