Title: The Unpopular Review, Vol. 2, No. 4, October-December 1914, including Vol. 2 Index
Author: Various
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Notes:

This is _The Unpopular Review_, Vol. 2, No. 4, October-December, 1914,
including the index for Vol. 2, which consists of Issues No. 3 and 4.

The index in the html (web browser) version of this document contains
clickable links to the referenced pages. The targets for the links to

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *



The Unpopular Review


  No. 4  OCTOBER-DECEMBER, 1914  VOL. II



CONTENTS


                                                                  PAGE

  SOME FREE-SPEECH DELUSIONS              Fabian Franklin          223

  IS SOCIALISM COMING?                    Preston W. Slosson       236

  THE REPUBLIC OF MEGAPHON                Grant Showerman          248

  THE CURSE OF ADAM AND THE CURSE OF EVE  F. P. Powers             266

  TABU AND TEMPERAMENT                    Katharine F. Gerould     280

  ON HAVING THE BLUES                     The Editor               301

  THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF KICKING  William T. Brewster      318

  THE GENTLEMAN-SPORTSMAN                 Dorothy Canfield Fisher  334

  TRADE UNIONISM IN A UNIVERSITY          H. C. Bumpus             347

  MONARCHY AND DEMOCRACY IN EDUCATION                              356

  OUR DEBT TO PSYCHICAL RESEARCH          H. Addington Bruce       372

  THE WAR BY A HISTORIAN                  F. J. Mather, Jr.        392

  THE WAR BY AN ECONOMIST                 A. S. Johnson            411

  THE WAR BY A MAN IN THE STREET          The Editor               429

  EN CASSEROLE: Special to Our Readers,
    Academic Courtesy (Mrs. F. G. Allinson),
    Simplified Spelling                                            440

  INDEX THE UNPOPULAR REVIEW VOL. II                               445



SOME FREE-SPEECH DELUSIONS


A singular phenomenon of our time is the invention of a new species
of martyrdom. Resistance to wrong, real or imaginary, revolt against
oppression, the endeavor to overthrow an established order, has in all
ages been attended with hardship and suffering. When repression or
punishment has been cruel or vindictive, and the victims have cried out
against it, in the more humane ages, they have had in their protest
the sympathy and support of right-minded men, however opposed to the
aims of the agitation or revolt in question. Those who have suffered
for their convictions, whether at the hands of a court or through the
bloody judgment of the sword, have won the name of hero or martyr. The
time has been when those who were known to hold opinions which were
regarded as dangerous to the State, or were obnoxious to the ruling
power, fell under the ban of the Government as criminals. In the last
two or three centuries, among the more liberal and advanced nations,
outright persecution of this kind has been unknown; but between this
merely negative freedom of opinion and that positive freedom which
we understand by the terms “free speech” and “free press” there is a
long distance, the traversing of which has been slow and irregular.
It is possible to maintain that even now, and even in such countries
as the United States or England, this freedom is not absolute; there
are extremely few things, either in government or in common life,
that _are_ absolute. But the remarkable thing about the outcry for
freedom of speech, of which we have lately been hearing so much, is
that this clamor has nothing whatever to do with the question of the
absolute completeness of that freedom. What the agitators complain of
is not that there are some things which they are not permitted to say
or to print; it is not that their publications are censored or the
circulation of them obstructed; it is not that the doctrines in which
they are interested cannot be put before any assemblage, large or
small, which chooses to gather together in an orderly way to hear them.
Their grievance is that at certain times or places, where the speaking
they wish to do would be either an invasion of ordinary private rights
of others, or, in the opinion of the authorities, an incitement to
disorder, the authorities intervene to prevent these results. The
restrictions to which they object are not limitations as to the nature
of the doctrine preached, nor yet limitations that in any way confine
the general spreading of the doctrine. What they are not allowed to
do is--in principle, at least; of course, there have been blundering
applications of it--simply what nobody else is allowed to do. In a
word, what they demand is not that they shall have the same freedom as
the ordinary citizen _in spite_ of being enemies of the established
order, but that they shall have special privileges and immunities
_because_ of being enemies of the established order.

In keeping with the peculiar character of their grievance is the
character of that factitious martyrdom which they seek to build upon
it. The I. W. W. orator who wishes to speak at the foot of the Franklin
statue in Park Row considers himself--in a mild way, to be sure--a
martyr if, on account of the obstruction of traffic by the crowd that
gathers round him, he is required by the police to hold his meeting
a couple of hundred yards further north; his martyrdom consisting in
the fact that there is very little fun or excitement to be had out of
addressing a crowd which does _not_ obstruct traffic. In the crowd
itself--say the excited and more or less turbulent crowd in Union
Square soon after the Colorado trouble--a man may refuse to move on
at the command of the policeman, and may get a crack on his head from
the policeman’s club; this man certainly has a much more substantial
claim to the title of martyr, and yet his claim is at least nine
parts humbug to one part reality. It may be a pretty serious thing
to the poor fellow himself, or it may not; as a social or political
event it is simply nothing. It would only be something if it were
part of a systematic persecution--an incident of a regular policy of
oppression. Unfortunately there have been places,--say Lawrence or
Paterson--where unwise or wrong-headed local administrations have been
guilty of offences of this kind; but in such agitations as that of the
I. W. W. and their “Free Speech” allies in New York the grievance has
been wholly factitious. There has, indeed, occurred a tragic climax
to these goings-on; the killing of three of the New York anarchists
by the explosion of a bomb which they were handling, and which there
is almost no doubt that they were engaged in preparing for some work
of destruction or slaughter. But while this is in one sense a less
factitious martyrdom than the others, for it was certainly serious
enough, yet in the most vital element of martyrdom it was obviously
lacking altogether. Nobody invited, still less compelled, these
gentlemen to blow themselves up; and when they did it, they were not
engaged in defending themselves against aggression, nor, presumably,
did they feel that they were in the slightest danger of themselves
incurring the fate they were preparing for others. But all this does
not in the least impede their elevation to the honors of martyrdom; and
incidentally it may be remarked that although those who thus publicly
honor their dead comrades in the cause of revolutionary anarchy say
their say without interference, and go about the city of New York
without molestation, there are not wanting persons who are ready at any
moment to tear their hair over the suppression of free speech in this
community.

But it is in the hunger strike that the new martyrdom is seen
full-fledged, and in its true character. Here we have the fiction
of persecution raised to the second power. The use of it by the
free-speech anarchists is of course only one instance of its
exploitation, but it is the one that specially concerns us here.
Whether from its small beginnings it will develop into a serious
nuisance, or perhaps even take on the dimensions of a grave problem,
remains to be seen. But men of sense should be prepared for the
possible spread of a great deal of foolish and muddled thinking on
the subject, and should from the outset see the thing exactly as it
is. In a land of free discussion, and where the right to vote is
exercised without distinction of class, a certain number of persons
are actively engaged in the agitation of radical or revolutionary
changes affecting the whole social order. No impediment is put in the
way of this propaganda in the shape either of censorship, of hindrance
to publicity, or of personal proscription. They are free to make as
many converts as they can, either by oral persuasion or by the printed
word; and when they have won over a sufficient number, the government
is theirs. Of one instrument, it is true, they are deprived the use;
and it happens that that instrument is the one most to their liking.
They are not allowed to create turbulence or disorder, or to persecute
individuals who have incurred their hostility. In this, they are
treated no otherwise than advocates of the most innocent or orthodox
of causes would be under like circumstances. If there should arise a
Puritan agitation against the theatre, its leaders would be allowed to
denounce the stage to their heart’s content as a device of the Devil
for the corruption and damnation of mankind; but they would not be
permitted to harangue excited crowds that were ready to mob the actors
and actresses or to burn down the theatres. They would have to content
themselves with bringing over to their way of thinking as many persons
as could be won by orderly methods. It is of this kind of restraint
that the anarchists, and other pretended champions of so-called free
speech, complain; it is against this imaginary grievance that the
fraudulent martyrdom of the hunger strike is a protest.

And it is the fraudulence of the hunger strike, the affront that is
offered to human reason, first in the thing itself, and still more in
the silly cry of “torture” that is raised about it, that every sane
man must most deeply resent. Here is a handful of cheap revolutionists
making themselves more or less of a menace, but certainly very
much of a nuisance, to the constituted authorities. This they do,
in general, without a particle of molestation from the government
or of inconvenience to themselves. Once in a while, when, in these
proceedings, they pass, or are thought to pass, beyond a certain line,
marked out by considerations of public safety or comfort, they are
arrested and subjected to the mild punishment of imprisonment for a
short term, such as is meted out to thousands of petty offenders.
Then they proceed to set themselves up as judges in their own case;
they demand that the law shall surrender to their will. And when
this preposterous demand is met by the application to them of the
most humane methods which professional skill can devise for securing
the accomplishment of their sentence, they rend the air with shrieks
of “torture.” If the sentence itself was unjust, let them make all
possible to-do about it by all means; nobody would begrudge them that.
But they know only too well how little could be made of any real
grievance they could lay claim to; and they count on a combination of
soft-heartedness and soft-headedness in a considerable part of the
public to make a self-inflicted stage-play torture pass current as the
equivalent of the thumb-screw and the rack. Precisely what the penal
authorities had best do if this foolishness should prove persistent in
our country, it may not be easy to say. The one thing certain is that
it cannot be trifled with. It is an impudent challenge, not only of the
law, but of reason and humanity; and, unless we have quite lost our
grip on the realities of life and government, whatever measures it may
be found necessary to take in order to meet the challenge effectively
will receive the emphatic approval of the American people.

       *       *       *       *       *

To what extent the fantastic notions of the nature of the right of free
speech that we have been discussing are shared by men of intelligence
and culture, it is difficult to say. They are to be found distinctly
among a certain small and fairly well-defined class of socialist or
semi-socialist clergymen and other humanitarians. In a wider circle,
these notions, if not distinctly embraced, are at all events given a
considerable amount of sympathetic toleration. In either case, it is
not too harsh a judgment to say that the attitude is due to want of
thought or to shallowness of mind. The true doctrine of free speech
is a broad principle of civic conduct, having its foundations in
reason and experience, and its justification in the highest public
expediency; these people appear to think of it as a simple and absolute
dogma, whose sanction transcends all considerations of expediency,
and any violation of which is a sin against the divine order. Such
a view can be entertained only by a shallow thinker or a one-ideaed
fanatic; and it is the former class, unquestionably, to which nearly
all of the “free speech” extremists are to be assigned. The contrast
between their crude and childish notions and that conception of the
doctrine of free speech which is alone worthy of respect or of serious
consideration cannot be better shown than by quoting the words of one
of the greatest champions of individual liberty the world has ever
known. It will hardly be claimed by even the most effervescent of our
sentimental apostles of free speech that his own convictions on the
subject are more profound, or his courage more uncompromising, than
that of John Stuart Mill. In his noble tractate “On Liberty,” Mill
goes as far as anyone can go--farther no doubt in some respects than
many of these same emotional humanitarians would go--in demanding
complete freedom of public expression, so far as the substance of the
opinions or doctrines in question is concerned. He does not draw
the line at immorality; he does not draw the line at the advocacy of
tyrannicide. But the ardor of his devotion to this principle is that
of a rational thinker, not that of the blind slave of a fetish. That
freedom of speech is made for man, not man for freedom of speech,
is to him so obvious as to require no insisting on. A single brief
passage--introduced at the beginning of his discussion of the question
whether “the same reasons” which prescribe freedom of opinion and
of speech “do not require that men should be free to act upon their
opinions”--will suffice to show this:

  No one pretends that actions should be as free as opinions. On the
  contrary, even opinions lose their immunity when the circumstances in
  which they are expressed are such as to constitute their expression
  a positive instigation to some mischievous act. An opinion that
  corn-dealers are starvers of the poor, or that private property is
  robbery, ought to be unmolested when simply circulated through the
  press, but may justly incur punishment when delivered orally to an
  excited mob assembled before the house of a corn-dealer, or when
  handed about among the same mob in the form of a placard.

When we note the remark, a little further on, that “the liberty of
the individual must be thus far limited: he must not make himself a
nuisance to other people;” and when we observe that after maintaining
the right of an advocate of the doctrine of tyrannicide freely to
express his opinions, Mill adds that the instigation to it in a
specific case may be a proper subject of punishment, provided “an overt
act has followed, and at least a probable connection can be established
between the act and the instigation,”--we see plainly enough the
difference between the working of a profound and rational conviction
like Mill’s, and that of the shallow-pated emotionalism which rallies
to the support of a Berkman or a Bouck White.

       *       *       *       *       *

The confusion of thought which is at the bottom of these vagaries has
been strikingly illustrated in connection with two matters upon which
it may be profitable to dwell at some length. In both instances, the
trouble is in part due to misinformation, or misconception of the
facts; but in both instances the misinformation, or misconception, is
inextricably bound up with the confusion of thought.

Closely allied to the false notion we have been discussing of what
constitutes suppression of free speech by the authorities is the false
notion, even more prevalent, of what constitutes suppression of the
news by the newspapers. That there are some items of news that do not
get the degree of publicity to which they are entitled may be quite
true; and as regards the treatment by some newspapers of some whole
classes of items, the accusation may be entirely justified. But that
there exists anything like wholesale suppression of news, among the
newspapers of the country generally, and especially by the Associated
Press, is a charge absolutely without foundation. Regarded as a matter
of large and fundamental public interest--not as a mere matter of
ordinary criticism, dealing with imperfections of execution rather
than with wrongfulness of intent--the question simply lapses for want
of body to the accusation. The things charged as suppressions are
so trivial in amount, in comparison with the vast mass of matter of
precisely the same, or graver, nature carried in the papers, that the
idea of the so-called suppression being anything more than defect in
execution--even though sometimes due to the dishonesty of individuals
and not always to accident or want of adequate equipment--should
be peremptorily dismissed by any man who is accessible to ordinary
argument on the subject.

But in the minds of its chief exponents, the idea that there exists
a wholesale and systematic suppression of news in the interest of
conservatism does not rest upon the omission, or the misrepresentation,
of specific items in the record of what are generally regarded as the
day’s happenings. Their conviction that the newspapers are guilty of
a great and systematic crime against the truth cannot be overcome
by any such comparison as I have indicated; simply because the scale
of values which they habitually use is fundamentally different from
the scale which is current in the community at large. To their minds,
the one absorbing concern of mankind is to end the iniquities of the
existing economic order; and accordingly, the ordinary news of the day
is utterly trivial in comparison with anything that bears upon the
social revolution which they are sure is impending. Now it would be
perfectly possible to fill many columns of a newspaper every day with
matter of this kind--indeed there would be no difficulty in making
up an entire newspaper of nothing else. The world is very big--even
the United States, even New York city, is very big; and a diligent
search for tales of evil, of hardship, of injustice, of rapacity, of
poverty, would be amply rewarded any day in the year. Moreover, there
are strikes, little and big, in the thousands of industrial and mining
centres; there is every now and then the formation of a Socialist club
or the starting of a little Socialist newspaper; and then there are
speeches, and meetings, and what not. From the point of view of the
man who is convinced that the present order of society is on its last
legs, and that the supreme duty of the journalist is to expose its
rottenness, these are the things with which our papers ought to be
filled, instead of the idle chatter about politics and business. This
opinion they are, of course, fully entitled to entertain; but their
charge that the newspapers suppress the news is essentially based on
the notion that the owners or editors of the papers are themselves of
that opinion, but have not the honesty or the courage to act upon it.
And this is too absurd to call for denial.

