On account of the extent and the duration of the ill will to lefthanders there has come to be definitely such a thing as a lefthanded temperament. This is no more than natural. The lefthander is a rebel. He is the descendant of staunch ancestors who refused to conform to the pressing demands of the church, the army and the business world. Even to-day lefthanders are traditionally poor business men and Babe Ruth has been obliged to bring suit against the company with which he made a moving picture contract. They are apt to be political radicals, and it has been freely rumored that Charlie Chaplin is a Socialist. They are illogical or rather they rise above logic, as did Foch in his famous message: "My left is broken, my right has been driven back, I shall attack at dawn." That is a typically lefthanded utterance. It has in it all of the fine rebellion of folk who have refused to conform even to such hard things as facts. If the sculptor had been a little more astute the lady who stands at the entrance of our harbor would have borne the torch aloft in her left hand. Liberty is a southpaw.
So strong is the effect of the left hand upon the temperament that it may even be observed in the case of converts. Such an instance is afforded by the case of Daniel Vierge, the great Spanish artist, and by the recent conduct of James M. Barrie, a righthander of years standing, who finally developed writer's cramp and switched to the use of the left hand. What happened? He wrote Mary Rose, a play which deals symbolically with death and, instead of giving his audiences the conventional Barrie message of hope and charm and sweetness, he straightway set forth the doctrine that the dead didn't come back and that if they did they and the folk they left behind couldn't get on at all. Time, said the new Barrie, destroys all things, even the most ardent of affections. This was a strange and startling doctrine from Barrie. It was a lefthanded message.
To-day, of course, lefthanders are pretty generally received socially; occasionally they are elected to office, and there is no longer any definite provision against intermarriage. But anybody who thinks that prejudice has died out completely has only to listen to a baseball player when he remarks: "Why him—he's a lefthander!" There is also the well authenticated story of a young lefthanded golfer in our Middle West who played a match with Harry Vardon, in which he made a brilliant showing. Indeed, the youngster was so much elated that at the end of the round he asked the great pro.: "Who's the best lefthanded golfer you ever saw?" "There never was one that was worth a damn," answered Vardon sourly.
The estimate is not quite fair, for Brice Evans is lefthanded and, though it seems hardly patriotic to dwell upon it, our own Chick Evans was put out of the English amateur championship several years ago by Bruce Pierce, a southpaw from Tasmania. Still, lefthanded golfers of any consequence are rare. Football has a few southpaw or rather southfoot heroes. Victor Kennard won a game against Yale for Harvard with a leftfooted field goal. He and Felton were two of Harvard's greatest punters, and both of them were leftfooted kickers. There must have been some others, but the only one I can think of at the moment was Lefty Flynn of Yale, who was hardly a great player.
Almost all boxers adopt the conventional righthanded form of standing with the left arm advanced, but Knockout Brown, for a few brief seasons, puzzled opponents by boxing lefthanded. He jabbed with his right and kept his left hand for heavy work. Of all the men nominated as possibilities for the international polo match only one is lefthanded, Watson Webb, the American, and one of the greatest and prettiest horsemen that America has turned out in many a year. In tennis we have done better, with Norman Brookes, Lindley Murray, Dwight Davis and Beals Wright.
But the complete triumph of the lefthander comes in baseball. Tris Speaker, greatest of outfielders and manager of the world's champion Cleveland Indians, is lefthanded. So is Babe Ruth, the home run king, and George Sisler, who led the American League in batting. Ty Cobb, like the Roman emperor before whom Paul appeared, is almost persuaded. He bats lefthanded. Almost half the players in both leagues adopt this practice since it gives them an advantage of about six feet in running to first base. And yet, in spite of this fact, thousands of meddling mothers all over the country are breaking prospective lefthanders into dull, plodding, conventional righthandedness. Babe Ruth was fortunate. He received his education in a protectory where the good brothers were much too busy to observe which hand he used. His spirit was not broken nor his natural proclivities bent. Accordingly he made fifty-four home runs last season and earned over one hundred thousand dollars. The world has sneered at us all too long. Even a lefthander will turn in time.
Michael
The man who gave us Michael said that he was a Shetland terrier. Frankly, I don't believe there is any such thing; unless Michael is it. But there is no denying a Scotch strain of some sort. There is a good deal of John Knox about Michael. He recognizes no middle ground. There was no difficulty, for instance, in convincing Michael of the wickedness of some manifestations of the grossness which is mortality, but it has been impossible to make him accept any working compromise such as those by which men and dogs live. He can see no reason why there should be any geographical limits or bounds to badness.
There is a certain fierce democracy in that. Michael thinks no less of a backyard or a sidewalk than he does of a parlor. Or perhaps it would be better to say he thinks no more of a parlor. Repentance comes to him more easily than reformation. And yet I have an enormous respect for Michael's point of view as I understand it. He doesn't want to burn, of course, but he has no patience with dogs who blandly hope to attain salvation by leading lamp-post lives.
In some things I would have Michael more practical. That man who brought him here said that his father was an excellent mouser. I have come to wonder whether the legitimacy of Michael is beyond question. Doubt struck me the other day in the kitchen when I saw an over-venturesome mouse clinging precariously to a window curtain and swinging back and forth not more than a foot from the ground.