After remaining clasped in his father's arms. with the tribe for a time, he was placed by his mother in the Seminary of San Rafael in Valparaiso. Here a general education is given, including languages, and English among the rest; but, as Chief Caupolican recalls it, the English taught by the good padres had some points in common with Dame Eglantine's French, spoken "after the school of Stratfordat-Bowe.' But the youngster was restless. Two crossings of the ocean had put the fascination of the sea into his blood. He had been in school but a few months when he ran away and shipped as a cabin boy on a sailing vessel laden with wheat which took him around Cape Horn and to Havre. A little later he was aboard a ship, bound out of Hull, laden with machinery for Australia. In the next few years, he journeyed -to all the far. climes and quaint seaports of the world. Once he was overboard for four hours -and, he says, the Metropolitan came near losing a good baritone. began taking vocal lessons, and sang in public whenever he had an opportunity. By the time he was twenty, he had given up the sea and had adopted a musical career. He sang in music halls, in vaudeville, in church choirs, anywhere. It was while he was singing in New England that he met his future wife, a Smith College girl. They were married when he was twenty-three. It was agreed between them that he must keep up his music, cost what it might, and strive onward towards the heights. To help the cause as best she could his wife secured a place on the faculty at Smith, and stood bravely by him throughout his struggles. He managed to get over to France for four years of instruction, working whenever and wherever he could, and living in typically frugal student style. When I asked under whom he had studied over there, he replied with a smile, "Oh, all sorts of obscure teachers!" Always large for his age, he had shipped H before the mast as an able seaman before he was fifteen. Later he went to steam vessels; but, as he says, "there was never the fascination for me in steam that there was in the old sailing vessels. One thing that I most enjoyed on the steamships was the lead song,'-the chant which the sailors sing while taking soundings or 'heaving the lead.' I did not know then that I had a voice, though I lost no opportunity to use it." M SO ́EANWHILE his mother had married again and was living in California, for several years he made his headquarters in San Francisco. At eighteen he was quartermaster on a liner between that port and China. With all his zest for adventure, he had been a student from his youth up. He had strengthened his acquaintance with the English tongue while on vessels of that nation, and while yet in his teens was reading the classics. When, as a quartermaster, when off duty, he might have been found reading such authors as Shakespeare, Pope, or Lamb. He saw looming chances for promotion if he had been old enough-so, at nineteen, he represented himself as twenty-two and got his papers as third mate on a steamship from which he advanced rapidly to second mate and then to first. Meanwhile he was becoming more and more interested in music. Between trips he attended the operatic performances at the old Tivoli Theater, in San Francisco. He seldom lost a chance to hear good music. He E returned to this country and sang wherever he could. He has been heard in most of the standard light operas that have been revived from time to time in the last two decades "Chimes of Normandy," "La Mascotte," "The Beggar Student," "GirofleGirofla." He got rather low in spirits in 1912, when he found himself approaching thirty and realized that he had not "arrived," but, that year, in company with two other singers, he secured a vaudeville contract which brought him more money than he had ever earned before. His voice and his forceful personality made a decided hit. In less than three years, he had a vaudeville act of his own booked at a good figure, and the satisfaction of seeing his name in electric lights as a “headliner” over the entrance of the biggest vaudeville house on Broadway. He appeared in his native costume, sang a few songs and told something of the life of his people. "But I had a terrible time with the managers," says he, "trying to keep from being an Apache or a Sioux or a member of some other tribe. They thought I'd make a bigger hit if I were billed as a tribesman that folks here knew something about-a native of some Western tribe that had massacred a lot of North American citizens. But I didn't want to be anything but what I was and am! I'm too proud of it to be anything else." The Chief was in vaudeville for six years, and then went into Chautauqua work. He sang, and lectured both on the South and North American Indians; for on the North American tribes he is one of the best informed men before the public to-day. Meanwhile he had become a popular speaker before Rotary Clubs all over the country, his favorite theme being PanAmericanism. Whenever his audiences insist, he will talk about Indians, but a better understanding and a closer and more cordial entente among the nations of the two Americas is a subject that lies very near his heart, and one on which he can talk most fascinatingly. He has been, for many years, a naturalized citizen of the United States. During all these years he never ceased training and striving to reach a higher degree of art. He had always yearned to sing at the Metropolitan Opera House but hardly expected an opportunity. A man who has some influence in the opera house heard Caupolican sing in vaudeville and asked him is he wouldn't like to try grand opera. It isn't worth while recording his reply. He learned some of the leading baritone rôles, and his friend introduced him to one of the coaches at the opera house, who highly commended his singing and assured him that he was a possibility. For several months Caupolican trained assiduously under the coach's direction, and then, last