The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1910-12-01
(Continued.l

@But, seriously. there is nothing in ny life that l regret more than to say that at the age of ffty-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. The amazon was a futile effort. sporadic outbreak. Generalship on the part of the women has only paved the way for America. the country of. for and by whom. if may paraphrase the words of your remarkable patriot. MT. Alexander Lincoln"
 .Abrahamr shouted Winthrop.
 .'Was 1t Abrahamy' said NJ. Vavin calmly. Tt should have been Alexan- der You will pardon me if the par ents made a mistake of that kind. I am quite serious in what l 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 a tear. twas an American woman. The finest woman that S 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 in 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 time when the Parnassians were at their height. with the sym bolists crowdlng them closely and with here and there such rampant indi. vidual notes as Jean Richepin's "Je Blaspheme" adding literary chaos and 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 of 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
 
 tine and Balzac had conferred with this old man. and dramatists galore from Augier to Dumas flls had takeE his counsel. 1t was to young Vavir another academy. dedicated to litera- ture. having an atmosphere of its own being, in fact. universe. different from that which made its presence known by the clattering cabs outside on the Boulevard des Italiens.
 You come from where. monsieurr' he said after few minutes commune 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 ager
 Twenty, monsieur"
 And you look to poetry as profess sion or tradeT'
 The old mans eyes twinkled, but Jules did not see that At twenty one sees little but oneself. one has one's own orbit. and the things and infiu- ences one admits at that time become an irrevocabIe part of the after life of the young individual.
 'Monsieur. beg your pardon"- To speak Of poetry as trade or profes- sion was to Jules a gratuitous insult
 Do not be hasty, NJ. Vivan. I am an old man. and l know many things. l wish I knew less. Here you have written many beautiful things. You have written them beautifully, but" and the old man spoke in tones that were genuinely sad, you have only written poetry"
 Inexperienced in the irony of the Parisian world. of which he was after ward to be the acknowledged master. vavin stared hopelessly at the publish CT.
 'T am a Frenchman-as loyal. as true a Frenchman as there is." went on F1amand But we are not doing fhe things our instinct prompts. We are the Frankensteins of our intel lect You are a failure as a poet be- cause you do not realize that with us poetry must be written to prove some thing. to suggest something or do something that to your unlettered mind has nothing whatsoever to do with poetry. l suppose you will say that this is all wrong; that lark when she sings does not try to sug-