to him always in exactly the same place, he gives each one the same number of shakes, and he drops it into a basket which is always in the same place. No muscular energy is required, no intelligence is required. He does little more than wave his hands gently to and fro-the steel rod is so light. Yet the man on that job has been doing it for eight solid years. He has saved and invested his money until he now has about forty thousand dollars and he stubbornly resists every attempt to force him into a better job."

Factories anywhere could duplicate this instance. Men are probably no more alike in their reaction to "monotony" than they are in any other way. That a man should actually like to keep on doing the same thing in the same way may be the fault of the machine itself, or it may be one result of our descent from the uncreative monkey. Perhaps both. But until

the science of interpreting desire has dug more deeply into the human side of industry, there is little use confusing a wish that industrialism furnish wider opportunities for "the creative spirit" with a belief that the creative spirit is there now, in every instance, being ground to death by the machine or smothered by monotony.

What is monotony, anyway? Are we certain in what degree it is the monotony of the kind of work a man does, and in what degree it is the monotony of being forced to do any kind of work at all? In what degree it is the monotony of the job itself, and in what degree the monotony of meager outside interests, with little leisure to enjoy them? The wife of the tenement-dweller has a more varied workday than her husband in his fac

tory, cooking, sweeping, washing, ironing, rescuing her ragamuffin children; but probably most of us believe that longer hours and fewer contacts with the outside world make her life more of a grind than his.

The human soul, blessed with a chance to fly, sometimes remains contentedly on earth. We are supermonkeys and not super-eagles. In another of his criticisms of our modern age we may agree with Mr. Peffer that the press does not supply its readers regularly with disinterested information, dry light. But is that primarily the result of an industrial era? Or does there enter into it that same will to believe what 's interesting and what 's profitable that colors "news" when one man repeats it to his neighbor from one Chinese village to another? Most of us want news that feeds our prejudices and our preconceived beliefs. Far from having editorialized opinion forced on us, we actually prefer it boiler-plated. We will go to any lengths rather than take the intolerable trouble of thinking for ourselves.

We show that in our attitude toward war. Mr. Peffer argues that industrialism breeds international conflict. Well, China has had her share of fighting; has it now. And wholesale banditry, as well. But grant that industrialism widens the front on which battles may be fought; grant that it invites the captains and the kings to reach out for new prizes, suddenly brought within reach; the fact remains that one reason why the captains and the kings are able to recruit their ordinary privates is the thrill of “following the colors" that can be planted in the breasts of any generation remote enough from the grim reality of

actually embarking upon that enterprise. Wars often come in cycles. East, as well as West, can testify to that. It may be that the one way to "end war" is to make it superlatively and manifestly costly. That, at any rate, machinery will do.

I am not even certain, finally, that Mr. Peffer is right about that radio caroling "I'm Just Wild about Harry." It would be easy to point out that modern mechanics have had little to do with choice of airs, and that the Chinese coolie, far away from industrialism and its snares, is still more likely to whistle his Chinese counterpart of "I'm Just Wild about Harry" than of "Anitra's Dance." But more than that, it is quite possible that for descendants of the simians social unity is less a matter of high purpose than of a common sentimentality. President Harding's messages on the state of the Union, Mr. Calvin Coolidge earnestly addressing himself to two million radio enthusiasts, the Bishop of Rhode Island being broadcasted of a Sunday evening, have nothing like the steady magnetism of Mutt and Jeff or a new tune from the "Follies." We Americans are for one reason knit together because we have a widely shared appreciation of what is tuneful and what funny. If there is any benefit in national unity, it is not a point that can be lightly shrugged away as trivial that a million people laugh at Jiggs and Dinty, and that the same air which has won fame on Broadway is whistled some two months later by the newsboy in Spokane, the stevedore in Charleston, and the Boston merchant dressing for an opera. Station X. Y. Z., at Shanghai, may yet come to the aid of faction-ridden China, broadcasting "Silver Threads among

the Gold." Nor is that all. It is well, too, to remember that if inventions approaching the sublime contribute also to the ridiculous, it is often only incidentally. The pink-and-orange dancing nymphs in the advertising signs along Broadway may raise a doubt as to whether it was wise ever to apply electricity to purposes of lighting; but the same filament burns above the table where surgeons are operating for cancer. And if the wireless pipes its jangling little rag-times, it calls across the ocean, too, for

rescue.

All that, I think, is true. And yet, when this much has been said, the fact that critics of the modern age may happen to romanticize an older civilization is cold comfort if the modern age is static.

I wonder if that is not just the point where it is easy to jump to conclusions? Mr. Peffer warns us that man and all his works should not be judged by the brief span from 1800 to 1921; it is fair to ask that man and his machine age be not judged on the same brief basis. To Mr. Peffer's criticism that "universal education," for example, is only "universal literacy," the obvious reply is that "education" will never be attained unless "literacy" precedes it.

The machine age is only in its infancy. To suppose that in its present form it is anything but a casual bit of blundering transition is surely to look only a short way ahead. The machine age is far from static. It is as dynamic as white light itself. Even our machines themselves may take a tack that will send more than one of the premises of romantic criticism flying. To speculation on that point I shall turn in a second paper.

UCH things happen every year in the north of and for a the north of Norway, and for a day or two afterward the men talk about it; and then they go out on the same sea and begin fishing again.

The shop was full of men, all talking at once. Some of them had been on their way landward when the storm broke, and had got in safely; others had been brought in by the lifeboat, but some had only just come in after having been out in the storm all night.

One small, fair man in a yellow sou'wester was talking louder than all the others, and people were looking at him in surprise. Quite by chance he had been on shore the day before, and the boat he belonged to had gone down with all hands on board. It was evident that it had been so ordained, and that he was not meant to be with them that day. God's ways were wonderful!

It was calm to-day, but cold. Men were standing out on the islands watching for boats that had not yet come in. The chief inspector had sent steamers out to look for any that had capsized. A great number of boats from fishing-stations many miles away had come in during the night, and they were now setting sail for their own stations in good weather.

come across a strange boat in the was a middle of the West Fiord. It was a Nordland boat, and her sail was closereefed, although there was little wind. The steamer hove to, and found that the head-man at the helm was half dead, and that the other three men, who were sitting and holding on to the thwart, were frozen to death. Spray had turned to ice in their hair and beards and upon their clothes, and they were staring straight before them with wide-open, glassy eyes.

Peter Suzansa that night had come safely in to Hammaröy, and it was with a heavy heart that he now sailed back across the West Fiord. He did not know how many men he knew might have been drowned, and he could not bear to think of Kristàver Myran and his men.

It was evening when he reached the station with its harbor lights, and he could see the hut, their Lofoten home, and thought how there would be plenty of room there now. As he tramped up the slippery wharf-steps, he saw people near, but did not dare to ask any questions. The coming in of every boat that day was an event, and Peter, too, was soon surrounded by an inquisitive crowd; but he spoke to no one, and went straight to the