Part 4

“I see a doubt in your mind as to the genuineness, the efficacy, of my discovery,” the even voice continued. “I will relieve that.” From an inner pocket he drew a card photograph and handed it to Carringford. “That was taken three years ago. I was then approaching eighty. I am now, I should say, about forty-five. I could be younger if I chose, but forty-five is the age of achievement--the ripe age. Mankind needs me at forty-five.”

Carringford stared at the photograph, then at the face before him, then again at the photograph. Yes, they were the same, certainly they were the same, but for the difference of years. The peculiar eyes, the clean, unusual outlines were unmistakable. Even a curious cast in the eye was there.

“An inheritance,” explained his visitor. “Is the identification enough?”

Carringford nodded in a dazed way and handed back the picture. Any lingering doubt of the genuineness of this strange being or his science had vanished. His one thought now was that growing old need be no more than a fiction, after all that one might grow young instead, might lay aside the wrinkles and the gray hairs, and walk once more the way of purposes and dreams. His pulses leaped, his blood surged up and smothered him.

The acceptance of such a boon seemed too wonderful a thing to be put into words. His eyes grew wide and deep with the very bigness of it, but he could not for the moment find speech.

“You are willing to make the experiment?” the man asked. “I see many emotions in your mind. Think--think clearly, and make your decision.”

Words of acceptance rushed to Carringford’s lips. They were upon the verge of utterance when suddenly he was gripped by an old and dearly acquired habit--the habit of forethought.

“But I should want to keep my knowledge of the world,” he said, “to profit by my experience, my wisdom, such as it is. I should want to live my life over, knowing what I know now.”

The look of weariness which Carringford’s face had worn earlier had found its way to the face of the visitor.

“I seem to have heard most of those things before,” he said, with a faint smile.

“But shall I not remember the life I have lived, with its shortcomings, its blunders?”

“Yes, you will remember as well as you do now--better, perhaps, for your faculties will be renewed; but whether you will profit by it--that is another matter.”

“You mean that I shall make the same mistakes, commit the same sins?”

“Let us consider to a moment. You will go back to youth. You will be young again. Perhaps you have forgotten what it is to be young. Let me remind you.” The man’s lashes met; his voice seemed to come from a great distance. “It is to be filled with the very ecstasy of living,” he breathed--“its impulses, its fevers, the things that have always belonged to youth, that have always made youth beautiful. Your experience? Yes, you will have that, too; but it will not be the experience of that same youth, but of another--the youth that you were.” The gray eyes gleamed, the voice hardened a little. “Did you ever profit by the experience of another in that earlier time?”

Carringford shook his head.

“No,” he whispered.

His guest pointed to the book-shelves.

“Did you ever, in a later time, profit by the wisdom set down in those?”

Carringford shook his head.

“No,” he whispered.

“Yet the story is all there, and you knew the record to be true. Have you always profited even by your own experience? Have you always avoided the same blunder a second, even a third, time? Do you always profit by your own experience even now?”

Carringford shook his head.

“No,” he whispered.

“And yet you think that if you could only live your life over, you would avoid the pitfalls and the temptations, remembering what they had cost you before. No, oh, no; I am not here to promise you that. I am not a magician; I am only a scientist, and I have not yet discovered the elixir of wisdom or of morals. I am not superhuman; I am only human, like yourself. I am not a god, and I cannot make you one. Going back to youth means that you will be young again--young! Don’t you see? It does not mean that you will drag back with you the strength and the wisdom and the sobered impulses of middle age. That would not be youth. Youth cares nothing for such things, and profits by no experience, not even its own.”

Carringford’s eyes had wandered to the yellow vial under the lamp--to the quivering, shimmering fascination of its dancing gold. His gaze rested there a moment, then again sought the face of his guest--that inscrutable face where seemed mingled the look of middle age with the wisdom of the centuries.

“You do not care to go back further?” Carringford said.

The man’s eyes closed for a moment, and something that was akin to fierce human emotion swept his features.

“Yes, oh, yes, I care,” he said quickly. “It is the temptation I fight always. Oh, you do not know what it means to feel that you are growing young! To feel your body renew, your heart beat stronger, to feel your blood take on a swifter flow, like the sap of a tree in spring! You have known the false stimulus of wine. Ah, it is a feeble thing compared with this! For this is not false, but true. This is the substance of renewal, not the fire of waste. To wake in the morning feeling that you are not older than yesterday, but younger, better able to cope and to enjoy; to travel back from fourscore to forty-five--I have done that. Do you realize what that means? It means treading the flowery way, lighted by eternal radiance, cheered by the songs of birds. And then to stop--you cannot know what it means to stop! Oh, yes, it was hard to stop; but I must stop now, or not at all this side of youth. Only at forty-five would one have the strength to stop--the age of reason and will, the age of achievement. And I need to achieve, for I still have much to do. So I stopped when I had the strength and had reached the fullness of my power. While I have work to do I shall not go further back. I shall remain as I am, and as you are, at middle age--the age of work.”