       *       *       *       *       *

The other illustration that I have in mind arises out of the history of
the Chicago Anarchists of 1886. There has gradually spread throughout
the country a notion that the execution of the four anarchist agitators
who were hanged for instigation of the slaughter of the policemen in
Haymarket Square was little better than a judicial murder. This opinion
is expressed in only a little more extreme form than that which is
widely current, by Charles Edward Russell (late Socialist candidate for
Governor of New York) when he says:

  The eight men were convicted, nominally by the jury, in reality by
  a misinformed public opinion resolutely bent upon having a hanging.
  Anything more like the spirit of a lynching I have never known under
  the forms of law.

That a man of Mr. Russell’s type should talk in this way is natural
enough; but it is truly regrettable that an impression approximating
this should be widely entertained among persons of intelligence and
soberness, and having no sympathy at all with the Socialist, not to
speak of the Anarchist, movement. The explanation of this phenomenon is
to be found in part in the absence of knowledge of the actual facts;
but it is to be found in at least equal measure in the failure to grasp
the essential character, and the natural and rational limits, of the
right of free speech.

At a time of great public excitement, arising in connection with a
strike, a bomb was thrown into the midst of a platoon of policemen,
wounding sixty-six of them, seven of whom died of their wounds. The men
who were tried and convicted of this murder had, every one of them,
been engaged in anarchist agitation; they had, every one of them,
been members of a revolutionary society; the two most conspicuous
were active promoters of a propaganda of violence as editors of
revolutionary sheets and as public speakers. But it was not on these
general grounds that the men were convicted. What was proved at the
trial, to the satisfaction of the twelve jurymen and of the judge, was
that these men were guilty of direct incitement to the precise kind
of act that was actually committed--the killing of policemen as the
defenders of the rights of property and the maintainers of law and
order. Now the trouble with the tender-minded people who so easily
accept the view that the executed Anarchists were martyrs of free
speech and victims of something like lynch law is that they never ask
themselves the question whether, in point of fact, these men were
really instigators of the crime in the sense required by the law to
make them murderers, or were not. The trial lasted nearly six weeks;
it was perfectly orderly; and this question--the question of whether
these men were legally guilty of murder--was put before the jury in the
sharpest possible way by the judge. It was that question which they
decided; it was upon that question that Judge Gary, who presided over
the trial, declared, in a remarkable and convincing article written
seven years later and published in the _Century Magazine_, that the
verdict was absolutely sound, and involved no stretching of the law.
Finally, it should be remembered above all--and yet it is constantly
forgotten--that the Supreme Court of Illinois, a year after the trial,
sustained the proceedings in a unanimous judgment; its opinion,
covering 150 pages of the Illinois reports, being an exhaustive review
not only of the law, but also of the facts of the case. To speak of
a trial so conducted, and stamped with such approval, as being a
proceeding in the nature of a lynching, is not only preposterous, but
impudent.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the foregoing discussion, and in the illustrations that have
been adduced, what I have chiefly endeavored to bring out is the
unreasonableness, and the practical absurdity, of the unthinking view
which passes current with many for the noble and rational doctrine
of freedom of speech and of the press. It may be well to add, in
conclusion, a few words on a broader aspect of the matter. Just as
religion may be made repulsive and odious by narrowness and bigotry;
just as scientific or philosophic thought may be perverted by a
spirit of intolerant dogmatism; so a high and inspiring doctrine of
human conduct and polity may degenerate into an object of merited
contempt when divorced from those considerations upon which its
justification rests, and erected into a mere formula, to be followed
with superstitious servility. That the absurdities which have been
put forward in the name of the doctrine of free speech will actually
have the effect of thus degrading and discrediting that doctrine, is
not likely; but it is not likely only because common sense and sound
feeling may be counted on to keep the folly from spreading. Yet it is
the duty of men of light and leading to make clear their own position
on the subject whenever it comes conspicuously to the front. They can
in no better way serve the permanent interests of the cause of true
freedom of speech than by showing, beyond the possibility of mistake,
their contempt for the cheap counterfeit of it. In all the clamor that
has been set up by the Bouck Whites and the Berkmans and the Upton
Sinclairs, has any one pointed to a single doctrine that has been
suppressed, a single teacher that has been silenced, a single truth,
or alleged truth, that the authorities have endeavored to stifle?
Time was when the champions of free speech have had to fight in order
that men who had a message to deliver should have a chance to deliver
it; what these make-believe apostles and martyrs have to fight for
now is a chance to be suppressed. Nobody asks what it was that Bouck
White or Becky Edelson wanted to say; what they ask is how he came to
be dragged out of a church, or how she came to be arrested for being
disorderly. And nobody asks the former question for two reasons--first,
that the newspapers freely print what these people have to say;
and secondly, that what they have to say is utterly familiar and
commonplace. Suppression is not, with them, an obstacle to the spread
of their teachings; on the contrary, it is their chief stock-in-trade,
their sole claim to the attention of the public. What has elevated
the doctrine of freedom of opinion and of speech to the lofty place
which it holds in the estimation of mankind is the conviction, slowly
acquired through ages of physical and spiritual struggle, that by
that freedom can best be served the cause of truth, and hence the
advancement of humanity. But with this neither the vulgar stage
business of the New York Anarchists of today, nor the crazy appeals to
the pistol and the bomb of the Chicago Anarchists of 1886, has anything
whatever to do. To identify either with the great historic doctrine
of free speech is to debase the intellectual and moral coinage of the
race.



IS SOCIALISM COMING?


  And when the pedants bade us mark
  What cold mechanic happenings
  Must come; our souls said in the dark,
  “Belike; but there are likelier things.”

                          G. K. CHESTERTON.

Every historian today owes much to Karl Marx for his development of
the “Economic Interpretation of History.” Whatever that theory may
fail to explain, it certainly succeeds in explaining the nature and
growth of the Socialist movement. When the great attempt at real
political and economic democracy made by the French people in their
great Revolution had failed and left behind it as a legacy the memory
of the Terror and the wars of Napoleon, every nation in Europe felt the
reaction. Russia, Austria, Spain and non-industrial Europe generally
reacted towards simple absolutism, noble against peasant. But in the
countries within the boundary marked out by the industrial revolution,
the wealth created by the new machines placed the balance of economic
power in the hands of the commercial classes, and so forced the old
landed aristocracy to admit them to political power as well. In the
meanwhile the first shock of large scale production had widened the gap
between the industrial workers and the employing class. Independent
artisans were ruined or forced into factories, and in the wake of the
new industry there trailed a network of industrial oligarchies which
spread until they covered the civilized world. The already enfranchised
classes refused to use their power to moderate the harshness of the
competitive struggle, honestly believing that any interference with
“economic law” could work nothing but ruin and hardship in the end.

In view of the facts as they existed in the days of the _Communist
Manifesto_ it was practically inevitable that an economist in sympathy
with the economically powerless and politically disfranchised masses
should interpret history as did the Marxians. In an age of coal,
iron and steam (that potent trinity), of large scale production, of
capitalistic agriculture, of economic tyranny, of sharpening class
divergence and increasing poverty, it seemed that there was no way to
realize democracy but to wait until industry had been concentrated
into the hands of a few rich men, till the middle class and the free
peasantry had been reduced to the proletarian ranks, and till the ever
increasing misery of the workers taught them to combine and seize the
means of production and distribution by a single revolutionary stroke.
Private property could have appeared only as a tool for robbing the
workers of the “surplus value” of their labor, religion as an ingenious
means of sidetracking revolutionary activities, and patriotism as an
excuse for standing armies and protective tariffs. This was a tenable
explanation of the world--in 1848!

But the world has moved since the day of the _Manifesto_. Now manhood
suffrage is the rule and not the exception. The worst forms of factory
serfdom have been ended by legislative and economic changes. The
various reform parties of Europe and America and even the Conservatives
compete with each other for the workingman’s vote by programs of
social amelioration which steadily grow more ambitious every year.
Socialism itself has altered in a changing world. The “Revisionist” or
common-sense wing of the party has abandoned both the “surplus value”
metaphysics, and the prophecy, so happily falsified, of “increasing
misery” and “cumulative panics,” and has moderated the class war
dogma far enough to permit working hand in hand with the once hated
bourgeoisie for immediate reforms. Other Socialists still repeat
the old catchwords, but modify them by a process of “interpretation”
analogous to that which makes Liberal Christians content to repeat the
historic creeds. Of course some revolutionists have looked upon this
readjustment with misgivings, and, as a result, we have sporadic and
badly led revolts against party discipline, such as Syndicalism in
France, Larkinism in England and the I. W. W. in America.

The main citadel of Socialist theory still remains intact, however,
in the eyes of its defenders; and so the loss of unessential outposts
harms the party very little. If it is true that industry conducted in
large units is _always_ in the end more efficient than if undertaken
by many small units, sooner or later all the means of production and
distribution will be concentrated either in the hands of a closely-knit
class of industrial magnates or else in the hands of society as a
whole. The only choice then open will be between control by the few,
and control by the many: there will no longer be a choice between
individualism and collectivism. This must be, because individualism
always involves some measure of free competition, and under a system of
competition the less efficient competitor is forced into the background
by the more efficient. The one hope of saving both democracy and
private property, then, lies in the chance that centralization beyond a
certain point is not an economic gain.

The factors that undoubtedly do make for greater concentration are
numerous and important, but they are so well known that a brief mention
of a few of the more important will be sufficient here. The first
cause of monopoly is the fact that nature is also a monopolist. Many
valuable mineral deposits are found in quantity in a small area, and
hardly at all outside of it. Coal, iron, timber, water-power and a
ready access to market are not to be had everywhere. There are also
economies in the greater size of a plant, especially where, as in the
telegraph service or the railroad lines, there is an enormous initial
expense in any case, and profits increase directly with the amount of
business which can be done on the basis of a given amount of fixed
capital. Standardization of commodities, especially of commodities used
in production--such as machine parts, is an advantage to the consumer,
and hence to the largest producer. In the large factory, moreover, the
subdivision and specialization of labor can be carried farther--more
processes can be handled under one roof, and more patents can be
united into one machine. But the chief advantage of the great factory
is that it can afford great quantities of _power_ in place of using
hand labor. The reason why “handicraft revivals” have had such limited
success is that the most skilled of artisans, working by hand, cannot
produce in quantity as can the engineer with his machine. So long as
this difference exists, individual industry can only be a decorative
border to the main fabric of industrial life. The _type_ of power now
generally used gives an added advantage to concentration. “For steam
can only be generated in a fixed spot, and the motive power furnished
thereby can only be distributed over a small area.”[1]

These advantages are due to the _size_ of a unit of production. But
large industry is usually also rich industry (or it could not be very
large), and there are other advantages due to the _wealth_ of the
owners. The wealthy concern can buy goods cheaply in quantity, and,
if its demand is great enough, even exercise some control over the
production of needed raw materials. It can afford the best machinery,
the best labor, the best management. This advantage notoriously
applies, even to such organizations as churches and universities,
since the ablest pastors and professors are attracted by the largest
institutions. A great saving can also be made by such factors as
combining clerical forces, managers, salesmen and other employees of
several firms into one, thus reducing salary costs, and preventing
duplication of effort. Other advantages of the rich firm are
diminished advertising costs, the abolition of premiums, the reduced
need of borrowed capital and of extending credit to consumers, power
over prices, middlemen, carriers and competitors, the ability to adjust
supply to probable demand, and, as centralization approaches monopoly,
the power to reduce wages without fear of losing employees to other
firms. What then is left but to admit the contention of the Socialist
that Socialism has no alternative except the undesirable one of a new
feudalism differing from the old only in resting upon an industrial
rather than an agricultural basis?

The first objection I would make to the positing of this dilemma is
to the assumption that the farmer can be safely ignored. Socialists
admit that concentration is proceeding more slowly in agriculture
than in any other branch of production, but they say that as industry
develops, the movement toward the city which is so strong today will
become stronger than ever, until the manufacturing population will
outnumber the agricultural many times. But there is a balance in these
things. We must have food, and every person who leaves the country for
the city subtracts one from the number of food producers, and adds
a customer for other farmers to supply. Hence the growth of a large
population divorced from the land means a continually augmenting profit
for the agriculturist, and a growing inducement to go “back to the
land.” Agriculture must then remain a cardinal factor in our economic
life. To be sure, in the past the great estate has often triumphed
over the small farm, and the Socialists maintain that it will again.
If the causes which produced the “latifundia” of Rome, the feudal land
ownership of the middle ages, the sheep farms of sixteenth century
England, the capitalist farming of the early nineteenth century and the
cotton plantations and “bonanza” wheat farms of America, were operative
today, this contention would be right. But just the contrary is the
case. The vast estates of eastern Prussia,[2] heavily mortgaged and
hard pressed for labor, are being rapidly alienated by the landlords
themselves, who are encouraging the government they dominate to
establish a system of peasant proprietorships in their place. In
France the small holder is triumphant economically, and he controls
by his vote the political destinies of the Republic. In Australia
and New Zealand, the squatters’ sheep farms have receded before the
advance of selectors’ holdings, which in turn are being parcelled out
under “Closer Settlement Acts.” In Ireland most of the landlords have
already been bought out under the Wyndham act, and even in England,
where the custom of primogeniture has tended to keep estates together,
the Conservative or landlords’ party has promised to establish small
holdings by a policy of government purchase from the present owners.

If the Socialist theory as regards agriculture holds good anywhere, it
must be in America. But on turning to the census of 1910 what do we
find? Over 62 per cent. of our farms are worked by their owners, and
these include about 65 per cent. of the improved land, and more than
that of total area! In 1850 the average number of acres to a farm was
over 202; today it is 138.1. More significant yet, while the number
of owned and rented farms increased, the number of farms worked by
managers shows an absolute _decrease_ in the decade since 1900. This
was the type of farm that was going to supplant all others, according
to the Marxian prophecy. In the words of the census:[3] “That the
number of farms increased more rapidly than the acreage of land in
farms, is accounted for partly by the fact that in some sections of the
country considerable numbers of small truck, poultry and fruit farms
have been established, but still more by the fact that in the West
large numbers of farms of moderate size have been established where
great cattle ranches were formerly found. Then, too, in the Southern
states, the subdivision of many plantations into smaller tracts of land
operated by tenants--a process begun soon after the Civil War--has
continued, each of such tracts counting as a farm under the census
definition.”

It is further to be noted that the forces which have tended to bring
about the triumph of the state and the plantation, are of less and
less significance as we turn to the future, whereas the counter
forces which make for agricultural decentralization increase with the
progress of population, invention and popular education. Slave labor
was alike the cause of the Roman manor and the Mississippi plantation,
but the world will probably never see slavery extended again, for it
is at once too inhumane for modern sentiment, and too wasteful for
present-day scientific methods. On its economic side, the American
Civil War was a fight to the death between the small farm run by
free labor, and the slave plantation. So, virtually, is the present
conflict in Mexico. Certainly in the first case, and probably in the
second, victory belongs to the farm. Feudalism was partly a result
of the disorders caused by barbarian raids, which forced men to put
themselves and their holdings under the protection of some great lord,
and partly of the exhaustion of the precious metals, which made it
necessary for a king to pay his retainers in landed estates instead of
money. Neither factor has been operative for centuries, or probably
ever will be again. Nor is it probable that it will ever again pay to
turn good arable land into pasture, as happened in Tudor England: the
increasing density of population forbids it. Capitalistic farming in
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries rested upon the costliness of
agricultural machinery, and the ignorance of the average farmer. Today
the advance of industry puts cheap machinery within the pocket-range
of the individual farmer, and scientific training is placed within
reach of all by agricultural schools and colleges, state and national
experiment stations, and the free distribution of information.
Knowledge is no longer a monopoly: the farmer is becoming an engineer
of intensive agriculture. What factors _are_ now effective? The chief
is the growth of population, the consequent increased value of land,
and therefore the need for conservation rather than exploitation of
its richness. Small diversified stock, fruit, poultry and dairy farms,
where every acre can be watched over and put to its best use, yield a
greater profit than where the land is covered with staple crops. The
agricultural laborer or “hired man” is another factor in the situation.
Few persons like to work for wages, some do not like agricultural
life, almost no one enjoys the combination. Hence the laborer in the
country will either buy a small holding of his own, if he can, or else
go to the city. Whole provinces in Germany east of the Elbe have been
depopulated just for that reason. No doubt the wholesaler has certain
advantages in marketing his goods, but such voluntary systems of
coöperative credit and sales as are so popular in western Germany and
Denmark, reduce this to a minimum.

