was betrayed through all the years by the thick speech of his fatherland interfering with the quick, crisp American staccatos. Yet Steinmetz is the great American immigrant, in the minds of those who, like him, chose America as their home.

Part of his appeal is unquestionably due to the outline of his romantic story. If there is one thing on which we overpride ourselves in America, it is the confidence that here a man can start under terrific handicaps, and if he fights hard enough, can make good. There has been no more startling example of this tradition in America. Steinmetz arrived, years ago, a fugitive from a furiously conservative Germany, with no money, ill from the long voyage, tragically unprepossessing in appearance, to talk his way past the immigration barriers and to find a humble job in an electrical shop. His genius and pluck made him a marked man, the experts of his craft listened with respect to his boyish authority as he took them on long journeys through speculations and theories. General Electric angled for him, made him a favored consultant, gave him all the experimental material he wanted, depended upon his judgment, exploited his gifts, and always gave him fair credit. It is significant that new Americans, beginning their careers here, should find interest and challenge in such a record of reward through constructive contribution.

The very magnificence of his scientific achievements must have awed many, especially those who themselves know the language of science. Only an electrical engineer can appreciate Steinmetz, for to most of us his glory is lost in an unfamiliar medium of expression. But comrades in his scientific craft are unanimous in their re

spect for him. He worked out the intricate mathematical formulæ for the phenomena of alternating current. Caught one day at his summer camp without his book of logarithm tables, he made up a new one, column by column, rather than send across the miles for his wellthumbed copy. He made lightning within the walls of his laboratory, and drew all the interested world to marvel at his results. When Edison came, pleading to be allowed a glimpse at the artificial lightning, he and Steinmetz spent a day in such happy comradeship as ordinarily comes only to little boys. It was Rice, his superior in the General Electric organization, who paid Steinmetz the tribute of science in a beautiful eulogy spoken at the recent funeral. This immigrant boy has taken his place with the few daring adventurers whose intrepid paths led them into virgin continents of truth.

There was a simplicity about his home-life which must have attracted many. With all his gloriously American rise to fame, he lived and died in a workman's little home in Schenectady, surrounded by the family of his adopted son. He dressed so simply as to be almost guilty of carelessness. He paid no attention to the mounting balance in his salary account, drawing small amounts when he needed them, and living so wholly aloof from salary considerations that his lack of money sense gave rise to the rumor that the General Electric did not pay him a salary. Of course, the corporation had him on their books as an employee, and of course he had his money regularly available to him, but he was too busy with other things to allow money to bother him. Children loved him-called him, hobbling about in his withered frame, Pop and Daddy. On his last grueling speaking trip, which ended

in his death, he allowed himself to be grilled by wellmeaning but over-enthusiastic local managers. He would appear prepared to read a brief scientific paper in technical jargon, only to be informed that the public had demanded admittance, and the great crowd was thronging the hall and begging for a chance to see and hear him. Had he been more sophisticated, he could have brushed these annoyances aside superciliously, kept strictly to the easy steps of his speech-making journey, and done his bounden duty. But he could not. He did not want an old lady to have her evening spoiled by delay in such service as he could offer, or deprivation of the treat which had cost her so much. So he would try to make thousands of people hear the tones of that squeaky little voice of his; he would go through the exquisite anguish and travail of public speech; he would exhaust himself rather than have any one disappointed. A spirit like that somehow shines out of the eyes. When they brought his body home, heaped up near the casket was a great floral tribute for "Daddy" (this was the only name by which they knew him) "from the kids on the block." Immigrants honor such stedfast simplicity. They hate the pretension of the nouveaux riches. All of which draws them inevitably to Steinmetz.

His political views have caught the eye of many. He professed himself to be a socialist, and was on the party ticket for places of real prominence several times. But his socialism was more of a mood of brotherliness than any finally articulated system of political thought. He knew that something was wrong; he believed it was worth while fighting for brotherhood in sharing; he recognized socialism as a gesture of that sharing. But he was

the kind of a socialist who could devote himself for years to the thankless duties of a bipartisan schoolboard, for the sake of his city's children. He could gear his social mood to the machinery of a great corporation, and lend socialistic aid, comfort, and inspiration to a corporation which has been notably paternalistic, as well as successfully monopolistic. Some one probed into his theories once with a query, " Are you not building your theoretical state on the assumption that your people will all be Steinmetzes?" He was not embarrassed for a moment. He saw no difficulty in making exactly that assumption. He was a socialist because that was his way of saying that he could not enjoy what every one could not have.

I wonder what he would say if he were to discover that the most startling gesture of social vandalism seems to be traceable to members of his own group of theorists. The articles and chapters on his life have been clipped and stolen from bound magazines, books on the theory of capital and the state are mutilated by markings, torn from valuable paragraphs, and stolen entire. It is as if his fellow socialists, when confronted with the first decent experiment in socialistic trust, the public library, lamentably failed to meet the test. Like any capitalistic hyena, they take advantage of trust, to mutilate a social heritage for their own immediate advantage. Yet he would go on, saying by word and deed his determination to organize a system of sharing to replace the tragic sordidness of this our present system of competing and exploiting.

Yet all these things do not account for his election as the Great American Foreigner. The people who chose him were not selecting a romance, nor a scientist, nor a genial gentleman, nor a political reformer. They were

defining, in him, their ideas of true American spirit. And in him they found a glowing joy in America. "I had all the world spread before me when I started away from home as a boy. I chose America. I now choose to live in America. No other tribute is necessary," he often said. They found an overpowering love for work-a zest in his task, a hunger for a worth-while problem, which we like to admit is American. They discovered in his deepest mood a profound satisfaction in the belief that he was anonymously contributing to the happiness of the world. His discoveries were not the kind to bear a trade-mark. His devices were not marketed as coming from him. Edison dealt in commodities which were stamped with his name. Steinmetz dealt in computations, logarithms, intricate windings and propositions which were hidden when crystallized into machines. But this lack of recognition in his product never discouraged him. He preferred the quiet reward of a world's unrecognizing smile. He lost himself without stint in the treasure of the general welfare.

It amused him somewhat to find that his best-known experiment was the production of artificial lightning. Hundreds thronged about his laboratories, when the announcement was made. The newspapers heralded him around the world as a second Titan, forging the hideous, glorious bolts of destruction. In all this popular furor, almost every one neglected to notice that Steinmetz had been interested in lightning only as an antagonist. He was determined to minimize its catastrophic menace. He was creating it only to study its limitations. And he was preparing to announce his conclusions and devices anonymously, leaving the production, royalty,