Journal Better Journal Contest

It was a strange ending to a voyage that had commenced in a most auspicious manner. The transatlantic steamship `La Provence’ was a swift and comfortable vessel, under the command of a most affable man. The passengers constituted a select and delightful society. The charm of new acquaintances and improvised amusements served to make the time pass agreeably. We enjoyed the pleasant sensation of being separated from the world, living, as it were, upon an unknown island, and consequently obliged to be sociable with each other.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, said Colombo, “I have here a common household egg which I shall now ask the ushers to pass among you so you may see for yourself that there are no wires or strings attached. While this is being done, ladies and gentlemen, I wish that three of you would step up on the stage. Any three—don’t be bashful girls— I won’t hurt you. Won’t that couple over there kindly oblige me— that married couple—no, folks, I guess they aren’t married either— they look too happy.”

“Now that is a pretty song”, said King Ferdinand, “and do you tell us, Colombo, how one may get to this land, so that I may extend the borders of my most Catholic Kingdom and spread the teachings of the true faith, for to bring the world under the blessed influence of my religion is my only purpose, and really now”, said King Ferdinand, “is there as much gold there as you describe?”

“But, oh, now really sir”, said Colombo, “that is indeed extremely clever and I do wish that the children were here to see it and would you mind, my dear Thyrston”, said Colombo, “doing that egg trick again?”

Then Thyrston showed Colombo that he had nothing up either sleeve and after an interval he consented to teach Colombo the secret of his conjuring.

They of Genoa tell with a shrug how in the old days Cristofer Colombo whom men called the Dreamer left Dame Colombo to go in search of the land of his imagining.

And the tale tells how, on a twilight Thursday, Colombo walked alone on the edge of a doubtful wood, and viewed many things not salutary to notice. And there came to him one who was as perversely tall as a certain unmentionable object and bearded in a manner it is not convenient to describe.

I am happy to state that with that meeting began a friendship which has lasted for many years. When Mr. Harding was nominated for the presidency, I wrote at once, enclosing a copy of “The Advance of the English Novel” which I had published in 1916. On the title-page I wrote, “To the Hero of a Much More Spectacular Advance”, meaning that the progress made by the English novel was as nothing compared to Mr. Harding’s rapid and well-deserved rise. In reply I received the following:

                                      6 July, 1920. MY DEAR
PROFESSOR PHELPS:

“Oh, we’re sunk enough here, God knows! But not so sunk that moments—etc.” It is an extraordinary evidence of the man’s genius that in 1840 he should have perhaps foreseen prophetically the happenings of seventy-six years later! Not only did Browning seem to know what was bound to happen, but he told us the remedy. I sat right down and wrote to my good friend the president, enclosing a marked copy of the poem. On the sixth of April, 1917, war was declared.