Is agriculture a solitary exception to a general law of the indefinite
concentration of industry? In many cases, such as the telephone,
telegraph, cable (possibly _not_ wireless telegraphy), railroads,
steamship lines, certain kinds of mining, certain wholesale
physical and chemical processes, and the making of standardized
goods, no doubt concentration has advantages which do not tend to
diminish. Such industries will be either socialistically owned, or
quasi-socialistically controlled by the government. But this leaves
a wide range of trade and manufacture where other centralizing
factors operate, which are not permanent but temporary. If the
largest plant, even today, is the most efficient, why do separate
establishments increase in number so rapidly? In 1909[4] the number
of establishments in the continental United States were no less
than 268,491, representing an increase of 24.2 per cent. over the
number in 1904. But the most remarkable fact is that the number of
persons engaged in manufacture increased in the same period by only
23.6 per cent. and the number of wage workers, as distinguished from
owners and salaried persons, only by 21.0 per cent. Of course the
Socialist will reply that many different plants are really controlled
by single corporations, openly or secretly, according to the degree
of enforcement of “anti-trust” laws. This is perfectly true, but it
belongs to another aspect of the problem. What the census figures
indicate is that the maximum efficiency point of a _plant_ has not only
a definite limit, but may even decrease with the progress of industry.
The truth is that Socialism is a phenomenon of the age of coal burning,
the nineteenth century. Steam power is being more and more replaced
by electrical power, which, generated in one place, can be used over
an immense area. It is true that most electricity is still derived,
at some loss of efficiency but an immense gain in availability, from
the burning of coal or other fuel. But the coal beds are far from
inexhaustible, and sooner or later we must supplement our supply by the
“white coal” of the waterfalls. The Age of Electricity will usher in
a second great industrial revolution. By putting power in quantity at
the disposal of the independent artisan, it will for the first time in
history enable him to compete with the great factory. Our tiny remnant
of handicraftsmen may thus become a great army of artisan-engineers,
combining the skill and personal attention of the old-fashioned
master craftsman, with the technical training and machinery of modern
engineering. And if the supply of energy within the atom is ever tapped
to a sufficient degree, power will be as cheap as water, and the
greatest advantage of the large producer be wiped out forever.

These changes will make small production a possibility; there must
be other causes to make it the general rule of industry. As wealth
increases and the standard of living rises, quality in commodities will
come to be considered as well as quantity. If the small productive unit
cannot compete on even terms with the large in wholesale production,
it may more than do so in retail production for an exacting market.
“Finishing” industries, “assembling” industries and the like will
absorb an ever increasing proportion of the industrial population.
The future will have use for the expert, and only the expert; the
mere laborer will be eliminated by the advance of education and the
specialization of machinery. There will yet come a time when it will
pay the manufacturer better to keep “cheap labor” in opulent idleness
than to let its unskillful fingers touch the machines. Mere routine
duties in commerce can be left in large measure to calculating
and recording machinery. The great concerns will then run with a
small office force and a staff of engineers, and release a host of
supernumerary clerks and laborers for individual industry. The only
“proletariat” will be one of cogs and wires and dynamos.

There still remains the problem of distribution. Will the great
stores, banks and exchanges continue to control the economic life of
the nation? Will competition in buying and selling crush the small
producer, no matter how efficient his production? It must be admitted
that this is a possibility. The last moral I should wish anyone to
draw from this article is that “everything is bound to work out all
right” because of certain beneficent economic laws. Certainly it
will need all our statesmanship to realize the possibilities I have
sketched. All I contend is that they _are_ possibilities, that we are
not hopelessly driven to the alternative of aristocratic or democratic
collectivism, that the stars in their courses do not, as is so often
contended, fight against the small producer. But I see no cause for
despair in the matter of exchange and control. The small shop still
continues to exist beside the big store; the individual concern may
fail, but the type endures. Perhaps all middlemen, big and small,
will in the end disappear as the connection between producer and
consumer becomes more direct. Even the poorest classes of the future
will, I think, buy more goods to order than ready made. As to the
power of the big establishment over carriers and middlemen, these can
be controlled in part by law, as in the extirpation of the railway
rebate. The advantages of credit and capital on the side of the large
concerns, can be offset by coöperative credit and sales agencies, as
readily in manufacturing as in agriculture. By ensuring a high level
of competition unfair advantages can be eliminated, and the fight be
purely one of industrial efficiency, which is not always on the side of
the biggest battalions.

It is of the first importance to realize that each perceptible social
change involves many other perceptible changes, that, in Spencer’s
happy analogy, the social constitution is a web, no strand of which can
be moved without moving others. The changes we have tried to forecast
cannot come effectively before the subsidence of the wave of fierce
competition which was partly smoothed down by the trusts. In many
businesses, competition in drumming and advertising is still at the
point where it costs more to sell goods than to make them and hosts
of men accomplish only the neutralizing of each other’s efforts. The
rationalizing of competition and the growth of a coöperative spirit
would release men for other pursuits; and the growth of intelligence
in learning what is to be had and discriminating what is best, must
diminish the billions spent on advertising. These additions to
productive labor and capital must diminish the ills which have made
Socialism seem desirable as well as inevitable.

Suppose we do our best to realize these possibilities to the full.
Suppose a Socialist then revisits the earth two or three hundred years
from now. He may see in full operation what he has always declared
impossible, a democratic individualism. Instead of an impoverished and
disappearing farming class, he will find a populous countryside divided
into small homesteads, and run at a handsome profit by specialists in
intensive agriculture. Instead of a factory or mining proletariat,
hungry and rebellious, he will find great wholesale establishments
owned and run by a handful of engineers, turning out pulp, cloth, metal
and standard parts for machinery, turning the products over to millions
of independent artisan establishments supplied with cheap and plentiful
power, to be worked into countless articles of art and utility. He will
look to the processes of exchange to find great financial magnates
and railway barons on the one hand, and a horde of miserable clerks
and small shopkeepers in difficulties on the other. Instead, he
will discover a network of voluntary credit and sales associations,
information bureaus, individually owned freight automobiles (and
possibly airships); with perhaps a few regulated railway lines and
pneumatic delivery tubes, run by a prosperous association of experts.
He will look for the old-time “servant class,” and find that the
scientifically trained housewife, with a power plant in the cellar, can
run her own house, thank you, and consider it the most honorable of
professions. Seeing everything so effectively managed for the happiness
of the people, he will look to see in the government the universal
owner and employer of his dreams, but he will find instead a clearing
house of help and information, which puts its knowledge of efficient
management, of technical processes, of economic and sociological
conditions, at everyone’s disposal, and comes to the rescue in the
rare case of poverty, failure or crime. Will he rejoice that the world
is happy, or be sorry that it is not happy his way? If I know the
Socialist, he will claim that he was right all along, and that this
state of society is really Socialism. Let him claim the word; I call
it democratic individualism, because it means the greatest possible
_distribution_ of economic power and function consistent with efficient
production.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See H. de B. Gibbins, _Industry in England_, p. 382.

[2] See W. H. Dawson, The Evolution of Modern Germany, chapter XIII. On
the general subject of agricultural decentralization see Prof. V. G.
Simkhovitch, _Marxism versus Socialism_.

[3] Thirteenth Census, _Agriculture_, chapter I.

[4] Thirteenth Census, _Manufacturing_. Handicrafts and establishments
producing less than $500 worth of goods per year are not considered.



THE REPUBLIC OF MEGAPHON


  Persons of the Dialogue: _Socrates_.
                           _Chærephon_.
                           _Megaphon_.

SCENE: At first a street in the Metropolis,[5] and afterward the house
of Megaphon.[6]

TIME: Year 4 of Olympiad 25 after American Independence.

The narrator and leading person of the dialogue is Socrates.

I. I had gone into the city on the Fourth day of the month to witness
how they would observe the Festival, and was returning at my leisure,
when Chærephon, catching sight of me at a distance, ordered his son to
run forward and bid me wait for him. And the boy, taking hold of me by
the cloak behind, said: “My father bids you wait for him.”

“By all means,” said I.

And not long afterward Chærephon came.

“Socrates,” he said, “you seem to be returning from the city.”

“You guess not badly,” I replied.

We continued on our way, and soon came near the crossing of two
streets. Here, a boy was standing at the curb, calling loudly to all
who passed.

“What are the words he cries?” I said to Chærephon.

“The _Republic_,” he answered. “It is the new paper, that will come
forth daily, and is to help the demos; for you know that until now it
has come but thrice a week, and has been for the few. Have you not
heard of it?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I have thought about it much. Henceforth we shall
have the news every day, and in a different way.”

We had now come to the boy, and were passing him.

“Here, boy,” I said, “give me your paper.”

He gave it to me, still crying as before.

“And how much must I pay you for it?” I asked.

“An obol,”[7] he replied.

“Very well,” said I, and gave him the obol.

“Is it not cheap?” said Chærephon. “And do you not think the demos has
great reason to rejoice? For now many more will be able to read of what
takes place.”

“It is indeed cheap,” I said, “and now the demos may indeed read all it
will. But I do not think it may rejoice.”

“Do I hear aright?” he asked. “Can it be you do not like the change?”

“You do hear aright,” I answered. “I do not like it.”

“But ’twill educate the demos,” he said.

“It will,” I said, “and that is why I do not like it. My thought is
that ’twill educate them wrongly, and we shall have trouble from it.
But let us discuss the matter, if that will please you.”[8]

       *       *       *       *       *

II. “Most gladly,” he said. “But look, yonder is Megaphon’s house, and
I told him I would stop. Will you go with me, and there discuss in the
hearing of us both?”

“Yes,” I said, “most willingly.”

We drew near, and Chærephon beat gently upon the door with his
sandal,[9] and we waited until someone should come from within.

The son of Chærephon, first asking his sire’s permission, now joined
other boys who were vying one with another in a game of making noises.

Now the playing of the game was on this wise. Chærephon’s son would
take from the store in his pocket a crimson paper, tightly rolled,
containing an explosive. This he set off by means of a thread which
projected from the end of the roll, and contained the same explosive,
but not so much. The thread was called the fuse, and the roll a
“cracker.” When lighted with a match, the fuse would quickly carry fire
to the cracker, which, straightway bursting, made a loud report. But
first Chærephon’s son would send it flying through the air, lest it
harm his fingers. Yet there were lads of hardihood who boldly held the
cracker as it burst, and remained unharmed; and these were the winners
of the game.

This at that time was for young and old the manner of celebrating the
nation’s freedom. For the people had once been in thrall to the tyrant.

       *       *       *       *       *

III. While we yet stood looking on at this sport, the daughter of
Megaphon opened to us.

“My sire is within,” she said; and pointed to the door of the megaron.

The door was open, and we entered. At first we saw no one, but after
some moments became aware of Megaphon’s legs, which alone could be
seen of all his body. For the rest of his body was hidden by a printed
sheet. This sheet, we saw, was the _Republic_; for the letters were
large.

“Hail, O Megaphon!” I cried in a loud voice.

Megaphon lowered the sheet until his face appeared, and then leaped up.

“A thousand pardons, Socrates and Chærephon!” he cried. “I was deep in
the paper, and did not notice. Pray seat yourselves.”

We seated ourselves in front of him, and not far off.

Megaphon laid aside the paper, as it seemed, unwillingly.

“What were you reading, O Megaphon?” Chærephon inquired, to start our
discussion. For he knew well, without the asking.

“The _Republic_,” Megaphon replied. “Ah, I see you have one, Socrates.
Is it not fine, and should we not rejoice? The demos will surely make
great progress now, and our nation will become much greater than ever,
for we shall have news every day, and nearly all will be rich enough to
read, and nearly all will thus become intelligent.”

Chærephon gazed at me.

“But Socrates does not approve,” he said.

“No,” I said, “by Zeus, no!”[10]

Megaphon was greatly astonished.

“I do not understand,” he said. “Will not knowledge be spread among our
people as never before, and will not our demos become well informed and
thinking citizens, no longer a prey to their own ignorance or to the
deceits of their enemies? For we shall now have the news at trifling
cost, I think. Is it not so, O Socrates?”

“At trifling cost, most certainly,” I answered. “To speak truly, the
cost is even too little. But shall we discuss the matter?”

“By all means,” he said.

“And will you listen to me with patience,” I said, “and answer what I
ask, and not grow angry?”

“We will do as you say,” he said. “Will we not, Chærephon?”

Chærephon agreed.

       *       *       *       *       *

IV. “Well, then,” I began, “I suppose we may assume that the
_Republic_, and others--for without doubt there will in time be many
like it--will be taken daily into the homes of the demos, as well as of
the few. Is it not so?”

Megaphon assented.

“Then let us speak of the matter in this fashion,” I said. “Suppose
you had an acquaintance who came to visit you every day in the year,
and was admitted not only to yourself, but freely to your wife and
your sons and daughters. On entering, he first makes a great show of
importance and a great deal of noise by calling out in an exceedingly
loud voice that a cruel murder has been done, or a savage battle has
been fought, or a shocking accident has happened, or a great robbery
has been attempted, and comes up quite close to all of you and points
out in every detail just how the accident or the crime took place.
After this, he tells you of lesser crimes and mishaps--of thefts,
adulteries, and murders among the poor and vicious, and the like;
and then he tells with great exactness of many brutal contests--of
the pancration,[11] of boxing with the cestus,[12] and of the fights
of cocks and dogs. He tells you also of the life of the idle, who do
nothing but eat and drink, passing the nights in waking and the days
in sleep, consuming in pleasures they do not need the substance they
have not earned. And suppose he counsels you to hate not only them, but
all who possess greater store of goods than you. And then suppose he
will tell you of various things which he says you should not lack, now
screaming loudly that these goods will be sold for less than they cost,
and now whispering other things of the sort with equal earnestness, and
with equal intent to deceive you. Suppose he not only tried to sell
you good and necessary wares, but that which he knew you did not need,
or was worthless. And suppose he told you much that was true of your
neighbors but was no concern of his, and repeated much that was false
and harmful. And suppose his words were often vulgar and many times
profane, and that his jests were coarse, and even obscene, and you
should come upon him murmuring to your wife and children such things as
the tongue should in no wise repeat.”[13]

Megaphon seemed not quite content with my words.

“Suppose,” I said, “that he did and said such things in your house, not
twice or thrice in the year, but daily, ever boasting of his virtues,
and telling you all that he was your true and faithful friend. Would
you not think the advantage of his presence doubtful?”

“I should,” said Megaphon, “if he were all you say he would be; and I
should not let him remain, but kick him out of doors without delay, and
forbid him to enter again. But surely there are other matters he would
relate, such as we should be glad to hear of, and we should not need to
listen to all he said, nor buy all he would have us buy.”

