The Press., 1910-12-28
-copYRIeHr. loOs BY AUGUSTUS THOMAS $


having me talk my way 1nCO LnlS Won derful country of America if did moi understand that perhaps 1t is the na tional custom" And along this line he spoke for several minutes pleasant ly and satirically, paying his attenuor to the rest of the guests and issuing them the compliments that only sI Frenchman of his ability can issue.
 "But, seriously, there is nothing ID my life that regret more than to say that at the age of fifty-nine am com ing to America for the first time America is the great country of the woman. The entire geological process of the universe has meant America because the time was bound to come when the women would control, mon sieur-would control the nation. Tn. amazon was a futile effort, a sporadic outbreak. Generalship on the part oil the women has only paved the way for America, the country of, for and by whom, if 1 may paraphrase the words of your remarkable patriot, MT Alexander Lincoln"
 "Abrahamp' shouted Winthrop.
 Was it Abraham?" said M. VaviE calmly. Tt should have been Alexan' der. You will pardon me if the par ents made mistake of that kind. I am quite serious in what say, and I say it with all respect l say it with the most sincere emotion-the finest woman that I ever knew" and into the eyes of the speaker there came just the suggestion of tear, was an American woman. The finest woman that is living'-his voice grew strong and vigorous-''is an American woman" Then, realizing with the Frenchman's keen intuition that this change in tone and sentiment had rather startled his audience, he drop ped his voice and added, "And it is with great satisfaction for my nation, if not for myself, that say that both of these women had in the one in- stance a fOndness for France and ID the second a claim on France"
 He was an extraordinary man, was this Jules Vavin, coming up to Paris at twenty with his little collection of poems under his arm. He had made the rounds of the publishers and the journals only to be regarded with amaZement and even with laughter It was at a time when the Parnassiank were at their height, with the sym bolists crowding them closely and with here and there such rampant indi vidual notes as Jean Richepin's "Je Blaspheme'' adding literary chaos anG color to the situation. One publisher, more kindly, more patient and with more leisure than the rest, at last promised, after he had glanced over the first poem of the series, to look them all over Every one else had handed him back his manuscript after glancing at the first word and skim ming over the titles.
 Poor Jules came back to the pub fishers office the second day, his heart full, his stomach empty, for the cheap est of Paris living had eaten up his funds, and there was only his mother who took financial interest in his wei fare, but her income also was meaGer. To have an interview with the head ot the great firm that was Hachette's principal rival was in itself step for, ward, he argued. And if his book should be published
 The reception was most encouraging. 'Sit down, my boy" said the old gen. tleman as Jules was ushered into his office, an office that had known the presence of nearly every great literary man of France for years. Here Hugo had come with his first work, Lamar DoN nnnfnFFnd VVi this oId man, and dramatists galore from Angler to Dumas fills had takeT his coGnsel. It was to young VaviE another academy, dedicated to litera ture, having an atmosphere of it's owl being, in fact, a universe, differen from that which made its presenc known by the clattering cabs outsid on the Boulevard des Italiens. /.
 "You come from where, monsieur he said after few minutes commun with himself, lingering the while Jules manuscript, which was on the desk be fore him when the young poet entered
 "From Haute-voire, monsieur"
 "And you are-years of ageT
 Twenty, monsieur" .
 "And you look to poetry as a profes sion or trade?'
 The old mans eyes twinkled, bu Jules did not see that. At twenty on sees little but oneself, one has one' own orbit, and the things and infu ences one admits at that time becOm an irreVocable part of the after life o the young individual.
 Monsieur, I beg your pardon T speak of poetry as a trade or profei sion was to Jules a gratuitous insult.
 "Do not be nasty, M. Vivan. aI an old man, and know many things I wish I knew less. Here you hay written many beautiful things. To have written them beautifully, but, and the old man spoke in tones ths were genuinely sad, ''you have onl written poetry"
 Inexperienced in the irony of th Parisian world, of which he was aftel ward to be the acknowledged master VaVin stared hopelessly at the publish CT.
 "I am a Frenchman-as loyal, H true a Frenehman as there is," weI on Flamand. But we are not doin the things our instinct prompts. w are the Frankensteins of our inte lect. You are failure as poet b. cause you do not realize that with U poetry must be written to prove som thing, to suggest something or something that to your unlettere mind has nothing whatsoever to with poetry. I suppose you will sa that this is all wrong; that a lar when she sings does not try to SUI gest to you the cathedral at Rouen an English fog or that she is not tr, ing to preach a sermon on anti-Sem tism or pro-Kantism or anything of thu sort. We have the greatest artists l the world. They are technically tE most accomplished, they are the true lovers of art. but-so people say--the