He had been pacing up and down in front of Carringford as he spoke. He now halted, facing him, gazing down.

“I must not linger,” he said. “These are my hours for labor, and I have so much to do, so much, it will keep me busy for a thousand years. I have only begun. Perhaps some day I may discover the elixir of wisdom. Perhaps I may yet solve the secret of genius. Perhaps”--His voice lowered--“I shall one day unveil the secret of the soul. The vial I leave with you, for I see in your mind that you cannot reach a conclusion now. On the attached label you will find instructions for its use. Think, ponder, and be sure before you set out on that flowery backward way. Be sure that you want youth again, with all that youth means, before you start back to find it.” He laid his hand in Carringford’s for an instant, and was gone.

[Illustration: Drawn by O. F. Schmidt. Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merrill

“HE BALANCED THE PRECIOUS VIAL MORE QUICKLY”]

For a while Carringford did not move, but sat as one in a dream, staring at the dancing fluid gold in the bottle beneath the lamp.

Youth--youth, how he had longed for that vanished gold, which he had so prodigally wasted when it was in his grasp! How often he had said, as he had said to-night, “Oh, to have one more chance, to be able to begin the game anew!” He reached out and grasped the vial, and held it up to the light. The glinting radiance in it began a wild, new dance at his touch.

Youth, life renewed, yes, that is what it was, its very essence; to taste of that elixir, and start back along the flowery, sunlit way of which his guest had spoken; to feel the blood start more quickly in his veins, a new spring in his muscles; to know that a new bloom had come into his cheek, a new light into his eye.

But, then, the other things, they would come, too. Along that fair backward way lurked all the temptations, the dangers, the heartbreaks--all the efforts and the failures he had once left behind. Did he want to face them again? Did he want to endure again all those years of the struggle of human wisdom with human weakness? He knew it would mean that, and that the same old fights and failures would be his share. He had never thought of it before, but he knew now that it must be so.

Yet, to tread that flowery way, to begin to-night!

He wheeled around to the dying fire, and sat staring into the deep coals and flickering blaze, balancing the golden vial in his hand, as one weighing a decision.

To tread that flowery way, with its blue skies and its singing birds, to feel one’s heart bursting with a new ecstasy, to reach again the land of hope and love, and to linger there with some one--some one with a heart full of love and life! He had always been so lonely!

The age of work, his own age, his guest had chosen to linger there; had resisted all other temptations for that. With the wisdom of fourscore years and all his subtle gift for detecting and avoiding dangers, he had chosen the middle age of life for his abiding-place. The age of work, yes, it was that, if one only made it his vantage-ground.

But, oh, the glory of the flowery way, with all its dangers and all its heartbreaks! His decision was swinging to and fro, like a pendulum: the age of work, the flowery way, the age of work?

And he had been so idle. Perhaps that had been the trouble all along.

“The age of work,” he whispered, “the age of achievement!”

He balanced the precious vial more quickly. It caught the flicker of a waning blaze and became a great, throbbing ruby in his hand.

“To live life over! To go back and begin the game anew! Good God!”

Then--he did not know how it happened--the little bottle toppled, fell, and struck the stone hearth, splashing its contents into the dying embers. There was a leap of yellow flame, which an instant later had become vivid scarlet, changing as quickly to crimson, deep purple, then to a flare of blinding white, and was gone.

Carringford, startled for a moment, sat gazing dumbly at the ashes of his dying fire.

“The question has decided itself,” he said.

A LAST MESSAGE

BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD

Dear, I lie dying, and thou dost not know-- Thou whom of all the world I love the best, And wilt not know until I lie at rest, With lips forever closed and lids dropped low. O Love, O Love, I cannot leave thee so! Cannot, still undivined, still unexpressed, Unheeding to the last my heart’s behest, Dumb into the eternal silence go! What reck I in this moment of disgrace? Albeit the whole world hear what my heart saith, I cry aloud to thee across all space, To thee--to thee--I call with my last breath! O Love, lean forth from out thy dwelling-place! Listen, and learn I loved thee, Love, till death.

[Illustration: THOMAS JEFFERSON

FROM THE STATUE BY KARL BITTER, FOR THE JEFFERSON MEMORIAL IN ST. LOUIS

This statue will be unveiled in the presence of a congressional committee on April 30, 1913, the one hundred and tenth anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase.]