“No,” I said, “doubtless not; but his company would be unpleasant, even
if you neither bought nor heeded. For he would offend you often, and
waste your time.”

“And the _Republic_, I think, is not wholly like the acquaintance you
describe,” Megaphon said. For he bore ill what I said.

“But it will be so in no long time,” I said.

“Will you tell us why?” he asked.

       *       *       *       *       *

V. “I will, assuredly,” I said. “Let us inquire farther. Just now I
paid for the _Republic_ one obol, did I not? and heretofore it cost
two? The price is now but half, and soon it will be still less. For so
at least they promise. Is it not true?”

“It is,” Megaphon said. “And justly, as I think. For the demos should
be encouraged to read.”

“Very well,” I said, “when the former price is cut in half, will it
not be impossible to gain as much? For gain is the purpose of the
newspaper, and its owners will not publish it unless they receive gain,
and the greatest possible amount. If they cut the price in half, they
will of a surety use other means to bring them the money thus lost.
Will it not be so?”

“But more people will buy and read,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “they will. But more men and better machines will be
needed, and the paper will be much larger, as you already see. Without
doubt, they will not be able to give for so small a sum a paper so
large.”

“You seem to speak truly,” he said.

“Then whence will come the gain I speak of?” I said. “Will it not come
perforce from advertisements? At least, so I have read, for you see I
know what is being talked. And how shall they increase the number of
those who advertise, and make the price greater? For both, I think,
will be necessary. Will it not be by having more who purchase and read?
For those who buy and sell goods will pay a higher price only if more
are to read their advertisements. Do you think I am right, Megaphon?”

“So it appears to me,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “is it not clear that we shall have a change in
the newspaper’s ways? Until now, the newspaper has had its gains
mostly from those who read, and but little from those who advertise;
but henceforth it will be contrariwise. It will not enrich itself
from readers--except as their number brings more and better-paying
advertisements.”

“And there is another thing,” Chærephon said. “The character of the
readers will also change. There will henceforth be more of them
untaught and unthinking than before, because of the cheapness of the
paper. Will it not be so?”

“Most certainly,” I said; “you have anticipated my thought.”

       *       *       *       *       *

VI. “Then,” I continued, “if this is as I say, will it not of necessity
follow that henceforth the paper will be so ordered as to suit the
tastes of the many rather than of the few?”

“I do not disagree,” said Megaphon.

“For,” Chærephon said, “you cannot suit at once the tastes of both the
ignorant and the intelligent.”

“And what are the tastes of the demos?” I said. “Does not the demos
like excitement, and will not the newspaper set forth in detail every
manner of accident and crime and gossip? Doubtless you have seen the
demos, how it behaves when the dead are to be seen, or when the
wedding of some rich person takes place, or evildoers are being led by
the Eleven to be punished.”

“Yes,” he said, “I have. The demos has but poor taste in many matters.
The demos likes above all to be entertained, and it delights in things
that are strange and horrible.”

“True,” I answered, “and the demos does not like to think; for that
is a difficult sort of labor. It will be necessary to omit that which
would please the few, and put in its place that which is amusing and
easy to understand. And there will doubtless also be much that is
unseemly and shameful to read.”

I took up the _Republic_ from Megaphon’s side.

“Indeed,” I said, “that of which I speak has already begun. I will read
you what stands written here:

  ‘An important witness against Bloombury Bright, Priest of the
  Pericles Avenue Temple of Zeus, in Bright’s trial before fifteen
  priests of the State Synodos, was Theodora wife of Diodoros
  Ploutocrates. She charged that in the month Anthesterion the priest
  embraced and kissed her twice. On a second visit, when he found
  her wearing a chiton,[14] she says, he was more violent in his
  attentions.’

“Do you not think this very vile, O Megaphon?” I asked.

“Most vile indeed,” he said.

“And would you like to have your daughter read it?”

“No, by Zeus!” he cried. “For there is no good in it, but only evil. It
would befoul her mind.”

       *       *       *       *       *

VII. “And there will be another consequence,” I said. “Will not the
makers of the paper think they must make it attractive to the demos at
all costs, and will not the gatherers and arrangers of the news learn
to do this by adding to or taking from the truth, or even by inventing
news; so that we shall not be able to distinguish between the true and
the false?”

“It will be,” he said, “as you say; at least in the case of the paper
that tries above all to please the demos.”

“There will thus be deception in two ways,” I said: “they will omit,
and they will invent and add. But this is not the only evil from which
we shall suffer. For consider the editor’s page. The newspaper has
always been, it says, the moulder of the demos’s thoughts; and so,
indeed, it was, so long as its editors were leaders of great causes,
and thought strongly, and were masters of their own words. But how,
when it must make its gains from those who buy and sell, and not
from the followers of truth, shall it be able to attack or to favor
whatsoever and whomsoever it please? How shall it be free to attack
evil rich men whose advertisements it must have, or oppose a party or a
movement cherished by them? And how in turn shall it be free to attack
the inconstant demos itself, by whom it must be purchased? For it will
not be conducted on principle, and look for its gains to those who
read, but commercially, and look to those who advertise.”

“I do not see,” Megaphon said, “how it can avoid these evils.”

       *       *       *       *       *

VIII. “Does it not seem clear, then,” I said, “that the editor’s page
will be secretly open to purchase, and no longer truthful? For ‘We must
live,’ the owners will say.”

“Yes,” Chærephon replied; “and I have another thought. I am thinking
that much harm may come because we shall have news confused with
advertisement, or with secret attempts of various kinds.”

“You think rightly,” I said. “We shall have persons or groups of
persons making deceitful use of the news in advertising their products,
or in courting the favor of the demos for some project. Indeed, I think
that something might occur like this: those who sell goods for our
triremes and hoplites might pay out great sums for the secret aid of
the newspapers in rousing the passions of the demos by appeal to its
natural hatred and fear of the barbarians. For then the State would
increase the number of ships and soldiers of every kind, and thus they
would sell more goods, and make greater gains. Or a maker of some food
or medicine, or a false follower of Asklepias, might do the like; and
the demos, which is ever seeking after cures for real and fancied ills,
would soon enrich him. Can you not think that this could happen?”

“I can indeed,” Megaphon said.

“Then,” I said, “have we not proved that the newspaper will be used to
educate the demos wrongly--I mean by giving too much news of one kind,
and not enough of another, and exaggerating, coloring, and otherwise
falsifying the truth, and pretending to be a friend when it is an
enemy, and selling itself, whenever it safely can, to him who will give
most?”

“I will admit what you say,” Megaphon said; “for I am eager to hear
whither your discussion will lead.”

       *       *       *       *       *

IX. “It appears, then,” I said, “that there is some doubt as to this
education of the demos you rely upon, as to whether it will be as
nearly perfect as you think. But let us go farther. I have spoken
until now of matters of fact. Shall I now say something of matters of
taste?--if you will yield to me in this, that taste has much to do with
the worth of nations.”

“I will concede it,” he said.

“Consider, then,” I began, “the language which the newspaper will
employ in its effort to please the demos. Will it not be of necessity
untaught and rough, and often coarse, like the speech of the demos
itself? For if it is to attract the demos, it must be easy to read, and
of spicy savor, thus to say, and must not speak after the manner of
the few. For the demos will have nothing superior to itself. We shall
thus find ourselves at cross purposes; our didaskaloi will be trying
to teach our epheboi to speak and write purely, and the newspaper will
teach them to speak and write like the demos. Of a truth, men who write
purely and well will not be employed, but only those whose manner is of
the demos. And again, they will cost the owners less. Do you think I am
right?”

“I grant it,” Megaphon said.

“And consider not only the news and the manner in which it is written,
but the advertisements also, of what nature they will be. Will not many
worthless things be advertised in a bold and shameless manner? and
will not the effect of this be to confirm bad taste on the part of the
demos, and beget and encourage it among the few who are better taught?
Let me see your paper again.”

Megaphon gave me the paper.

I opened it, and, having searched some moments, “Listen,” I said:

  ‘Oh, say boys, don’t forget that sore, sweating, tired feet often
  have a wonderful penetrating and terrific odor which is very
  unpleasant in the home or with company. Asklepian’s Antiseptic cures
  all the trouble. Pharmakopoles Pharmakopolides’.

“Pharmakopoles moves in our best society, as the saying is, and is
foremost amongst those who sacrifice to Zeus. Does it not seem to you
that we have here an example of that which must be expected?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Megaphon and Chærephon together.

“And will not also the art of the newspaper often be vulgar? For it
will be used to entertain the demos.”

“We agree with you,” they said.

“And they will try to amuse the children, too,” I said. “Our young ones
will be taught many things they should not know, and the ugly will seem
fair to them, and the fair ugly.[15] For that which is vulgar will seem
to have power when seen in print.”

       *       *       *       *       *

X. “And I think we shall have something still worse,” I said. “For
I fear our morals, too, will stand in some danger. Consider the
advertisements of those who would sell the barbarian potion,[16] and
the weed of Lethe,[17] and other like doubtful wares, and among them
books professing to tell of such mysteries as only sires should tell
their sons, and mothers their daughters. Will not our epheboi be
constantly assured how harmless these things are, and how pleasant to
have, and thus become convinced that they are good rather than evil?
For the printed word is a power, as I said, and we fear less the
dangers we see most often.”

“At least,” said Chærephon, “there will be danger if we do not guard
ourselves.”

       *       *       *       *       *

XI. “You speak truly,” I said; “there will. But I bethink me of still
another danger now, and one that will affect not individuals, but
classes. Shall I speak of it?”

“Go on,” Chærephon said.

“Very well,” I said. “The demos is composed of men and women, and is
but human. The demos likes sympathy, and the demos is also vain, and
likes to be talked of, and to see its own name in print. If, then, the
newspaper would make friends with the demos, it will need to tell of
the demos and what it does--of its leaders, and of its virtues, and
in like manner of its vanities; for it is no less vain than those it
rails at. It will thus flatter the demos by making it feel as important
as its betters, and teaching it to think it knows as much as they,
about not a few things, but many. It will speak much of the demos’s
sufferings, and of the demos’s worth, and of the demos’s rights, and
it will make much use of sentimentality, and little of real sentiment,
reason, and fact; for reason is a troublesome thing. Will not this be
an excellent way for the newspaper to win friends in great numbers, O
Megaphon?”

“It cannot be denied,” he said.

“And if this is true, will it not increase its favor with the demos if
it also assails those who have store of goods, or gifts bestowed by the
Muses, and makes it appear that their riches are due to accidents of
fortune or unjust workings of the law, that their talents are not above
the ordinary, and that the gifts of the Muses have no value whatsoever?
For it will be among the demos that the greatest number of the paper’s
friends must be won.”

“Yes,” Megaphon said, “in that manner it would surely make friends.”

“It appears, then,” I said, “that flattery of the demos and
fault-finding with the few will be an excellent means for the newspaper
to become rich. And consider the evil this will work among us. For the
newspaper will make the few seem to the many richer and prouder and
more selfish than they are, and the many seem to themselves poorer and
more humble and virtuous than they are; besides making them wise in
their own conceit, so that they will become meddlesome by trying to do
many things of which they know nothing, and by doing them all awry. For
the demos is a many-headed beast, lighter and more fickle than

              ‘the moon, th’ inconstant moon,
  That monthly changes in her circled orb,’

as one of our poets saith.“

“And consider,” I said, “the newspapers of the few--for some will not
enslave themselves wholly to Hermes, the God of Gain--how they will be
misunderstood, and blamed without desert. The demos will be told by its
leaders and its newspapers that the papers of the few pretend to know
more than other folk, and that they are against the poor and secretly
in favor of the rich. And they will not receive them into their homes,
and will take little account of them. And that will make the task of
these papers difficult, and they will lose hope, and will be inclined
to counsel the few to distrust overmuch the many, just as the papers of
the many will counsel the many to distrust the few. So that the many
and the few will be encouraged to suspect, distrust, and hate each
other. Will they not?”

“Yes,” Megaphon said. “At least, so you make it appear.”

“And this will be very harmful to the State?”

“I agree,” he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

XII. “Then,” I said, “we seem to be at this point in our discussion:
that there will be danger that the newspaper will not speak the truth
impartially and thus educate the many, but will give them only phases
of the truth, deceitful news, and interested opinions, misleading
instead of educating them; and instead of forming their opinions for
the better, it will rather follow their opinions, and often encourage
them in thinking that which they should not think; and instead of
improving their taste, it will confirm it, and degrade the taste of
those who should know better; and it will counsel men to think ill one
of another, and thus work damage to the State. Does this seem to sum up
our conclusions?”

“It does,” Megaphon said.

“And does not this seem to you quite the opposite of what a short time
ago you said was to be expected?”

“So it seems,” he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

XIII. “And still,” I said, “I do not think that this is the worst that
may befall. I have another matter in mind. Shall we discuss that also,
O Megaphon and Chærephon?”

“Yes, by Zeus,” they said, “by all means.”

“Very well, then. What,” I said, “do you think will be the effect
on the mind of the demos when it shall read daily of so much
murder, violence, stealing, and deceit, and so many mishaps caused
by carelessness? Will it not surely conceive that mankind is wholly
selfish and lawless and not to be trusted, and hopelessly bad? You are
aware, are you not, that men judge of the world by what part of it
they see and read of, and that this they cannot help? And in the case
whereof we speak, what they read will be mostly bad, and will have
greater weight than what they see about them. For all evil things seem
dreadful at a distance.”

“I see the force of your argument,” Megaphon said.

“Doubtless,” I said, “you have been told of the man without sight who
was made acquainted with the great African beast.[18] Having been led
to the animal, he was permitted to grasp only its tail; whereupon,
‘This animal,’ he said, ‘is very like a rope.’ Now I think that one who
had touched another part would have made a different answer. Would he
not?”

“You speak truly,” Chærephon said. “It would be according to the part
he touched.”

“Then let us continue,” I said. “The followers of Zeus and Athena,
what will they think when they shall have been told again and again,
sometimes with truth and sometimes falsely, of priests or worshippers
that have loved not wisely but basely, or have stolen, or cheated,
or misbehaved in any other wise? Will they not soon distrust all who
sacrifice to Zeus and Athena and the other blessed gods, and will they
not of necessity disbelieve in them? For they will think that the gods
have failed to make their worshippers good men. And thus the demos will
become skeptical of all religion, and our temples will be empty. What
do you think?”

“I think it will be as you say,” he said; “for indeed, I have already
seen it happen with men as you describe.”

“And what will be the effect if the demos is told from early youth to
manhood, not once in a while but every day, of the lies of those who
would be rulers of the State, the knavery of those who buy and sell,
the baseness of those entrusted with their neighbors’ money, and the
unseemly means employed by men of every class to circumvent their
enemies? Will it not be to convince the demos that all men are to be
won by gain, and that no one may be trusted? Will it not suspect,
after so many deeds of baseness, on the part of its leaders as well as
others, that no law is proposed, no deed performed, however fair in
its seeming, that has not an unworthy purpose at its root, and that no
pleasant word is spoken and no fair promise given but with intent to
deceive?”

“You seem to speak truly,” Megaphon said.

“And will it not become skeptical of all men of any calling whatsoever,
in even greater measure than of our priests and our religion?”

“In even greater measure,” he said; “for men are loath to give up their
faith in the gods.”

“And will it not say that to know the truth is impossible, inasmuch as
every man obscures the face of truth for his own advantage? And is it
not plain as regards the State, in what condition it then will be?”

“What?” said Chærephon and Megaphon.

