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The sloop as she rose and fell at the Barge Office failed to show a single sign of the battle the Chinese described. A careful scrutiny of her entire length did not disclose a blood smear, nor the breakage of deck rigging that might be expected to follow a fight of twenty-four men. The only sign that might be regarded as pointing to a mix-up was firewood, which was scattered from stem to stern. The two-masted, white-waisted, schooner appeared to be much the worse for sea wear. Streaks of red rust sprawled over her sides and her ropes had been spliced often and badly. A sturdy looking lifeboat without davits was tilted against the side, and in the boat was a hodge-podge of things. There was a barrel, which looked like a fellow of four empty water-butts near by. The barrel in the boat, however, bore the name of a Chicago firm on its head and below the firm name this: "50 Gallon Green River-D. 295." In the stern of the life-boat was a battered tin pan, half full of stale sea water. Several warped and mended oars were strewn over the seats of the craft. Near by was an ax, with two old dents in the rust-coated blade and alongside it an ax handle with the head missing. Half concealing the old ax was a burlap bag marked "H-O, Oats, Buffalo, New York.' In the stern, where a brass-tipped door led down to the small cabin, was a brown cap, torn and twisted and a straw hat with the crown crusht in. A khaki reefer, lined with sheepskin, had been flung down near the tiller, which was wrenched from the rudder post. A fresh-looking pine box, with leather hinges for an improvised door, stood near the tiller, and in it were deep-sea fishing-lines. On the canvas-covered hatch to the cabin was a coverless Bible, with the pages flapping away in the wind. Alongside the Bible was a cheap belt buckle of silver, with the initial "A." The red and green running lights had been taken from their places and were standing on the hatchway. A glimpse into the cabin, which has berths for four, showed the floor littered with newspapers, and atop the mingled sheets a new straw hat. In an attempt to shed more light on the mystery shrouding the Mary Beatrice and her human cargo, the vessel was searched thoroughly. No papers or documents which would reveal her ownership or outline her career were found. The British Consul in New York cabled to the British authorities at Nassau for information, but apparently little was known there about the craft. Before the Mary Beatrice was towed to Port Newark another gang of men was put to work searching her from stem to stern. The Times says that They reported finding a woman's garment in the cabin of the vessel. There was nothing to indicate that it might not have been there for months. Also in the newspaper-strewn cabin the searchers found two books. One was "The Hero of Panama," by Captain F. S. Brereton. On the flyleaf of the book a feminine hand had written "Aline Albufy, A. 168." Near by, in the same hand, appeared £245, 11 shillings, 10 pence." The second book was "The Will of Allah," by Kathlyn Rhodes, published by Hutchinson & Co., Paternoster Row, London. A man's hand had written "E. Trumbell" across the title page. These discoveries lend plausibility to the rumors that the captain of the Mary Beatrice went ashore, not to arrange for getting the Chinese smuggled into America, but to go a-courting. It is reported that some woman sent a message to the skipper the day before he left the ship and that the following evening the two were seen together in Manhattan. Thus, to smuggling and hand-to-hand battles is added a "strange woman" as another element of never-failing interest. Meanwhile the fate in store for the Oriental survivors of the battle is in doubt. If evidence shows that the uprising on shipboard took place beyond the coastal waters over which the United States has jurisdiction, the fifteen Chinese probably will be turned over to the British Admiralty Court, inasmuch as the Mary Beatrice appears to be of British registry. If, however, it is decided that the crew and the passengers fought while the vessel was within the three-mile limit, the United States authorities may bring indictments for murder against the Chinese. The venture of the Mary Beatrice which ended so tragically may be no isolated case but part of a vast plot, engineered by a band with headquarters in New York, to bring Chinese into America surreptitiously. theory is, according to The Times, that a Manhattan syndicate of liquor "importers" whose ships are anchored along Rum Row were smuggling Chinese as a side line. A raid on a Long Island City factory about a week before the Mary Beatrice ingloriously ended her career resulted in the capture of 105 Chinese, who, the Federal authorities said, had been smuggled into the country. Whatever ramifications the Mary Beatrice case may have, it seems certain, as The Times editorially observes, that One One would have to go far back in the chronicles of the sea, or to the Far Eastern waters, to find the like of this gory narrative. Michael Scott and Captain Marryat described fights on ships' decks and in ships' cabins that were sufficiently savage; Stevenson and Clark Russell drew from imagination like desperate encounters between desperate men, and even Conrad occasionally has intruded physical tragedies among those of the mind so much better liked by him. But not one of the sea historians or romancers has been able to surpass the horror of what happened as dusk came on and bloody war broke out on the little Nassau sponger. That the Chinese gave an unexpectedly good account of themselves in the affray is obvious, and their assailants-if they were assailed-must have been vastly and terribly surprized to discover that, unlike the wolf, it would have been judicious for them to count the supposed sheep before attacking. SUMMER READING-AND SOME ARE THINKING VACATION days are come the laziest literary future." And the making of such of the year. According to all tradition, people are going to take with them for perusal in hammocks, porch-chairs, or shady nooks, only the lightest of reading. Publishers have a way of featuring in their late spring and early summer advertising fiction and verse and essays of the distinctively entertaining variety. Yet it has been strenuously denied that everybody wants to shut off cerebration from the Fourth of July till Labor Day. To many the summer gives an opportunity for the reading of solid books for which there is no time during a busy winter, and for thinking out in comparative quiet and solitude problems which have little chance during the busier part of the year, when the cares that infest the day throng about to the tune of trolley gongs and typewriter clatter, and the peace of the night is disturbed by the honk of the motor or the rumble of the elevated train. The editor of The Literary Digest International Book Review is fully aware that both needs must be met by the writers and makers of books for the summer season. Judging from the contents of the July issue, he is saying to himself, with a smile at his own pun: "Our summer readers-well, some are readers and some are thinkers. At least they are going to be after they have finished reading my editorial and one or two of the leading articles in the July Review." 