SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

The death of General Lee Christmas, the original hero of "Soldiers of Fortune," may be considered as marking the end of an epoch. The adventurous, romantic kind of warfare in which he won his fame may still exist in remote places, although even Mexico is amusing herself with airplanes and gas, but as a general thing it is gone forever,--and with it the chances for those Herculean exploits which have held readers enchanted from the days of Homer to the somewhat more recent ones of Richard Harding Davis.

In those days, which are commonly designated as the "good old" days, and include everything prior to 1870, it was possible for a gallant gentlemen to clap on his gold-laced hat--if he happened to live at the proper period for gold-laced hats--dangle his trusty rapier at his belt and set off for Paris on his faithful and intelligent steed with few misgivings about the future as long as he kept his rapier and his wits well sharpened. At an even earlier date, it was customary to rove over most of Europe in search of chance combats which were productive of much glory and honorable advancement. And later, when the New York Police Force had managed to quell the open warfare popular in the Bowery, it became the custom for warlike gentlemen imbued with the ideals of liberty and justice to go south and help the ineffective Latin-Americans throw off the yoke of the oppressor. Often enough, these soldiers of fortune ended their romantic careers against an adobe wall, facing a dark-skinned firing squad. More often, after winning battles for one faction or another they found themselves deserted with no alternative but basis retreat to New York.

Nevertheless, all of this was Romance. Flashing weapons, colorful accoutrements, brave words and as often as possible ladies of a beauty which battles description. "Only the brave deserve the fair" might be called the keynote of the Romancers. Of course, that's changed now. Only the bread-winners deserve the fair in these degenerate days. But then, the whole structure has changed. Who can imagine D'Artagnan carrying on his habitual warfare with a tank of phosgen strapped upon his back, or Robert Clay sitting in his but and slaying his enemies with electrically controlled bombing planes! Individual fighting and even retail killing may appeal to the animal instincts, artistically cloaked with Romance, but wholesale killing with up-to-date scientific equipment is unlikely to furnish many beautiful epics.