“Every citizen,” I said, “will be convinced that many of his fellows
are rascals, and that all are selfish and deceitful, and will say in
his heart: ‘What boots it for me alone to speak the truth, or to do
for Zeus and my neighbor that which brings travail to me?’ And he will
conclude by doing as he has been taught that all men do. And this is
the very worst of ill fortune for the State, for its citizens to be
filled with suspicion and distrust and hopelessness, and to think they
should act for no one’s welfare but their own. This is evil thinking at
its worst.[19] Is it not, O Chærephon and Megaphon?”

“It is, in very truth,” Chærephon said.

       *       *       *       *       *

XIV. But Megaphon was silent.

“What is it, O Megaphon?” I asked.

“You do not seem to me wholly just, O Socrates,” he answered. “And I
have been thinking that if I should ask and you should answer, or if
you should ask in a different way, the matter might not appear the
same, but otherwise.”

“Then will you ask?” I inquired.

“I will ask but this, O Socrates,” he said: “for in most things I think
you speak truth. But are we, then, to hear naught of what our citizens
do except that which is good, and are we never to know the evil they
commit? Is not darkness the friend of evil, and light its enemy? And
will it be well with the demos if it have no friend to cry out its
wrongs?”

“I will answer briefly,” I said; “for He of the Far-darts is already
high in the heavens. If there were no guilty men, and no foolish,
doubtless the newspapers would not tell the demos of their deeds.
Nor do I think that guilt and folly and every manner of intemperance
should be let thrive in darkness, and not be brought forth for men to
scorn and punish. But I will tell you in what manner I think. Suppose,
O Megaphon, that it were allowed to you to look into some dark and
unknown chamber, through only one narrow chink, and that through this
chink your guide should let enter strong rays to light up but one
little corner, and that an ill-ordered one with crawling vermin. Would
you not become convinced, from seeing that only, and not the rest,
that all the chamber was awry and foul? And if you looked into many
chambers, and saw all in the same condition, would you not become
convinced that all chambers were awry and foul, and that to strive for
cleanliness and order were in vain?”

“I think I should,” he said, “if I saw as you describe.”

“That,” I said, “is what I think about the use of light in these
matters. I think ’twould be far better to use a candle and explore
more thoroughly; and best of all to open the chamber to the light of
the sun, which is the light of truth. Then we should see the entire
chamber, and I think we should say: ‘This is a goodly chamber, but hath
a foul spot,’ and fall to and set it in order, and sacrifice to Zeus
for his goodness to mortal men.”

“But the wrongs of the demos,” he said; “must it not have champions to
right them?”

“Truth is the champion that will best right wrongs, both for the many
and the few,” I replied. “But truth ill told for selfish and evil
purposes will set men one against another, and we shall have no peace.
Do you think I speak words of reason?”

“Yes, by Zeus and Athena!” said Megaphon and Chærephon.

“Then,” I said, “let us pray to Athena, Giver of Wisdom, beseeching
that she will make men love that which is true, and hate that which
is false. For thus they will learn justice, and our State will be one
people, and not two.”

“Let us indeed,” they said.

Chærephon and I then took our leave.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Apparently there was a Greek colony in the city.--The notes are by
the Editor.

[6] The O in Megaphon is long, representing the Greek omega. Quite
possibly the author’s use of the word is satirical.

[7] About three cents.

[8] The language of this first section bears a striking resemblance to
the beautiful translation, by Alexander Kerr, of a work called “The
Republic of Plato.”

[9] The ancient Greek manner of knocking for admission seems to have
survived.

[10] The theological terminology of antiquity clings to the narrator’s
language.

[11] Now called “rough-and-tumble”, or “catch-as-catch-can”.

[12] Meaning the hard glove.

[13] Socrates is in striking agreement with Fred Newton Scott, The
Undefended Gate, _English Journal_, January, 1914, p. 5.

[14] Socrates altered several terms as he read, probably for the sake
of humor. An examination of the original shows “kimono” for “chiton.”

[15] He evidently foresees the comic Sunday supplement.

[16] This means lager beer, which has never appealed to the Hellenes,
either now or in antiquity. The celebrated potologist Symposiastes
records his conviction (Opera XL, 3, 2) that barbarian, barley (from
which beer is made), bar (where it is sold), barrel, baron, and baroque
are all etymologically related.

[17] Can this mean tobacco?

[18] The elephant.

[19] He means pessimism, which is known to have existed before the term
came into use.



THE CURSE OF ADAM AND THE CURSE OF EVE


I

“The wide-spread change in thought and attitude of my sex towards
yours,” which Anastasia Beauchamp announced to Adrian Savage in “Lucas
Malet’s” novel of the latter name, affects marriage, of course,
primarily. And it appears from Ida M. Tarbell, _Making a Man of
Herself_ (_The American Magazine_, February, 1912) that the leaders
of Feminism have been trying for many years to dissuade their younger
sisters from matrimony:

  Man and marriage are a trap--that is the essence the young woman
  draws from the campaign for woman’s rights.... She will be a
  “free” individual, not one “tied” to a man. The “drudgery” of the
  household she will exchange for what she conceives to be the broad
  and inspiring work which men are doing. From the narrow life of the
  family she will escape to the excitement and triumph of a “career.”
  The Business of Being a Woman becomes something to be ashamed of, to
  be apologized for. All over the land there are women with children
  clamoring about them, apologizing for never having _done_ anything.
  Women whose days are spent in trades and professions complacently
  congratulate themselves that they at least have _lived_. There were
  girls in the early days of the movement, as there no doubt are today,
  that prayed on their knees that they might escape the frightful
  isolation of marriage; might be free to “live,” and to “know,” and to
  “do.”

In another article she says:

  “Celibacy is the aristocracy of the future,” is the preaching of one
  European Feminist.... The ranks of the women celibates are not full.
  Many a candidate falls out by the way, confronted by something she
  had not reckoned with--the eternal command that she be a woman. She
  compromises--grudgingly. She will be a woman on condition that she
  is guaranteed economic freedom, opportunity for self-expressive
  work, political recognition. What this amounts to is that she does
  not see in the woman’s life a satisfying and permanent end.

Naturally, this attitude does not tend toward domestic contentment,
peace and happiness. The woman who marries in this frame of mind
already has her face set toward Reno.

Yet the instinct for maternity is a force. Therefore the great
desideratum in the opinion of George Bernard Shaw and Ellen Key is the
satisfaction of the instinct without the inconvenience of a husband.
But when he comes to deal with the facts Shaw’s courage fails him, and
he turns tail and flees. In _Getting Married_ he confesses that, in
spite of all its horrors, he can invent no substitute for marriage.
Ellen Key, on the other hand, in _Love and Marriage_, has the courage
of her convictions.

And yet her relations to man cannot be entirely without satisfactions
to woman. She cannot be quite the slave that the Feminists describe.
Anna A. Rogers, in _Why American Marriages Fail_ (_Atlantic Monthly_,
September, 1907) speaks of

  the present false and demoralizing deification of women, especially
  in this country, an idolatry of which we as a people are so
  inordinately proud. One of the evil effects of this attitude is shown
  in the intolerance and selfishness of young wives, which is largely
  responsible for the scandalous slackening of marriage ties in the
  United States.... Our women as a whole are spoiled, extremely idle,
  and curiously undeserving of the maudlin worship that they demand
  from our hard-working men.... The hair-dressers, the manicurists, the
  cafes at lunch time, are full to overflowing with women--extravagant,
  idle, self-centred.... She has not merged her fate with her
  husband’s, if married, nor with her father’s if not: she does not
  properly supplement their lives; she is striving for a detached,
  profitless, individuality.... The sacredness and mystery of womanhood
  are fast passing away from among us.

A successful woman dramatist, an interview with whom was published in
_The New York Times_ a few months ago, said:

  The American man is a great deal more unselfish and chivalrous than
  is good for the woman. He often bears his own burden, and part of the
  woman’s. This is very excellent discipline for him, but it is hard on
  the woman. She doesn’t have a chance to learn sacrifice.

Miss Tarbell recognized that the Feminist was in revolt against the
drudgery of the household. Edna Kenton, for the militants, is even
more explicit. She says in _Militant Women--and Women_ (_The Century
Magazine_, November, 1913):

  There is rising revolt among women against the unspeakable dullness
  of unvaried home life. It has been a long, deadly routine, a life
  servitude imposed on her for ages in a man-made world.... There is
  nothing in the home alone to satisfy woman’s longing for variety,
  adventure, romance.

How many men have any means of satisfying their longings for variety,
adventure and romance? Miss Kenton’s notion that “the restrictions on
men’s free-willing are comparatively few,” is mere silliness. In the
business and professional classes woman’s opportunities of disposing of
her time and cultivating her tastes are vastly greater than man’s, and
among the less fortunate classes, the care of a three-room flat or a
five-room house is a lighter servitude than that by which the man gets
the bread for his wife and babies. There is more companionship in the
children and the neighbors than there is in digging, in tending the
lathe, and operating the loom. There is more social life in hanging out
the clothes in the back yard, and talking to the woman who is doing
the same thing in the next yard, than there is in making entries in a
ledger, and adding up columns of figures. The kitchen utensils are as
interesting as the saw and the monkey-wrench.

Ninety-five per cent of the work of men is drudgery, and few men
have any choice in the selection of their drudgery. They do what as
boys they were set at, or what they can get a chance at. A very small
proportion of men have variety, adventure, romance, and no one who
looks at our shopping streets and places of amusement will be in any
doubt that women are less tied to their galley oars than men. Olive
Schreiner, in _Woman and Labor_, ungenerously says that men have always
been willing that women should do the coarse and ill-paid work; it is
only when women demand admission to the higher and more intellectual
occupations that men admonish them to keep within their sphere. Yet
to women of genius the world of literature and art and music has long
been open, and within recent years a multitude of occupations have
been opened to women, with little if any objection from men; perhaps
in consistency the Feminists should approve the many men who have been
glad enough to shirk the support of their womankind and let their
sisters and daughters take care of themselves.

But these are for the most part the unmarried women, very many of whom
marry and “lapse with their marriage into the old parasitism,” in the
agreeable phrase of Edna Kenton. One remedy for this that has been
proposed is that men shall pay wages to their wives. This, however,
besides commercializing the union of men and women, is open to the
further objection that if a man hires a woman to be his wife, he must
have the right to discharge her when he finds some one else that would
suit him better, for a time. This is admittedly a makeshift. A more
“thorough” remedy offered is “paid motherhood,” the men supporting the
state and the state supporting the women and children. In such a case
the state would naturally decide what mothers to pay, and what men to
mate them with. Nothing that is now recognized as a home could survive
such an arrangement, and the Feminists don’t wish it to survive.

And even so, the house work has got to be done by somebody. If it is
done by a hired charwoman she would be economically justifying her
existence, while if it is done by a wife and mother, she would be a
parasite, in the language of Olive Schreiner, and would be earning her
living by the exercise of her sex functions, in the chaste words of
Charlotte Perkins Gilman in _Women and Economics_, and Edna Kenton. And
in any case the men must go on with their drudgery, which comprises
overwhelmingly the greater part of all the work that is done in the
world.


II

On the one hand, we are assured by Feminists that women do not differ
from men, and therefore should not be confined to a “sphere.” On the
other hand, we are no less confidently assured by them that politics
and industry are in pressing need of qualities which men do not
possess, and cannot acquire, because they are distinctively feminine.
Olive Schreiner has carefully studied the male and female dog, and
reaches the conclusion that there is no difference between them to
justify different treatment and different occupations. She does not
expect woman suffrage to effect any political changes, except in one
or two matters where she believes women have interests which men have
not, or do not recognize. For example, war. Woman in politics will
put an end to war because she knows how much it costs to produce each
human life. This is mere rhetoric. What are the facts? The Teutonic
women, whose status she would re-establish, went to the wars with
their husbands, and fought by their sides. From the Spartan mother who
charged her son to return with his shield or on it, to Mlle. Juliette
Habay, of Brussels, who wrote: “We are learning to shoot with rifles.
Here in Brussels great numbers of young girls have joined rifle corps,
and a professor of arms is teaching us to shoot,” when has woman ever
failed to gird the sword upon her man? Socially there is assuredly no
discrimination against the red coat in England, or the blue coat in
the United States.

Very recently _Femina_, the woman’s newspaper in Paris, addressed to
its readers the question, “If not a woman, what man would you have
wished to be?” We are told in a news despatch that “Napoleon won
easily.”

But Mrs. Schreiner is substantially correct. Biology may know something
of male and female temperaments, but in their general characters and
habits and adaptability to employments, there is no great difference
between her male and female dog, or the male and female of other
animals. If the path of progress leads downward by all means let us
learn our sociology and domestic economy from the beasts of the field
and the fowls of the air. If human progress has been retrogression,
let us get back by way of primitive man and the missing link, to the
animals and birds whose social economy commends itself strongly to
Feminist and socialist.

The differentiation of men and women is the most valuable product of
ages of gradually developing civilization. The world does not need
twice as many diggers in the earth, and workers in metals, as it has
now, but it does need homes. If the beasts merely have dens from which
they go forth at night for their prey, and in which they produce their
young, which they care for only till the young can catch their own
game, Mrs. Gilman sees no reason why men and women should have homes,
except as places for sleeping, from which they go out every morning to
secure subsistence for themselves and for their young. But the latter,
in her system, would soon be removed to training institutions conducted
by the state, and managed by experts in child-culture; for Mrs. Gilman
does not credit women with ability to rear their own offspring (however
well she thinks they can rear those of other women), though the world
is perishing for lack of their greater participation in industries and
politics.

The prolonged association of parents with children, the protraction of
mother-love beyond the infancy of offspring, the association of men and
women intimately, but not entirely for the perpetuation of the race;
the instinct of exclusiveness in the relations of man and woman, and
their refinement by sentiments of romance; the development of chivalry
and accountability for others in man, and of modesty in woman; the
separation of one part of the race from much that the other part must
often be in close contact with; the creation of a domestic atmosphere
which is not like that of the shop or the field--the essential features
of the home and the family--these are the best results of civilization,
and against them the Feminist storms. Yet they are more important, if
possible, to woman than to man.

Women are different from men as the result of ages of segregation,
and that is above all things else the object of Feminist attack. The
whole purpose of Feminism is to make the conditions of life the same
for men and women. Women are more chaste than men, and the Feminists
may be right when they say that this has been forced upon woman by
man, but they are mistaken when they treat this not as a gain, but
as a grievance. It need not be disputed that men ought to be as pure
as women, but it is at least a great gain to hold one sex to a high
standard of purity. In the course of time something may be achieved
by the other--much has been already, or mixed society would be
impossible--but it will not be effected by the Feminists who complain
of servitude to man-made standards of morals, and demand for women the
freedom practiced surreptitiously by some men.

The common notion of the innate moral superiority of woman is due to
fond recollections of happy childhood, to the warm language of poets,
to the romance of the male when in the springtime of life his fancies
lightly turn to thoughts of love, and to actual differences which are
the result of the segregation of women. Feminism is breaking that down,
and we are already getting some of the results. In _The Vanishing
Lady_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1911, Mrs. Comer finds that
the contrast between the people in the novels of Howells and in those
of David Graham Phillips suggests something like a submergence of
Christian civilization under a wave of materialism and paganism. The
interval between these two writers is the period during which Feminism
has been spreading like an epidemic. Women have not saved society from
the change. The advanced women have not tried to. Like their clothes,
they have been entirely up-to-date, and the materialism and paganism of
the day are quite as apparent among women as among men.

