again, at the end of each stanza. I grant
you it must have been monotonous enough to the crew, who after the first
week or two probably knew it by heart; but never mind, it sounds well to
us. It's especially good when declaimed. I don't suppose Columbus
himself climbed the poop and declaimed it; he merely stopped shaving,
stuck his head out of the chart-room and screeched it,--suitably mixed
with whatever profanities his day could command. But Time, which softens
all homely history, has beautified this. All the boy Columbuses _I_ ever
heard recite it, when I was at school, had as noble a way as one could
ask of telling their crews to sail on.

I did not mean to make so long a digression. To get back to Maeterlinck.
We ought to provide him with a beautiful baby-blue ship. Odd, charming
allegorical figures should sit on the decks, and fenders should hang
from the sides to ward off bumps of truth. Astern he might tow a small
wife-boat, as a mariner should, with its passenger capacity carefully
stamped on the bottom. And instead of Columbus, a honey-fed spirit of
dream should stand in his prow and adjure him to sail on, to dreamland.
"Dream on, dream on, dream on," she should patter, each time he grew
restless. I could not take a turn in the prow myself, it would be too
much honor; but I should be glad to take my stand in the gentleman's
rear, and do all I could to accelerate his progress from thence.

[Illustration]

Problems

The Man Who Knew Gods

His case illustrated the risks explorers run. Not the physical risks,
which are overestimated, but the psychological dangers. For years he had
lived among savages, observing their ways, and owing to this he had
fallen into a completely detached mental habit. When he returned to
civilization, he had become a confirmed looker-on. He couldn't get back
into touch with us. He remained an outsider.

I met him but once myself. I was in the publishing business at the time,
and, hearing that this man was in New York, I thought I might as well
see him about his next book. Telephoning him, therefore, at his hotel, I
asked him to dine with me on the following Friday.

"Fri-day?" he replied. "What is 'Friday'?" (He spoke English perfectly.)

"It is the twenty-sixth," I answered.

He said: "The twenty-sixth what? Oh, I know," he continued; "Friday is a
day of the week. Thank you very much, but I do not keep track of my
dinners so carefully as that."

This rather odd