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Amy Lowell and others were busy with Japanese echoes. To paraphrase the old English song, it was "Loud sing Hokku" all across the map. So instead of Synthetic Poems I began to call my broodings Translations from the Chinese; and, for some unknown reason, printed them over the bogus signature of "John Cavendish." To my surprise, and even to my embarrassment, letters soon arrived from earnest literates. Who was John Cavendish? they asked. What about these translations? they exclaimed. Where can one learn more about Chinese poetry? And they enclosed stamped addressed envelopes. Once more was testified the beautiful human faculty for taking seriously whatever appears in print. I went ahead, conscientiously, to satisfy the demand. In a little book (again I catch the publisher's eye) called Hide and Seek I included a large section of Chinese translations, with biographical notes upon the Oriental authors—done in such a vein that not even the gravest follower of the spurious Cavendish could mistake the intention.
But here is the gist of this unimportant matter. Little by little my Chinese sages began to coalesce and assume a voice of their own. I became not their creator but their stenographer. I began to feel a certain respect and affection for the "Old Mandarin" who was dimly emerging as their Oriental spokesman. I began to realize that the mind speaks many languages, and some of its sudden intuitions and exclamations are truly as enigmatic to us as Chinese writing. We all like to imagine that some-