This is Mrs. Comer’s description of the type of woman who is being
evolved by Feminism:

  One cannot travel far in these days without being filled with wonder
  at the vast numbers of these women roaming the continent. They are
  usually of a willful fatness, with flesh kept firm by the masseuse;
  their brows are lowering, and there is the perpetual hint of hardness
  in their faces; their apparel is exceedingly good, but their manners
  are ungentle, their voices harsh and discontented; there is no
  light in their eyes, no charm or softness in their presence. They
  are fitting mates, perhaps, for the able-bodied pagans who are
  overrunning the earth, but hardly suitable nurses for a generation
  which must redeem us from materialism, if, indeed, we are to be so
  redeemed. Facing them, one wonders if race-suicide is not one of
  nature’s merciful devices?

In a period of rapidly acquired fortunes women have accepted the dollar
as the unit of individual worth quite as readily as men have, and have
applied it more relentlessly, for men are more democratic than women;
rich and poor wear the same costumes, and in their friendships they do
not draw the financial line so closely as their wives do. During the
spread of Feminism manners have coarsened, modesty is disappearing,
the fiction and drama of the day familiarize the young with vice under
the thin pretext of fortifying virtue. If it be true, as is sometimes
charged, that women are taking to alcohol and tobacco, it is merely
one additional evidence that in breaking down the distinctions between
men and women, the standards of the former are not raised, but those of
the latter are lowered.

Two women have lately suggested the assimilation of the figures of the
male and female of the species. Ellen Key refers to the flattening of
woman’s bosom as the result of the growing use of artificial means of
nourishing infants, and “Lucas Malet” speaks of “large-boned, athletic,
sexless persons, petticoated, yet conspicuously deficient in haunches
and busts.”


III

As the garb of male and female in the lower animals does not differ
radically, and seldom varies much except in the brighter hues of the
male, so the socialist who seeks to assimilate the human sexes, objects
to radical differences in their costume, and many essays toward the
adoption of the costume of men have been made by advanced women. Morris
and Bax, in _Socialism, Its Growth and Outcome_, deplore differences of
costume, saying: “Another fault may be noted in all bad periods (as in
the present), that an extreme difference is made between the garments
of the sexes.” Since that was written the skirts of women have been
reduced to a point suggestive of a single trouser instead of a pair,
and the divided skirt, the harem skirt and the riding costume for the
cross saddle indicate a movement that Morris and Bax would welcome.

There are history and politics in clothes. Trousers are described
as a product of democracy, because they conceal the material of the
stocking, whether silk or wool. Not so very long ago men wore laces,
and ribbons, and jewels, and delicate tints. With the gradual breaking
down of the caste system, the spread of democracy in politics, and of
the brotherhood of man in philanthropy and religion, men have reduced
their costumes to the present inartistic, but very serviceable
standard. There has been no lasting change in that direction in the
costume of women. If the determination of some women to “make men of
themselves” had coincided with the severe simplicity of the tailor-made
suit there would have been, as there has been in some cases, a certain
measure of harmony between the inner and the outer woman. But the
period of aggressive Feminism coincides with decrees of fashion that
are designed to expose as much of the female figure as the police will
permit. The paucity of garments, and their thinness and scantiness are
suggestive of Vivien, upon whom

                                        A robe
  Of samite without price, that more exprest
  Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs.

The pageants and tableaux which afford women an opportunity to appear
in the garb of statues, leave one somewhat in doubt whether Feminism
relies chiefly upon arson and malicious mischief, or upon the arts
Vivien practiced upon Merlin, for the accomplishment of its ends.
Salome is dancing before Herod in the confident expectation that he
will give her the half of his kingdom. But it is idle for women in
the Western world, in the Twentieth Century, to pretend that they are
odalisques, compelled by their helplessness to appeal to the sensuous
side of men. They exhibit themselves for their own pleasure, and they
dance the whole list of modern dances, with their vulgar names, because
they enjoy them.

The extreme of fashion, in this day when Feminism is demanding larger
opportunities to refine, purify and uplift the world, is fast reaching
the point of

                                        One Pan
  Ready to twitch the Nymph’s last garment off,

and on the Paris stage this has already been done, with the approbation
of the audience, until the Nymph came forward to the footlights to bow
her acknowledgment of the applause, when the audience intimated plainly
that she was overdoing her part.

In Berlin, in Chicago, and in Washington, very recently opposition to
distinctive titles for married and single women has broken out. It is
asked indignantly why women, and not men, should be tagged with their
conjugal condition. One woman remarks, not without force, that it is
more important to know whether men are married, than to know whether
women are wives or maidens.

But men have so far been the more public, and therefore the better
known of the two. General information about their status is more
probable. Perhaps the conjugal status of men ought to be indicated
in their titles, but they do not change their names in marriage, and
therefore it is less convenient to change their titles. At any rate, it
is better that the conjugal condition of one sex should be indicated
than that that of neither should be. The distinctive titles for married
and single women go back in England, France and Germany, rather less
than 250 years, and they constitute a part of the differentiation of
women from men which the Feminist resents, but which is really one of
the most valuable products of civilization. It is a necessary feature
of a society based upon the family as the unit, but in which women are
free to move about without guards, and without the supervision of their
men.

Intimately connected with the title is the last name the woman is
to bear. The Feminist resents being “branded” upon marriage by her
husband’s name. Certainly under Ellen Key’s system it would be folly
to change the name for each association. One distinguished Feminist in
Boston retained her maiden name after marriage, and her daughter uses
the names of both parents. But this does not solve, it only evades, the
real problem. What is the mother’s name? It is the name of her father.
There is no reason to the Feminist or the socialist why she should
bear the name of her father, any more than that her daughter should
bear her father’s name.

There are no family names now except the names of the men, and in a
Feminist society there can be no family names; which will not matter,
for there will be no family. The Feminist is less frank in admitting
this than the socialist is, but their programs are equally destructive
of it. Each person will select his, or her, own name. To this social
individualism leads. In no other way will the Feminist woman be
satisfied that her identity is not merged in a man, and her ownership
by a man indicated for public information.


IV

Feminism is a declaration of sex war, Edna Kenton proclaims. Yet the
havoc involved in this might well give advanced women pause. Miss
Tarbell (_The Uneasy Woman_, _The American Magazine_, January, 1912)
does not believe that “Man is a conscious tyrant, holding woman an
unwilling captive--cutting her off from the things in life that really
matter--education, freedom of speech, the ballot.” She asks:

  Is man the calculating tyrant the modern uneasy woman charges?... Is
  not man a victim as well as she--caught in the same trap? Moreover,
  is woman never a tyrant? That a man’s life may not be altogether
  satisfactory, she declines to believe. The uneasy woman has always
  taken it for granted that man is happier than woman.

Mrs. Rogers recognizes that man, not woman, is the idealist. The
unselfishness of woman, beyond her willingness to sacrifice herself for
her offspring, is poetic license. She is often unselfish; so is man.
In a small material way it may be worth noticing that the amount of
ordinary life insurance in this country, nearly all of which is paid
for by men for the benefit of women, is thirteen times the amount of
the national debt. Man and woman have been happy together, or miserable
together. There have been times when a man pounded his wife, but she in
turn pounded the children, and he in his turn was pounded by men higher
than he in the social scale. With an improvement in manners and morals,
man ceased submitting to pounding on the one side, and inflicting it
on the other. When force was the rule in all social relations, both
suffered from it. Since force ceased to be the rule, woman has had very
much the better of man; for she cares less about his comfort than he
does about hers; and while he will give up a good deal for the sake of
peace, there is little that she will not give up peace for the sake of.
“It is the perseverance which conquers,” says Thackeray, “the daily
return to the object desired. Take my advice, my dear sir, when you
see your womankind resolute about a matter, give up at once and have a
quiet life.”

The common interests of men and women, subserved by co-operation and
certain to be destroyed by competition, should avert sex war. The bonds
of matrimony, which gall so many women, are mainly restraints upon
men, and protections of women. Their dissolution would be cheerfully
submitted to by very many men, but it ought not to be necessary to
refer to the condition women would find themselves in after a few
years. The condition of the greater part of the women who have achieved
economic independence in the mills and shops is not such as to commend
economic independence to all the others, disregarding for a moment the
certain destruction of the domestic life, the home, and the family,
that would result from the universal economic independence of married
women.

The answer to both Feminist and Socialist is that of The Lords of Their
Hands, in Kipling’s, _An Imperial Rescript_. They were on the point
of signing the pact which would put an end to all struggle in the
industrial world--

  When--the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden rang clear through the
    council hall,
  And each one heard Her laughing, as each one saw Her plain--
  Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane.

After several delegates had expressed themselves energetically in
regard to their plans for themselves and the Eternal Feminine, who was
untouched by the Feminist movement--

They passed one resolution: “Your sub-committee believe

  You can lighten the curse of Adam when you’ve lightened the curse
    of Eve.
  But till we are built like angels--with hammer and chisel and pen
  We will work for ourself and a woman, forever and ever. Amen.”



TABU AND TEMPERAMENT


When, I wonder, did the word “temperament” come into fashion with us?
We can hardly have got it from the French, for the French mean by it
something very different from what we do; though it is just possible
that we did get it from them, and have merely Bowdlerized the term.
At all events, whatever it stands for, it long since became a great
social asset for women, and a great social excuse for men. Perhaps it
came in when we discovered that artists were human beings. At least,
for many years, we never praised an artist without using the word. It
does not necessarily imply “charm,” for people have charm irrespective
of temperament, and temperament irrespective of charm. It is something
that the Philistine never has: that we know. But what, by all the gods
of clarity, does it mean?

It means, I fancy, in one degree or another, the personal revolt
against convention. The individual who was “different,” who did not
let his inhibitions interfere with his epigrams, who was not afraid to
express himself, who hated _clichés_ of every kind--how well we know
that figure in motley, who turned every occasion into a fancy-dress
ball! All the inconvenient things he did were forgiven him, for the
sake of the amusing things he said. Indeed, we hardly stopped to
realize that his fascination was largely a matter of vocabulary. Now
it is one thing to sow your wild oats in talk, and quite another to
live by your own kaleidoscopic paradoxes. The people who frowned
on the manifestations of “temperament” were merely those logical
creatures who believed that if you expressed your opinions regardless
of other people’s feelings, you probably meant what you said. They did
not know the pathology of epigram: the basic truth of which is that
word-intoxicated people express an opinion long before they dream of
holding it. They say what they think, whether they think it or not.
Only, if you talk with incessant variety about what ought to be done,
and then never do any of the wild things you recommend, you become in
the end perfectly powerless as a foe of convention.

This tactical fact the unconventional folk have at last become aware
of; and, accordingly, hostility to convention is ceasing somewhat to
take itself out in phrases. Conventions, at the present moment, are
really menaced. The most striking sign of this is that people are now
making unconventionality a social virtue, instead of an unsocial vice.
The switches have been opened, and the laden trains must take their
chance of a destination.

The praise of temperament, I verily believe, was the entering wedge.
But whatever the first cause, “conventional” is certainly in bad odor
as an epithet. And this is really an interesting phenomenon, worth
investigating. What is it that makes it a term of reproach? Why must
you never say it about your dearest friend? Why must you contradict,
in a shocked tone, if your dearest friend is said to be conventional?
Most of my best friends are conventional, I am glad to say; but even I
should never think of describing them to others thus.

Conventional people are supposed to lack intelligence--the power to
think for themselves. (It seems to be pretty well taken for granted
that you cannot think for yourself, and decide to think what the
majority of your kind thinks. If you agree with the majority, it must
be because you have no mental processes.) They are felt to lack charm:
to have nothing unexpected and delightful to give you. And, nowadays,
they are (paradoxes are popular) supposed to be perilous to society,
because they are immovable, because they do not march with the times,
because they cling to conservative conceptions while the parties of
progress are re-making the world. All these reproaches are, at present,
conveyed in the one word.

Now it is a great mistake to confound conventionality with
simplicity--with that simplicity which indicates a brain inadequate
to dealing with subtleties; or to confound “temperament” and
unconventionality with a highly organized nature. The anthropologists
have exploded all that. I have looked warily at anthropologists ever
since the day when I went to hear a great Greek scholar lecture on
the Iliad, and listened for an hour to talk about bull-roarers and
leopard-societies. I doubt if the anthropologists have any more
perspective than other scientists. I am as near being an old Augustan
as any twentieth-century observer can be: “nihil humani,” _etc._ But,
for God’s sake, let it be human! Palæontology is a poor substitute for
history. No: I do not love any scientists, even the anthropologists.
But I do think we ought to be grateful to them for proving to us that
primitive people are a hundred times as conventional as we; and that
their codes are almost too complicated for European minds to master.
If anyone is still under the dominance of Rousseau, Chateaubriand _et
Cie._, I wish he would sit down impartially before Messrs. Spencer and
Gillen’s exposition of group-marriage among the Australian aborigines.
If, in three hours, he knows whom, supposing he were a Matthurie of
the dingo totem, he could marry without incurring punishment, or
even the death penalty, he had better take his subtlety into Central
Australia: he is quite wasted on civilization. Or he might go over and
reform Yuan-Shi’h-Kai’s administration: the Chinese would take to him
enormously.

Someone may retort that I am not exactly making out a shining case
for _tabu_, in citing the very nasty natives of Australia as notable
examples of what _tabu_ can do for society. My point is only this:
that it is folly to chide conventional people for simplicity, since
convention is a very complicated thing; or for dulness, since it takes
a good deal of intelligence and a great many inhibitions to follow a
social code. To be different from everyone else, you have only to shut
your eyes and stop your ears, and act as your nervous system dictates.
By that uncommonly easy means, you could cause a tremendous sensation
in any drawing-room, while your brain went quite to sleep. The natives
of Central Australia are not nice; but they are certainly nicer than
they would be if they practised free love all the year round, instead
of on rigidly specified occasions. Their conventions are the only
morality they have. Some day, perhaps, they will do better. But it will
not be by forsaking conventions altogether. For surely, in order to be
attractive, we must have some ideals, and above all some restraints.
Civilization is merely an advance in taste: accepting, all the time,
nicer things, and rejecting nasty ones.

When the temperamental and unconventional people are not mere
plagiarists of dead eccentrics, they lack, in almost every case, the
historic sense. I am far from saying that all conventional folk have
it; but they have at least the merit of conforming. If they do not live
by their own intelligence, it is because they live by something that
they modestly value a good deal more. It is better that a dull person
should follow the herd: his initiatives would probably be very painful
to himself and everyone else. No convention gets to be a convention
at all except by grace of a lot of clever and powerful people first
inventing it, and then imposing it on others. You can be pretty sure,
if you are strictly conventional, that you are following genius--a long
way off. And unless you are a genius yourself, that is a good thing to
do. Unless we are geniuses, the lone hunt is not worth while: we had
better hunt with the pack. Unless we are geniuses, there is much more
fun in playing the game; there is much more fun in caste and class and
clan. Unconventional people are apt to be Whistlers who cannot paint.
Of course there is something very dull about the person who cannot
give his reasons for his social creed. But if it is all a question
of instinct, better a trained instinct than an untrained one. I am
inclined to think that the mid-Victorian prejudice against--let us
say--actors and actresses, was well founded. Under Victoria (or should
one say under mid-Victoria?) stock companies were not chaperoned, and
ladies and gentlemen went on the stage very infrequently. What is the
point of admitting to your house someone who will be very uncomfortable
there himself, and who will make everyone else even more uncomfortable?
It is not that we are afraid he will eat with his knife: that is a
detail we might put up with. But eating or not eating with your knife
is merely one of the little signs by which we infer other things. In
this mad world, anyone may do or be anything; but the man who has
been brought up to eat with his knife is the less likely to have been
brought up by people who would teach him to respect a woman or not
to break a confidence. It is a stupid rule of thumb; but, after all,
until you know a person intimately, how are you going to judge except
by such fallible means? I have nothing in the world against Nature’s
noblemen; but the burden of proof is, of practical necessity, on their
shoulders. Manners are not morals--precisely; yet, socially speaking,
both have the same basis, namely, the Golden Rule. No one must be made
more uncomfortable or more unhappy because he has been with you. Now,
in spite of Oscar, it is worse to be unhappy than to be bored; and I
would rather be the heroine of a not very clever comedy of manners than
of a first-class tragedy. Most of us, when we are once over twenty,
are no more histrionic, really, than that. The conventional person may
bore you (though it is by no means certain that he will) but he will
never, of his own volition, make you unhappy unless by way of justified
retort. He will never put you, verbally or practically, into a nasty
hole. Perhaps he will never give you the positive scarlet joys of shock
and thrill. But, dear me! that brings us to another point.

