A SUCCESSFUL life always means a strong man behind it. Behind every great achievement is a man greater than the achievement. Thus, the fascination in biography, or autobiography, lies not so much in the actual accomplishment as in how it was worked out: that is, in the man and in the processes of his mind. That is what makes the story of a man's life so valuable: it is a book of experience. And the single factor of greatest value in such a life is invariably the revelation that, the greater the success, the simpler the man behind it. A man must be simple of life, and remain simple, to be a success. How often is it said of a successful man,

'He is so simple.' Naturally. If he were not so, success would not be his. No complicated life ever led to a successful result.

Take the case of Cyrus H. K. Curtis, the salient points in whose successful publishing career I have tried to sketch in these Atlantic articles, and you find a man absolutely simple and direct in his mental processes.

We have heard latterly quite a little of the 'single-track mind,' and generally the phrase is used in deprecation or derision. It was brought into use by Woodrow Wilson who, curiously enough, found it later aimed against himself at every turn, particularly in his

advocacy of the League of Nations. But it has been forgotten that, at an earlier period, the same thought, only it was then called 'singleness of mind,' was applied to Abraham Lincoln, because, it was claimed, he could at first see nothing but the preservation of the Union and, later, nothing but the emancipation of the colored race.

A good deal depends upon what is on the track of a single-track mind. If it is something worthless, connoting a contracted vision, a limited horizon, or a mind closed to expansion, that is one thing. But a single-track mind may also imply a mind which works on only one fundamental principle.

It may truly, and I think happily, be said of Mr. Curtis that he has a singletrack mind to a singular degree. It would be difficult to find a man whose mental processes are so perfectly direct and so single of purpose. Mr. Curtis's problems are rarely complex: he does not allow them to become so. He decides them before they reach the complex stage. He has a remarkable faculty, by this process, of avoiding crises and the complexities which come with crises. A proposition of any sort is either right or wrong, to Mr. Curtis's mind: it cannot be anything else. There is no middle ground; no 'trimming'; no wobbling; he thinks straight and clear, and his decisions are simple and direct. And, by this simple process, his judgments are fair.

It is safe to say that not one in ten of his men in the various departments of his vast establishments have ever seen Mr. Curtis, to say naught of knowing him. Yet his reputation for simple thinking and fair judgment is so well known to them all that they demonstrated their faith in him, in a certain instance, years ago, the parallel of which would be difficult to find in the annals of industry.

A debatable matter had arisen be

tween the men and the company, involving a question of Unionism, which hours of discussion could not seem to straighten out. The deadlock promised to continue when the company suggested to the men its willingness to refer the matter to arbitration and abide by the result. The men agreed; but when it was suggested that each side choose an arbitrator, and that the two so chosen select a third, the spokesman for the men asked: 'Why three? Why not one, and let that one be Mr. Curtis?'

When the company's officers recovered from their surprise, they, of course, acquiesced, and a meeting was arranged with Mr. Curtis. Each side explained its point of view and, when all had concluded, Mr. Curtis said: 'I think I understand. Now what do you expect me to do?'

It was explained that he had been chosen as arbitrator, and that his decision as to which side, the company or the men, was right, would be accepted as final by both sides.

"That's easy enough,' came the instant reply. "The men are right.' And then, with that inevitable look at his watch, which everyone who knows him is so familiar with, and knows so well the meaning of, he asked: 'Is that all?'

It was; and Mr. Curtis walked out, leaving an astonished lot of men, with an indelible impression on their minds, by the utter simplicity and directness of his decision, made apparently against himself and his own interests, but actually, though unconsciously, one of the most far-reaching decisions, in point of morale, ever rendered by him in favor of himself and his company. To him it meant nothing that his decision was against his company: his simple process was to listen, weigh the facts, and decide without a moment's hesitation and without a single word of explanation. He was asked to do what to him was a very simple thing, and he did it. And I

question very much whether, when he reads of the incident here, he will so much as recall it.

'It can't be right and wrong,' I heard him say once to one of his executives, who was explaining a matter which seemed to him to have in it both qualities. 'It must be either right or wrong. Which is it?'

That is a single-track mind in its best sense, and it is easy to understand, through it, the mental ease which is always present with Mr. Curtis, and which anyone in his presence instinctively feels. He looks out straight and clear at you and at the world, and is absolutely unafraid of problems, since his mental processes dissipate them and leave the road perfectly open and unobstructed ahead of him.

His reasoning is never complicated by a wilderness of words. Constitutionally a silent man, he uses very few words. I do not know of a man whose vocabulary is so carefully limited: he uses fewer words than any man I know. He seems to have no use for more: he expresses himself adequately, but in the fewest possible words, and always the simplest words. He is not a linguist, and knows no language save his own. His simple mental processes are, of course, at the bottom of this trait: he has all the language he has use for.

He will never ask, 'How are you?' when he sees you. He sees you, judges for himself, and hence, to his mind, the question is unnecessary, and it remains unasked. The social amenities of the occasion do not enter into his reckoning. Not for a moment does this imply that he is unsociable; on the contrary, he is sociability personified - loves his fellow men and delights to mix with them; he will joyously attend two, and sometimes three, public dinners on a single evening and enjoy himself hugely at each; but the simplicity of his mind does not take in the spoken social

persiflage. There seems to be no place for it to rest.

No man places so little value on his opinions, and hence he rarely expresses any. During all the years I have known him, I have heard him criticize only one man in public service. Rumors and gossip about people known or unknown to him he abhors; irritation and impatience become immediately apparent in the presence of anyone who repeats derogatory rumors about another. His estimates of people are always kindly, even where his friends know they are unjustified. It may truly be said of Mr. Curtis, in the fullest sense, that he bears no personal malice to anyone. He accepts everyone as his friend, and even where he has been proved otherwise, sometimes to the Biblical seventy times seven, he is slow to believe the worst, and is inclined to palliate. Even if he arrives at the conclusion which his friends have arrived at months before, he never condemns; he merely, but very effectually, shuns. And yet, even in such cases, I have seen him go out of his way to seek out such a person in some assembly, and chat with him as if nothing had ever happened, to all appearances absolutely forgetful of the past. He, literally, goes through life according to the sign that a friend of mine has on his office door:

Come in without knocking,
Go out the same way.