[Illustration]

TO A SCARLET TANAGER

BY GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

My tanager, what crescent coast, Curving beyond what seas of air, Invites your elfin commerce most? For I would fain inhabit there. Is it a corner of Cathay, That I could reach by caravan, Or do you traffic far away Beyond the mountains of Japan?

If, where some iridescent isle Wears like a rose its calm lagoon, You plan to spend a little while,-- An April or a fervid June,-- Deign to direct my wanderings, And I shall be the one who sees Your scarlet pinnace furl its wings And come to anchor in the trees.

Do you collect for merchandise Ribbons of weed and jeweled shells, And dazzle color-hungry eyes With rainbows from the coral wells? But when your freight is asphodels, You must be fresh from Enna’s lawn. Who buys, when such a merchant sells, And in what market roofed with dawn?

Much would it ease my spirit if To-day I might embark with you, Low-drifting like the milkweed-skiff, Or voyaging against the blue, To learn who speeds your ebon sails, And what you do in Ispahan. Do you convey to nightingales Strange honey-dew from Hindustan?

With you for master mariner, I yet might travel very far; Discover whence your cargoes were, And whither tending, by a star; Or what ineffable bazaar You most frequent in Samarkand; Or even where those harbors are Keats found forlorn in fairy-land.

[Illustration: Owned by Mrs. Frank H. Scott

THE SCARLET TANAGER

FROM THE PAINTING, IN WATER-COLORS, BY ALFRED BRENNAN]

[Illustration]

A WAR WORTH WAGING

THE SUCCESSFUL FIGHT TO IMPROVE THE HEALTH OF NEW YORK CITY

(AVERAGE LIFE IN 1866, THIRTY YEARS; IN 1912, SIXTY-SIX YEARS. DEATH-RATE IN 1866, 34 PER THOUSAND; IN 1912, 14.11 PER THOUSAND)

BY RICHARD BARRY

Professor Fisher, of the Committee of One Hundred appointed to consider the problem of the national health, was laboring with Senator Works of California, the official representative in Washington of the Christian Scientists.

“Your approval, Senator,” he said, “of such measures as clean streets and playgrounds is really an indorsement of preventive medicine.”

“But,” exclaimed Senator Works, “I did not know you meant those things as being preventive medicine. I thought preventive medicine meant serums.”

“No,” said Professor Fisher, laughing; “it means mosquito-bars and bath-tubs.”

It is not only serums and bacteriology, but mosquito-bars and bath-tubs, clean streets and plenty of sewers, together with an efficient organization to perfect the operation of such things, that have revolutionized the conditions of health in New York City.

Consider what has been done for poor children alone. Recently I stood in one of the fifty-five diet-kitchens maintained by the city. A poor woman of the neighborhood entered, carrying in her arms a sickly baby. Evidently familiar with the proper course of procedure, she said to the nurse in charge, “I have given him castor-oil and barley gruel; now what shall I do?” This incident is remarkable because the woman never before had come within the reach of the Health Department. In the danger that menaced the child, she had learned to take the first essential steps not through experience or instruction, but merely through neighborhood gossip.

CONDITION OF NEW YORK HALF A CENTURY AGO

Ten years ago such a thing would have been impossible in New York or in any other large city. The tremendous agencies that now exist for the medical enlightenment of the masses were then unheard of. A generation ago New York was in a condition of almost primeval darkness concerning questions of public health. Canton or Constantinople is to-day little worse off than was America’s chief city then.

In 1866 the public health conditions of New York were in so low a state that the average length of life of the inhabitants was thirty years. In 1912 these conditions had been improved so that the average length of life was sixty-six years. Thus the value of human life, reckoned in terms of time alone, had more than doubled in less than half a century.

Let us go back to the year following the Civil War. The only paving in New York then was of cobblestones, and many streets were unpaved. All were in filthy condition, being irregularly cleaned by contractors, who shirked their work. There was no general system for the removal of ashes and garbage, and these were thrown loosely upon the streets. In three quarters of the city, cellars were in foul condition, often flooded with water and undrained. At that time, incredible as it may seem to the modern New Yorker, few houses were connected with sewers. Offensive trades, such as the boiling of bones, offal, and fat, were carried on without hindrance. There were numerous cesspools and cisterns overflowing with filth. Much of the city’s milk was obtained from cows kept in dark, crowded, ill-ventilated stables and fed upon swill from distilleries. The animals were diseased, and the milk was unclean, unwholesome, and frequently was watered.

In alleyways and back yards great quantities of manure were allowed to accumulate. Farmers sometimes bought it and carted it off for fertilizing; but if no farmer happened to come along, the stuff stayed there indefinitely. Outhouses were neglected, and never were properly cared for by the scavengers, who worked for grafting contractors. The practice of keeping swine in the built-up portions of the city was common. The slaughterhouses were in horrible condition, and the offal from these could not be properly cared for because of defective sewers.