Conventional folk are often accused of being dull and valueless because
they have no original opinions. (How we all love original opinions!)
Well: very few people have any original opinions. Originality usually
amounts only to plagiarizing something unfamiliar. “The wildest dreams
of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu”; and dead sages, if there were only
retroactive copyrights, could sue most of our modern wits for their
best things. What is even Jean-Jacques but Prometheus-and-water, if
it comes to that? Very few people since Aristotle have said anything
new. What passes for an original opinion is, generally, merely an
original phrase. Old lamps for new--yes; but it is always the same
oil in the lamp. Some people--like G. B. S. and Mr. Chesterton--seem
to think that you can be original by contradicting other people--as
if even the person who states a proposition did not know that you
could make the verb negative if you chose! Often, they are so hard up
that they have to contradict themselves. But they are supposed to be
violently--subversively--enchantingly--original. Even the militant
suffragettes have not “gone the whole hog”: they have stopped short
of Aristophanes. What is the use of congratulating ourselves on our
unprecedented courage in packing the house solemnly for _Damaged
Goods_, when we have expurgated the _Lysistrata_--and had the barest
_succès d’estime_, at that? No: our vaunted unconventionality is
usually a matter of words. I have tracked more than one delightful
vocabulary through the jungle, only to find that it brought up at the
literal inspiration of the Old Testament; and I have inwardly yawned
away an afternoon with a person who talked in _clichés_, to discover
perhaps, at twilight, that on some point or other he was startlingly
revolutionary. The fact is that we are the soft prey of the phrase; and
the rhetoricians, whether we know it or not, will always have their
way with us. Even the demagogue is only the rhetorician of the gutter.
“Take care of the sounds and the sense will take care of itself”--as
the Duchess in _Alice_ did _not_ say. Dulness is a matter of
vocabulary; but there are no more dull people among the conventional
than among the unconventional. And if a person is to be unconventional,
he must be amusing or he is intolerable: for, in the nature of the
case, he guarantees you nothing but amusement. He does not guarantee
you any of the little amenities by which society has assured itself
that, if it must go to sleep, it will at least sleep in a comfortable
chair.

I was arguing at luncheon one day, with three clever women, the
advantages and disadvantages of unconventionality. They were all
perfectly conventional in a worldly sense, and perfectly convinced of
the charms of unconventionality. (That is always the way: we sigh for
the paradises that are not ours, like good Christians spurning the
Apocalypse and coveting the Mohammedan heaven.) They cited to me a very
amusing person--a priestess of intellectual revolt. Yes: she walked
thirty blocks to lunch in a pouring rain, and when she came in she took
off her wet hat, put it in her chair, and sat on it. The fact that
my guest, did she choose, could afford to crown herself with pearls,
would not make up to me for the consciousness that she was sitting
on an oozing hat throughout luncheon. In spite of epigrams, I should
feel, myself, perfectly wet through. Surely it is the essence of good
manners not to make other people uncomfortable. Society, by insisting
on conventions, has merely insisted on certain convenient signs by
which we may know that a man is considering, in daily life, the comfort
of other people. No one except a reformer has a right to batten on
other people’s discomfort. And who would ever have wanted John Knox
to dinner? To be sure, we are all a little by way of being reformers
now--too much, I fear, as people went to see the same _Damaged Goods_,
under shelter of its sponsorship, who cared for nothing whatever except
being able to see a _risqué_ play without being looked at askance. But
we shall come to that aspect of it later.

Now “temperament,” again, has often been confused with charm; and
conventional folk--who are, by definition, dull and unoriginal, all
baked in the same archaic mould--are supposed to lack charm. They are
at best like inferior prints of a Hokusai from worn-out blocks. The
“justification” is bad. Their original may have been all very well; but
they themselves are hopelessly _manqués_, and besides, there are too
many of them. How can they have charm--that virtue of the individual,
unmatchable, unpredictable creature?

It is not against the acutest critics, the real “collectors” and
connoisseurs of human masterpieces, that I am inveighing. I am
objecting to the stupid criticisms of the stupid; to the presence of
“conventional” as a legitimate curse on the lips of people who do not
know what they are talking about. One often hears it--“I find him” (or
“her”) “so difficult to talk to: he” (or “she”) “is so conventional.”
Good heavens! As if the conventional person were not always at least
easy to talk to! He may be dull, but he knows his cues, and will play
the game as long as manners require. It is the wild man on a rock,
with a code that you cannot be expected to know, because it is his
own peerless secret, who is hard to talk to. The people who say that
conventional folk lack charm, often mean by “conventional” not wearing
your heart on your sleeve. Now I positively like the sense, when I
dine out, and stoop to rescue a falling handkerchief, that I am not
going to rub my shoulder against a heart. What are hearts doing on
sleeves? Am I a daw, that I should enjoy pecking at them? And who has
any right to assume that, because they are not worn there, they are
non-existent? It is of the essence of human nature to long for the
unattainable. If you do not believe me, look at all the love-poetry in
the world. As Mr. Chesterton says, “the coldness of Chloe” has been
responsible for most of it. Certainly, if Chloe had worn her heart on
her sleeve, the anthologies would have suffered. And with woman the
case is the same. Let not the modern hero flatter himself that he will
ever arouse the same kind of ardor in the female heart that the heroes
of old did: those seared and saddened and magnificent creatures who
bore hearts of flame within their granite breasts--but whose breasts
were granite, all the same. No, gentlemen, women may marry you, but
it is with a diminished thrill. We want--men and women both--to be
intrigued; and I venture to say that for purposes of life, not of
mere irresponsible conversation, it is the conventional person who
intrigues us, since it is only the conventional person who creates the
illusion of inaccessibility. He may be accessible, in reality; and the
unconventional, temperamental person may be an impregnable fortress.
That is the dizzy chance of life. But since all relations must have a
beginning, the initial impression is the thing that counts. Of course
one wants to know that the Queen of Spain has legs; but then we can be
pretty sure that she has. We do not need a slit skirt to reassure us.
One wants to know that there is a human face behind the mask; but who
shall say that the mask does not heighten such beauty as there is? The
conventional manner is a kind of domino: the accepted costume that all
civilized people adopt for a time before unmasking. I do not suggest
that we should disguise ourselves to the end; but that we should talk a
little before we do unmask.

For there must be some ground on which to meet the person we do not
know; and why may not the majority decide what grounds are the most
convenient for all concerned? There must be some simplification
of life: we cannot afford to have as many social codes as we have
acquaintances. Imagine knowing five hundred people, and having to greet
each with a different formula! Language would not run to it. And would
it, in any case, constitute charm? Charm, as we all know, is a rare
and treasurable thing; and no one can say where it will be found. But,
as far as we can analyze it at all, its elements seem very likely to
flourish in conventional air. Of course there may be a fearful joy in
watching the man of whom you say: “One can never tell what he is going
to do next.” But you do not want him about, except on very special
occasions. For the honest truth is that the unconventional person is
almost never just unconventional enough. He is pretty sure to take you
by surprise at some moment when you do not feel like being taken by
surprise. Then you have to invent the proper way to meet the situation,
which is a bore. It is not strange that some of our _révoltés_ preach
trial marriage: for the only safe way to marry them at all would be on
trial. Until you had definitely experienced all the human situations
with them, you would have no means of knowing how, in any given
situation, they would behave. They might conform about evening-dress,
and throw plates between courses; they might be charming to your
friends, and ask the waiter to sit down and finish dinner with you.
Or they might in all things, little and big, be irreproachable. The
point is that you would never _know_. You could never take your ease in
your inn, for nothing discoverable in earth or heaven would determine
or indicate their code. Conventional manners are a kind of literacy
test for the alien who comes among us. Not a fundamentally safe one?
Perhaps not. But some test there must be; and this, on the whole, is
the easiest to pass for those whom we are likely to want for intimates.
That is really the social use of conventions.

And as for charm: your most charming people are those who constantly
find new and unexpected ways of delighting us. Are such often to be
found among people who are constantly finding new and unexpected ways
of shocking us? I wonder. It seems to me doubtful, at the least. For
shock--even the superficial social shock, the sensation that does not
get far beneath the skin--is not delight. If you have ever really
been shocked, you know that it is a disagreeable business. Of course,
if some wonderful creature discovers the golden mean, the perfect
note: to satisfy in all conventional ways, and still to be possessed
of infinite variety in speech and mood--that wonderful creature is
to be prized above the phœnix. But you cannot give rein to your own
rich temperament in the matter, let us say, of auction bridge. The
rules you invent as you go alone may be more shatteringly amusing than
anything Hoyle ever thought of; but you cannot call it auction, and
you must not expect other people to know how to return your leads. And
usually it only means breaking rules without substituting anything
better--revoking for a whim. Life is as coöperative a business as
football; and we all know what becomes of the team of crack players
when it faces a crack team. Only across the footlights are we apt to
feel the charm of the Ibsen heroine; and even then we are apt to want
supper and some irrelevant talk before we go to a dream-haunted couch.

Now this matter of charm is not really an arguable one; for charm will
win where it stands, whether it be conventional or unconventional.
Everyone knows about the young man who falls in love with the
chorus-girl because she can kick his hat off, and his sister’s friends
can’t or won’t. But the youth who marries her, expecting that all her
departures from convention will be as agile or as delightful to him as
that, is still the classic example of folly. It is not senseless to
bring marriage into the question, for when we advisedly call a man or a
woman charming, we mean that that man or that woman would apparently be
a good person with whom to form an intimate and lasting relation--not
for us, ourselves, perhaps, but for someone else of our sort, in whom
he or she contrives, by the alchemy of passion, to inspire the “sacred
terror.” To amuse for half an hour during which you incur no further
responsibilities, to delight, in a relation which has no conceivable
future, does not constitute charm; for it is of the essence of charm
that it pulls the people who feel it,--pulls, without ceasing. Charm
magnetizes at long range. I contend only that conventional people are
as apt to have it as anyone else, for they have the requisites, as far
as requisites can be named.

As for the charm actually resident in conventionality _per se_: how
should anyone who does not feel it be converted to it by words of mine?
For it is a beauty of form: not so much of good form as opposed to
bad form, as of form opposed to formlessness. The foe of convention
enters into the social plan, if at all, as a wild, Wagnerian _motif_.
And the truly unconventional person has not even a _motif_; for he
disdains repetition. He scorns to stand for anything whatever, and
you are insulting his “temperament” if you suppose that it is capable
of only one reaction on any given thing. The temperamental critic of
literature--like Jules Lemaître in his salad days, before the Church
had reclaimed him--prides himself on never thinking the same thing
twice about any one masterpiece. Your temperamental creature will not
twice hold the same opinion of any one person. If he has ever been
notably pleased with a fellow-guest at dinner, it is safest never to
repeat the combination. For the honor of his temperament, he must be
disgusted the next time. It is his great gift not to be predicable,
from day to day, from hour to hour. But a pattern is always predicable;
and what you learn about a conventional person goes into the sum of
knowledge: you do not have to unlearn it over night. Psychology becomes
a lost art, a discredited science, when you deal with the temperamental
person. You might as well have recourse to astrology. His very
frankness is misleading. He can afford to give himself away, because he
gives away nothing but the momentary mood. Never attempt to hold him to
anything he has said: for his whole virtuosity consists in never saying
the same thing twice, and never necessarily meaning it at all. He does
very well for the idle hour, the box at the play; but for the business
of life--oh!

And to some of us there is charm in the code itself--charm, that is,
in any code, so long as it has behind it an idea, though an antique
one, and is adhered to with faith. The right word must always seem
“inevitable”; and so must, after all, the right act. An improvisation
may be--must be, if it is to succeed--brilliant; but acts, like words,
are best if they are in the grand style. Whether in speech or in
manners, the grand style is never a mere magnificent idiosyncrasy; for
the essence of the grand style is to carry with it the weight of the
world.

And conventionality is now said to be subversive of the moral order! At
least, most avowedly unconventional people are now treating themselves
as reformers. Conventions did not fall, in spite of the neo-pagans;
so the neo-Puritans must come in to make them totter. And with the
neo-Puritans, it must be admitted (Cromwell did not live in vain) most
of the charm of unconventionality has gone. It has become a brutal
business. The neo-pagans realized that, to be endured at all, they
must make us smile. If they told a _risqué_ story, it must be a really
funny one. At the present moment, we may not go in for _risqué_ remarks
in the interests of humor, but we may make them in the interests of
morality. We may say anything we like at a dinner-party, so long as we
put no wit into saying it. We must not quote eighteenth-century _mots_,
but we may discuss prostitution with someone we have never seen before.
Anything is forgiven us, so long as we are not amusing. If we only
draw long faces, we may even descend to anecdote. And when people are
asked to break with conventions in the interests of morality, they may
feel that they have to do it. It has always been permitted to make the
individual uncomfortable for the good of the community. So we cannot
snub the philanthropists as we would once have snubbed the underbred:
for thereby we somehow damn ourselves. If you refuse to discuss the
white slave traffic, you are guilty of civic indifference; and that is
the one form of immorality for which now there is no sympathy going. I
may have no ideas and no information about the white slave traffic, but
I ought to be interested in it--interested to the point of hearing the
ideas, and gathering the information, of the person whom I have never
seen before. It is the “Shakespeare and the musical glasses” of the
present day. Vain to take refuge in plays or books: for what play or
book is well known at all unless it deals with the social evil?

Now it has already been pointed out that Vice Commission reports have
done as much harm as good. The discussion of them is not limited to the
immune, “highbrow” caste. I know of one quite unimperilled stenographer
who was frightened by them into the psychopathic ward at Bellevue;
and we have all read instructive comments in the daily papers which
reiterate that virtue is ten dollars a week. A much lower figure than
Becky Sharp’s, but the principle is the same. Out of her weekly wage,
we may be sure the shopgirl (it is always the shopgirl!) buys the
paper--and therewith her Indulgence for future faults, much cheaper
than Tetzel ever sold one. For Purgatory now is replaced by Public
Opinion. Even my own small town is not free from the prophylactic
“movie.” One small boy nudges another, as they pass the placarded
entrance, exclaiming debonairly, “Oh, this ’ere white slave traffic,
y’know!” And the child, I have been given to understand, is the father
of the man. The unconventional reformers quote to themselves, I suppose:

  “Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,” _etc._

It never occurs to them to finish the sentence:

  “We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”

The fact is that Anglo-Saxon society has got beyond the enduring
stage, and is largely occupied in pitying. There is a general sense
that the people at large, in all moral matters, know better than the
specialists. We will take our creed not from the theologians, but from
Mr. Winston Churchill; and we will take our pathology not from medical
treatises, but from Brieux. We will discuss the underworld at dinner
because, between the fish and the entrée, the thin lady with the pearls
may say something valuable about it. If we are made uncomfortable by
the discussion, it only shows that we are selfish pigs.