year, came his audition before Gatti-Casazza. He sang three selections, one in English, one in French, and one in Italian; and after the hearing was over, Gatti-Casazza handed him a contract. Another year was to elapse before it went into effect. Art is indeed long and time fleeting. But Caupolican's chance came sooner than he expected. Among the rôles in which he may be heard, as specified in his contract, are Amonasro, in "Aida;" Escamillo the Toreador, in "Carmen;" Telramund, in "Lohengrin;" Amfortas, in "Parsifal;" Tonio, in "Pagliacci;" Valentine, in "Faust;" Gerard, in "Andre Chenier;" the high priest, in "Samson and Delilah." His sincerity is evidenced by the care with which he prepared for his appearance in "The Polish Jew." He read the original novel, he read the play in which Irving appeared, he went through old newspaper files and studied the comments of the critics on Irving's acting of the part. He read everything that he could find bearing upon Alsatian life of the period. He even studied the construction of the old limekilns to find out how best a body could be thrown into one-in order that he might be strictly accurate in the dream scene. When he made his exit after the first act of the dress rehearsal, Gatti-Casazza exclaimed, “You have performed a miracle!" "Ah!" replied Caupolican, his mind, as always, leaping forward into the future, "but just give me a chance at Amonasro!" That is the rôle which he is looking forward to most eagerly. "I have my own conception of the part," he said, "-with all deference to those who have sung it before me. To me, Amonasro is one of the most striking characters in opera-a big, primeval man. When I sing Amonasro, he will be almost as much Caupolican as Amonasro-I mean the old sixteenth-century Caupolican,-aboriginal, elemental, fierce in his loves and hates." Such remarks reveal his enthusiasm for his art, the keenness of his observation and analytical power. He is one of the most forceful examples that I have ever seen of the lesson which this magazine is trying to drive home to every reader; for Chief Caupolican is a selfmade man, if ever there was one. (Written after reading Dr. Marden's editorial, "Making Business Sick," in The New Success for February) THE DIGNITY OF WORK By EDWIN MARKHAM Author of "The Man with the Hoe" and other poems LL true work is more than a deep necessity laid upon life,-more than a precious discipline laid upon the soul. Necessity and discipline, these words are too cold and too hard to express the loftier beauty in the face of Labor. It is more than these: it is a sacrament, a communion with God. - "If you would avoid uncleanliness and all the sins," says Thoreau, “work earnestly, though it be at cleaning a stable." No work that is sincere and useful is barren of divinity. "Work is worship," was a deep saying of the old monks. "What would you wish to be doing?" someone asked a wise man, "if you knew that you were to die in the next ten minutes?” "Just what I am doing now," was the significant reply; although, at the time, the man was neither praying nor singing hymns, but was merely feeding a horse. This philosopher knew that the path of service is the path of safety. He saw his work lit up by the ideal. Work is dull indeed unless we can see upon it some light from the skies. NOT OT only should all work be done in this high spirit, but it should also be done in joy. Every work of a man should be tinged with the warm color of his heart. No work is true work unless joy is builded into it. In all worthy work there is a dignity that crowns the man, a dignity that draws the lowly human worker into touch with the Divine Worker. In every true labor a man takes hold of a lever upon which is also pressing the hand of God. Every human work is a door through which some worldforce presses into activity. Man sets his mill-wheel against the moving waters that flow out of the treasuries of God. He slants his sail against the eternal winds that rush out of the chambers of the sky. He drops the grain into the furrowed field to await the rains of the sweet heavens and the smiling invitation of the sun. He sets up his tuned pillars, and the unfettered lightnings carry his words across the wireless void. THUS HUS man is always dealing with forces vast and mysterious-forces great as himself. Let him think well of his lofty business on this planet. Let his soul stand erect in noble joy, though his body be bowed. This is no mean thing that he weighs with his brain, or shapes with his hand. He is molding the very stuff that God handles in the secret chambers. He plays and struggles with the very forces with which the young deities have wrestled and tried their radiant strength since Chaos was. $125,000 How H. C. Witwer, Former Soda-Water Clerk Became Highest Paid Humorist in the World E By THOMAS THURSDAY VIDENTLY H. C. Witwer and enthusiasm are twins. And Pep is his private secretary. He radiates energy, optimism, and pluck-a trinity that is guaranteed to land a man on top when properly directed, or on bottom when misdirected. When I called to interview Mr. Witwer on how he dared to climb to the high rungs without the aid of a college education, I found him busily engaged in putting the finishing touches to his latest short story, which will bring him $1800. He was pounding the periods, smashing the commas, and banging the exclamation points in such a manner that I marveled that the typewriter lasted more than a day without falling apart. During a pleasant hour, I succeeded in getting his own story. It is a story better than anything he has ever written. I believe it will interest the readers of THE NEW SUCCESS whether they be aspiring authors or perspiring bookkeepers. Born at Athens, Pennsylvania, March 11, 1890. Attended grammar school for several years and learned everything but grammar. He seemed to be born with a natural antipathy toward anything pertaining to correct English. But don't pity him! His ignorance