Tenement-house conditions were as bad as they have ever been anywhere. No space was left unoccupied. Sheds, basements, and even cellars were rented to families and lodgers. The vast numbers of immigrants pouring in, and the constricted space on Manhattan Island, made rents so high that even a corner in a cellar brought an exorbitant price. Single rooms were divided by partitions, and whole families occupied each section.

In 1866 it was estimated that 20,000 People were then living in cellars in New York. Ten years before that period many of the city houses had been shaky from quick building; after the war, figuratively speaking, they had fallen into the cellars. At that time New York could hardly claim distinction as a great city. Travelers referred to it as an overgrown village, into which had been shoveled slovenly hordes of European immigrants. The annual death-rate was thirty-four per thousand, while that of London was about twenty-three per thousand. And it must be remembered that New York’s new population was composed of vigorous men and women, the cream of other localities, with what should have been healthy offspring, who had quickly centered here, ambitious and active; whereas London was an ancient city, bearing the ills of its own age. It must be remembered also that at that time the medical profession knew little of bacteriology; antitoxins were unknown; people lived like ostriches, with their heads in the sand concerning questions of sex hygiene and child hygiene; and the science of sociology had yet to be discovered.

Cities had always existed, it is true, but they had to be constantly replenished by fresh blood from the country, and most of them had space to spread out into the country, and thus absorb naturally some of the health that comes from fresh air. But here was a city that had little chance to spread. It was confined to a narrow, rocky island, and was growing more rapidly than any other city in the history of the world. “Bounded on one side by a bluff and on the other side by a sound,” it was burrowing into the earth and climbing constantly into the air to make room for its fast-growing population. It was the center of the fiercest contest for money and power, yet it failed to hold long those who came there. The men that made money went to Europe to spend it, and those that fell in the fight went to the West to recuperate. Immigrants that arrived there with money went on to the West or the South; those without money stayed.

The result was that New York did not primarily become a city of residence, but the resort of those who either through the necessity of poverty or the necessity of ambition sojourned there. Of all American cities it became the most artificial; there life came to be lived at its highest tension; there the struggle for existence became fiercest.

It is apparent that in such a city Nature cannot be left to her own devices. When man deserts Nature, she promptly retaliates by deserting man. And, in substitution of so-called “natural” living, there has been developed the present-day mode, built up of scientific analysis, skilful treatment, and thorough organization.

A NEW DEPARTURE

The health campaigns of the last forty-five years divide themselves naturally into two groups, those that came before 1900 and those that came after that year. The early campaigns were the more obvious; the later campaigns are the more subtle in their tactics, but none the less effective. Before 1900 the death-rate had been reduced by more than one third. In 1866 it was 34 per thousand; in 1900 it was 20.57 per thousand. During this period of thirty-four years wells had been gradually eliminated as sources of drinking-water, until not one was left in the principal parts of the city. Young children who never had been in the country were brought to the well in Central Park and they gazed into it as a curiosity, just as they looked at the bears and the greenhouses. At the same time the general water-supply was vastly improved. To live in cellars was made illegal, and there was a general improvement in the condition of dwellings. Street-cleaning became well organized; sewers were laid in almost all the streets, and refuse was cared for scientifically. The public supervision of contagious diseases became effective; good use was made of new medical discoveries, such as diphtheria antitoxin, and the public hospitals were improved.

Yet the advances in sanitary safeguarding since 1900 are more wonderful than those that came before. In the last twelve years the death-rate has been reduced by a quarter from its comparatively high rate at the beginning of the century. In 1911 it was 15.13 per thousand. For 1912 it was 14.11 per thousand. However, this reduction of more than six per thousand has been won with over twice the effort that was necessary to make the first fourteen per thousand. The city budget for 1912 carried an appropriation for the Department of Health of more than $3,000,000. As much more was spent the same year by the seventy-odd organizations, private or semi-public, the purpose of which is the betterment of health conditions. Besides, there has been the devoted labor of more than seven thousand physicians.

In all this vast field of effort, as diversified as the entire scope of modern science, as complex as civilization itself, two main lines stand out conspicuously. New York was a pioneer among cities in both. These concerned the treatment of tuberculosis and children’s diseases. The organized fight against tuberculosis in New York, under the latest approved scientific methods, dates only from 1904. Before that time there was no successful effort on the part of the authorities to diagnose the disease properly, nor any attempt to deal with it intelligently when it was discovered accidentally. Yet New York is as great a sufferer from the white plague as any other locality. Its congested living, its large Negro population, and its indigent foreigners, ignorant of our language and customs, make it a fertile breeding-ground for the tubercle bacillus.