66 It must have been a very exceptional booklover-and the readers of The Book Review are probably all willing to be called booklovers-who didn't start to make his own list after reading the symposium of literary authorities in the May Review on "The Ten Best Books of the Century." Most of us thought of one or two titles very quickly, then laid the list aside to finish up-"when I have time." Now there is going to be time this summer for many of us. Everybody has an agreement or disagreement to express with certain of the lists appearing in the May Review. Some of us have in mind more or less obscure works whose merits we would like to publish forth to the reading world. We would relish a chance to make our own lists and to read each other's, and the editor of The Book Review has given us that chance, and at the same time given us something to think about this summer. Do we hear some one say that making lists is all lists has even greater value in that it 66 serves to bring into review, and in a manner that is at once suggestive and stimulating, the whole literary achievement of a period." And then, "choosing favorites is a pleasant, if bewildering, task, and if undertaken conscientiously should train one to sift the genuine from the spurious qualities that give to a book its intrinsic and hence, its lasting, value." The readers of The Book Review, so we are told, are really responsible for the chance that is now offered them to enter a free-for-all list-making contest. The following paragraphs from the editorial in the July number tell how the idea of this "symposium for all booklovers" suggested itself and how the contest is to be carried on: As was to be expected, indignant partizans of books that were not chosen by the ten writers who conducted the inquiry in the [May] Book Review were heard from, while in other periodicals the matter was taken up and supplementary lists published, all of which has greatly increased the interest and the scope of a discussion that at first had seemed little more than a pastime, with only a moderately educational value. Finally, letters have been received from readers of this magazine complaining that as the "Ten Best Books" were selected by professional writers the lists published in The International Book Review represent the critical opinion of only one-and that a limited-class of students, while lists gaging the popular as well as the professional literary taste should not be confined to any class. Hence, it has been urged that The International Book Review open its columns to its readers for a further symposium on this theme. Appreciating the unique value of such a discussion, to be carried on as suggested, the readers of this magazine are now asked to send in to the editor their lists of the "Ten Best Books of the Century"-the ten best books, in the opinion of the listmakers, that have been published in this, or any, country since 1900. From these lists, thus submitted, a final list will then be compiled containing the ten books receiving the greatest number of votes. This final, composite list will thus come to from among the publications of the last represent the ten favorite books, chosen twenty-three years by the 110,000 readers of The International Book Review-an effort to determine contemporary literary favorites that has probably not been attempted before on so large a scale. In discussions of this kind, as they have been conducted hitherto, anything like what might be called a composite opinionan opinion that might be set down as representative of the taste and judgment of the average reader-has been practically impossible to obtain, owing to the difficulty of reaching the various classes of people, professional and otherwise, who are at the same time students and lovers of all kinds of books. And it is the average reader who is, after all, the final arbiter as to the right and the wrong, the good and the bad in contemporary literature. What ten books of this century-that is, of the last through future generations, as the great twenty-three years-are destined to live books of the past live with us? That is the Some of the Exclusive (patented) Comfort Giving Features that contribute to the "B.V.D."shaped elastic "B. V. D." elastic rein- Union Suits Men's, $1.50 and upward the suit Youths', 85c the suit T They know why they prefer "B.V.D." 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Besides sending in their votes as to the best ten books of the century, it may be that some of our readers may wish to give a brief statement of the reasons governing them in making their choice. Such detailed expression of opinion will be of undoubted value in reaching a conclusion and will be used, as far as the limits of space will permit, in reporting the results of the symposium. In this discussion, it will be seen, the participants become their own judge and jury-and there is every reason to believe that the verdict coming from so large and impartial a court will have a unique value in determining the comparative excellence of contemporary literary achievement. For The fact that this contest does not close till October 15 will be appreciated both by those who consider hot weather no time for cogitation upon anything more weighty than the cut of a bathing-suit or the proper adjustment of a hammock between two pine trees, and also by the little group of serious thinkers who like to emulate the bee in improving each shining hour. summer loafers can wait, if they choose. and make out their lists between September 1 and October 15-tho such procrastination is not to be recommended; and those who find outward heat favorable to inward mental activity will rejoice at having time to think of other things, and other things to think about. Before the latter start to make out their lists they are likely to think over one or two problems presented in this same July number of The Book Review. Right at the start the Spanish novelist, Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, presents a most interesting discussion of "Plagiarism as a Profession." How many readers will agree with the conclusion he reaches? Those who will, and those who will not, are pretty sure to unite, however, in enjoying the preliminary discussion which leads the great Spanish fictionist up to these final paragraphs: One is thus compelled not only to say, but also to believe, that all the great writers, absolutely all, are plagiarists, and that the best of each does not belong to him, because he has taken it from others. A writer, during his life, gives out hundreds of images and reproduces in new form hundreds of thoughts. A part of this product recalls more or less vaguely the product of his predecessors, or may at times become identical with it; but this does not prevent the said author from adding to the intellectual treasure of mankind another and original portion that is his own. Eighty per cent. of his work may thus be old silver, skilfully handled; but what does it matter, if the author adds a handful of completely new coins minted by himself? Beyond doubt, the new is not plentiful, |