of the proper correlation of Messrs. Verbs, Adjective & Co., has made him approximately $125,000. In other words, he has earned that sum by writing what has been termed "the most perfect specimen of slang ever propagated." And what Blanche Bates, the famous actress, says is "full of pep, fun, of sporting spirit, of the joy of youth." Perhaps a sample, taken from his Ed Harmon stories, may be of interest. By the way, Harmon, is his most noted character and most profitable-having realized more than $60,000. Herewith a sample-Ed Harmon doing the writing: Well, yesterday mornin' I am up in my flat, Joe, engaged in the innocent pastime of playin' with my baby whilst Jeanne looks on with a lovin' smile on ber equally lovin' face and a book by the name of "The Whole English Language in One Lesson," in her hand, when they's a ring at the bell. Our imported maid from Yonkers trips lightly over a rug into the room and exclaims that they's a guy outside by Champlain Studio, N. Y. H. C. WITWER who writes as he talks and, therefore, makes his writings pay the name of Mac which wishes to see nothin' better than me. I give permission for him to come in. "Well, well," he says, lettin' forth a grin. "The happy family, hey? How is everybody this mornin'?" "What's the use of kickin'?" I says. "What d'ye think of my child?" "Fine!" says Mac. "What is it?" "What d'ye mean what is it?" I hollers. "It's a babythink it was a giraffe?" "I mean is it a boy or a girl," says Mac. "Save that comedy for the club house." "It's a boy," I says. "Some kid, hey?" "I'll say he is!" says Mac, approachin' carefully like he was afraid my baby was gonna bite him or the like. "Looks just like his mother, too. Got them navy blue eyes, hey?" "Never mind tryin' to get in solid with the wife!" I says, whilst Jeanne presents him with a dazzlin' smile. "D'ye want to hold him a minute?" “Well-eh-let's start with something else," says Mac, backin' away. "He seems all right where he is, I'll let that part of it go for awhile, hey?" "Cherie, say 'bon jour' to Monsieur Mac!" remarks Jeanne to my baby. "Ump-goof-waugh-gunko!" returns my baby with a sarcastical grin. "Don't mention it!" says Mac. "Say, that kid's a wonder! Talks as plain as I do. How old is it by now?" At the age of sixteen, he decided to conquer New York City, and landed therein with ten dollars in his coat pocket and a straw hat with a six-color ribbon surrounding the same. Most young men seeking a position generally scan the "Want ads." Not H. C. For the reason that he didn't know what he wanted. So he started down Broadway-which is the name of a street in New York-and canvassed offices, stores; in fact, he went into anything that looked like an entrance. They took his name in some of the places, jollied him in others, and assisted him through assorted doors in the rest. In five hours, he figured that he had covered enough acreage to encompass Utah, Arizona, and Brazil. But not a nibble was felt upon the Witwer hook. He thought of returning to Philadelphia, to his beloved aunt and tell her just how the cruel city had mistreated her ambitious nephew. Instead, he decided to try it a while longer. That night he rented a room on FortySecond Street for $1.50 a week. According to his sworn statement the room was sufficient to discourage a wart hog. It was a hall room. The furnishings were antique. An iron bed, with three steel legs and one wooden leg, took up half of the space. A single, rickety chair— collapsible at less than a moment's noticestood at the head of a bed that must have been a delight to the eye of Christopher Columbus. The curtain that hung in front of the unwashed window must have been an heirloom when the Pilgrims landed. The gas jet was a misnomer. It was warmly clad in cotton to prevent any large amount of gas from catching chills. Just enough flame appeared to prove that there was a leak on fire. A pitcher of water nestled on the floor, surrounded by a towel that contained sufficient holes to play the part of a lady's hair-net. The room was partitioned with the aid of a few slats clothed in second-hand wall-paper. A pin dropped on one side caused a terrific racket to be heard on the other. Mr. Witwer's first night was spent in listening to his neighbor beyond the partition reciting gems from Shakespeare. The man was an actor out of employment. After tramping around for another three days, young Witwer finally obtained a job that was both a delight and a gastronomic success. He was to be paid six dollarscount 'em!-a week for serving unsuspecting folk with various kinds of sodas. He was happy; he was en route to success! Up to this point, it should be mentioned in passing, that he had had no thought of becoming a writer. This fact is stated for the benefit of the young and old who are constantly told that writers start off at infancy by composing sonnets on their bibs and employing their nippled milk-bottles for fountain pens. THAT HAT night, Witwer wrote home to his aunt and informed her that he had conquered the world and points west at one fell swoop. After which he decided to cut down expenses and become wealthy. Hitherto, he had been squandering large sums for meals. So he decided to cook his own meals over his gas jet-which was strictly against the landlady's pet law. He made his first attempt that evening when he arrived home with two eggs and a frying pan under his arm. Coaxing the gas to do its best, he dropped the eggs neatly into the pan and held it over the flame. A short while afterabout forty minutes-the eggs were finished. "Finished" is the right word. On investigation the eggs showed that they had turned to either concrete or marble. He threw them out the window into the back yard. Which was poor diplomacy, indeed. For be it known that friend landlady was just emerging from the basement. Exit Mr. Witwer! Let us now consider his advent into the story-writing game-the game that has made him fame and fortune, friends and enemies: |