MORT D'ARTHUR

Eminent bowman of the king of kings and lord of lords journalistic, he faints and falters. Must he too know death?

After reading recent statements of his, one comes to that conclusion. Arthur Brisbane, Arthur the Great, is becoming sentimental. He's singing editorial mammy songs. He's weeping over the footlights of the pink sheets. He's dying on his feet. Mr. Hearst must go elsewhere for the poisoned arrow with the winged shaft. Or doesn't he want to? The rumor is that he doesn't.

But that, of course, doesn't revive Mr. Brisbane. It merely embalms him. Take some paragraph from his Boston message of last night. "Women are natural teachers; teaching has been their business from the beginning; teaching children, teaching husbands.

"The college boy or adult citizen lacking respect for women or confidence in their power, judgment and goodness, pays a poor compliment to his own mother."

He cites the case of Hypatia, wife of Theon; he cites the case of Judge Mary Barteleme of Chicago. Does he prove anything? The answer is obvious. He proves as much as Al Jolson when he croons the need of the old plantation, mammy, and a ticket to Mobile. American women don't need any sentimentalizing. From the late years of the last century they have had much too much of that. And few of the intelligent ones, the Bypatias of Spoon River and Lynn and Beacon Bill, would care for the sugared accents of the dying bowman. Arthur is passing--the buck.