Now I see no reason why decent-minded people should not discuss with
their intimate friends anything they please. If you are really intimate
with anyone, you are not likely to discuss things unless you both
please. But I do see, still, a beautiful result of the old order that
the new order does not tend to produce. The conventional avoidance
as a general subject of conversation of sex in all its phases was a
safeguard to sensibilities. You cannot, in one sense, discuss sex quite
impersonally, for everyone is of one sex or the other. The people who
cry out against the segregation of the negro in government offices
have hardly realized that non-segregation is objected to, not because
of itself, but because of miscegenation. There is a little logic left
in the world; and there are some people who perceive that sequence,
whether they phrase it or not. Social distinctions concern themselves
ultimately with whom you may and whom you may not marry. You do not
bring people together in society who are _tabu_ to each other. Not
that you necessarily expect, out of a hundred dinner-parties, any one
marriage to result; but you assume social equality in the people seated
about your board. Is not, in the last analysis, the only sense in such
a phrase as “social equality,” the sense of marriageability? Even
conventions are not so superficial as they seem; and they have that
perfectly good human basis. It is vitally important to the welfare and
the continuance of the civilized race that sex-sensibilities should
be preserved. Otherwise you will not get the romantic mating; and the
unromantic mating, once well established in society, will give rise
to a perfectly transmissible (whether by heredity or environment, O
shade of Mendel!) brutality. It is brutalizing to talk promiscuously of
things that are essentially private to the individual; just as it is
brutalizing (I believe no one questions that) for a family and eight
boarders to sleep in one room--even a large room. All violations of
essential privacy are brutalizing. We do not take our tooth-brushes
with us when we go out to dinner, and if we did, and did not mind
(very soon we should not), the practice, I am sure, would have a
brutalizing effect. A certain amount of plain speaking is, perhaps,
a good thing; but there is no doubt that at present we have far too
much of it to suit most of us, and I cannot see why we should be made
to endure it just because a few people who are by way of calling
themselves moralists cannot get on with society on its own terms.

It has long been a convention among people who are not cynical that
bodily matters are not spoken of in mixed and unfamiliar gatherings. Of
course, our great-grandmothers were prudes. The reason why they talked
so much about their souls, I fancy, is that there was hardly a limb or
a feature of the human body that they thought it proper to mention.
They were driven back on religion because they held that the soul
really had nothing to do with the body at all. The psychiatrists have
done their best to take away from us that (on the whole) comforting
belief. In America, at least, we are finding it harder and harder to
get out of the laboratory. It is the serious and patriotic American in
_The Madras House_ who asks the astonished Huxtable, “But are you the
mean sensual man?” In _The Madras House_ the question is screamingly
funny; but I cannot imagine any man’s liking, in his own house, to have
the question put to him by a total stranger. The fact is that we have
dragged our Ibsen and our Strindberg and our Sudermann lovingly across
the footlights, and are hugging them to our hearts in the privacy of
our boxes. We have decided that manners shall consist entirely of
morals. It is just possible that, in the days when morals consisted
largely of manners, fewer people were contaminated. You cannot shock a
person practically whom you are totally unwilling to shock verbally;
and if you are perfectly willing to shock an individual verbally, the
next thing you will be doing is to shock him practically. Above all,
when we become incapable of the shock verbal, there will be nothing
left for the unconventional people but the shock practical. And
that, I imagine, is what we are coming to--all in the interests of
morality, be it understood. At no time in history, perhaps, have the
people who are not fit for society had such a glorious opportunity to
pretend that society is not fit for them. Knowledge of the slums is
at present a passport to society--so much the parlor philanthropists
have achieved--and all they have to do is to prove that they know their
subject. It is an odd qualification to have pitched on; but gentlemen
and ladies are always credulous, especially if you tell them that they
are not doing their duty.

Moreover, when you make it a moral necessity for the young to dabble
in all the subjects that the books on the top shelf are written about,
you kill two very large birds with one stone: you satisfy precocious
curiosities, and you make them believe that they know as much about
life as people who really know something. If college boys are solemnly
advised to listen to lectures on prostitution, they will listen; and
who is to blame if some time, in a less moral moment, they profit by
their information? If we discuss the pathology of divorce with the
first-comer, what is to prevent divorce from becoming, in the end, as
natural as daily bread? And if nothing is to be _tabu_ in talk, how
many things will remain _tabu_ in practice? The human race is, in the
end, as relentlessly logical as that. Even the aborigines that we have
occasionally mentioned turn scandals over to the medicine-man, and
keep a few delicate silences themselves. Perhaps we are “returning
to Nature,” as the Rousseauists wanted us to; with characteristic
Anglo-Saxon thoroughness, going the savages one better. But it is a
pity to forget how to blush; for though in the ideal society a blush
would never be forced to a cheek, it would not be because nothing
was considered (as our German friends might say) blushworthy. Each
man’s private conscience ought to be a nice little self-registering
thermometer: he ought to carry his moral code incorruptibly and
explicitly within himself, and not care what the world thinks. The
mass of human beings, however, are not made that way; and many people
have been saved from crime or sin by the simple dislike of doing things
they would not like to confess to people with a code. I do not contend
that that is a high form of morality; but it has certainly saved
society a good many practical unpleasantnesses. And we are clearly
courting the danger of essentially undiscussable actions when we admit
every action to discussion.

I saw it seriously contended in some journal or other, not long ago,
that, whether any other women were enfranchised or not, prostitutes
ought undoubtedly to have the vote, because only thus could the social
evil be effectively dealt with. Incredible enough; but there it was.
Not many people, perhaps, would agree with that particular reformer;
but undoubtedly there is a mania at present, in the classes that used
to be conventional, for getting one’s information from the other camp.
It is valuable to know the prostitute’s opinion--facts never come
amiss; but why assume that we have only to know it to hold it? Is it
not conceivable that other generations than our own have known her
opinions, and that lines of demarcation have been drawn because a lot
of people, as intelligent as we, did not agree with her? The present
tendency, however, is to consider everyone’s opinion important, in
social and ethical matters, except that of respectable folk. My own
pessimistic notion is, as I have hinted, that the philanthropic assault
on the conventional code has come primarily from people who were too
ignorant, or too lazy, or too undisciplined, to submit to the code;
and that the success of the assault results from the sheer defenceless
niceness--the mingled altruism and humility--of the people accused
of conventionality. At all events, the fact is that our reticences
have somehow become cases of cowardice, and our rejections forms of
brutality. We are all a little pathetic in our credulity, and we
are very like Moses Primrose at the fair. Well: let us buy green
spectacles if we must; but let us, as long as we can, refuse to look
through them!

It may seem a far cry from “temperament” to social service. I have
known a great many people who went in for social service, and I do
not think it is. The motives of the heterogeneous foes of convention
may lie as far apart as the Poles (one Pole is very like the other,
by the way, as far as we can make out from Peary and Amundsen) but
the object is the same: to destroy the complicated fabric which the
centuries have lovingly built up. (Even if you call it “restoration,”
it is apt to amount to the same thing, as any good architect knows.) At
the bar of Heaven, sober Roundheads and drunken rioters will probably
be differently dealt with; but here on earth, both have been given to
smashing stained-glass windows. Many of us do not believe in capital
punishment, because thus society takes from a man what society cannot
give. The iconoclasts do the same thing; for civilization, whether
it be perfect or not, is a fruit of time. Conventions are easy to
come by, if you are willing to take conventions like those of the
Central Australians. The difference between a perfected and a barbaric
convention is a difference of refinement, in the old alchemical sense.
A lot of the _tabu_ business is too stupid and meaningless for words.
Civilization has been a weeding-out process, controlled and directed
by increasing knowledge. We have infinitely more conventions than the
aborigines: we simply have not such silly ones. The foes of modern
convention are not suggesting anything wiser, or better, or more
subtle: they are only attacking all convention blindly, as if the very
notion of _tabu_ were wrong. The very notion of _tabu_ is one of the
rightest notions in the world. Better any old _tabu_ than none: for
a man cannot be said to be “on the side of the stars” at all, unless
he makes refusals. What the foes of convention want is to have all
_tabu_ overthrown. It is very dull of them: for even if a cataclysm
came and helped them out--even if we were all turned, over night, into
potential beginnings of society would be founded on _tabu_. We shudder
at the Central Australians: we should hate life on their terms. But I
would rather live among the Warramunga than among the twentieth-century
anarchists, for I cannot conceive a more odious society than one where
nothing is considered indecent or impious. We may think that the mental
agility of the Warramunga could be better applied. Well: in time, it
will be. But they are lifted above the brute just in so far as they
develop mental agility in the framing of a moral law, however absurd a
one. I said that their conventions were almost too complicated for us
to master. That, I fancy, is because any mind they have, they give to
their conventions. It is the natural consequence of giving your mind
to science and history and philology and art, that you simplify where
you can; also, that your conventions become purified by knowledge. Even
the iconoclasts of the present day do not want us to throw away such
text-book learning as we have achieved. They do ask us, though, to
throw away the racial inhibitions that we have been so long acquiring.
Is it possible that they do not realize what a slow and difficult
business it is to get any particular opinion into the instincts of a
race? Only the “evolution” they are so fond of talking about, can do
that. Perhaps we ought to take comfort from the reflection. But it
is easier to destroy than to build up; and they are quite capable of
wasting a few thousand years of our time.

No: they want to bring us, if possible, lower than the Warramunga.
Some of them might be shocked at the allegation, for some of them,
no doubt, are idealists--after the fashion of Jean-Jacques, be it
understood. These are merely, one may say respectfully, mistaken: for
they do not reckon with human nature any more than do the Socialists.
But the majority, I incline to believe, are merely the natural foes
of dignity, of spiritual hierarchy, of wisdom perceived and followed.
They object to guarded speech and action, because they themselves find
self-control a nuisance. So, often, it is; but if the moral experience
of mankind has taught us anything, it has taught us that, without
self-control, you get no decent society at all. When the mistress
of Lowood School told Mr. Brocklehurst that the girl’s hair curled
naturally, he retorted: “Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I
wish these girls to become children of grace.” We do not sympathize
with Mr. Brocklehurst’s choice of what was to be objected to in nature;
we do not, indeed, sympathize with him in any way, for he was a
hypocrite. But none the less, it is better to be, in the right sense,
a child of grace than a child of nature. Attila did not think so; and
Attila sacked Rome. We may be sacked--the planet is used to these
_débâcles_--but let us not, either as a matter of mistaken humility or
by way of low strategy, pretend that the Huns were Crusaders!



ON HAVING THE BLUES


The letters of Charles Eliot Norton have lately been published, and the
time is opportune for a lesson from that good man’s life. Though always
physically frail, he lived to be over eighty, and got more out of his
life, and gave more from it, than do most robust men, even when they
have his rare degree of intellect. Some who knew him well, say that one
great secret of his long life of helpfulness and happiness was that he
never had the blues.

While men like Norton make cheerfulness a religion, many other people
of very good intentions do not even recognize it as a duty, but grope,
and drag others, through clouded lives, while the clouds are generally
of their own permitting, and not seldom of their own making. They are
often thoughtful people, but not thoughtful enough to realize how much
happiness and usefulness are wasted by the habit of the blues, or how
easily that habit can be overcome. They sometimes even indulge it from
a notion that depression of spirit is synonymous with depth of spirit,
not realizing how often black waters set up a very abysmal appearance
in a chasm so shallow that if a man clinging to the edge would only
let go, he could touch bottom without submerging his chin. But if he
delights in what he assumes to be the gloomy depths of his soul, he
does not want to let go: he wants to believe his own puddle deep, and
hates nothing worse than the possibility that it may be shallow, just
as nothing so enrages the insane as the suggestion that they are insane.

Really superior persons (without capitals or quotation marks) are
sometimes superior because of superior sensibility, though oftener, I
suspect, in spite of it; and sometimes because of superior morality.
Upon such people the shortcomings of life--especially of human nature,
weigh harder than upon common folks. It was by no means Carlyle’s
dyspepsia alone that kept him grumbling all the while, and that, but
for his sense of humor, would have killed him long before his time.
Then, too, superior people often have superior imaginations, and often
abuse them by imagining horrible things, and suffering more from them
than the clod suffers from realities.

Moreover, people with sensibilities and imaginations are apt to be
queer in their morals: they may have too few, because sensitiveness
and imagination breed passions, and are inimical to the philosophy,
as well as the plain common-sense, that regulate passions; or they
may have too many morals, because sensitiveness makes them hate the
ugly consequences of immorality worse than the rest of us can, and
also because, where Hell is in fashion, if it still is anywhere,
they imagine it so much more vividly, and shrink from it so much
more vigorously than the rest of us can, that they get New England
consciences. Worse still, that kind of superior person with too few
morals to do business with, or too many, is subject to insufficient
food and clothing, and to poor quarters and inefficient medical
care--to being sick, in short; and deprivation and sickness very
naturally bring on the blues; and last of all, sensitiveness and
imagination and too many morals and too few comforts, and sickness do
not develop a sense of humor. The poet or the tragedian in the black
frock-coat buttoned up to hide the absence of the shirt, is not half so
funny to himself as to us.

In giving so many of the reasons why people who make great and
beautiful things are apt to have the blues, I have run along the edge
of platitude, and occasionally, I fear, slipped over, because I want to
emphasize the fact that there is no warrant for the fallacy nursed by
so many would-be troubled souls, that having the blues will enable them
to make great and beautiful things, and that because Carlyle and Poe
had the blues, your or my having them is evidence that ours have the
same causes as theirs or will be accompanied by the same results.

And there are several other things tending the same way which we had
better put an end to. Depression of spirits is not as often the result
of vanity, or over-sensibility or any other form of weak wits, as it
is of weak nerves or weak liver. And yet all these weaknesses are
generally inextricably mixed as cause and effect. If without any real
cause of worry, you wake up two or three consecutive mornings feeling
that the world is an unsatisfactory place, probably you had better go
to the doctor. He won’t be apt to give you anything worse than rhubarb
and soda. You might even try them before going; and if it is a sunny
day, try to glory in it, out of doors if possible; and if it is a rainy
day, try to think how cozy it will be by the fire, or if you have to go
to an office, how good it will be to have a day for steady work, when
clients and customers are not apt to come in.

I wish I felt sure that the doctor would make you realize that we need
healthy emotional pickers and stealers just as much as we need healthy
physical ones. Overstrain and undersleep will make the world appear an
empty place, simply because the nerves won’t pick up the good things in
it. Hence the listlessness apt to follow happiness, when happiness is
great enough to fatigue. Hence people on honeymoons sometimes having
entirely baseless suspicions that they don’t love as much as they
supposed they did. Hence, too, no end of texts for temperance.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bacteria of the blues of course always seize on a favorable culture
medium. Probably the best of such media is a settled and exaggerated
consciousness of the possibility of disaster, which soon becomes
magnified into a probability. Some people feel as if they were always
treading on a thin crust over a volcano. Your doctor can do a good
deal for one cause of that. The other cause is what Bacon called
defective enumeration--generalizing from the remarkable, instead of the
usual--the most frequent of all fallacies. Hundreds of people can be
killed in automobiling without your considering it more dangerous than
other sports, but as soon as somebody very near to you is killed, you
think the sport dangerous. Now as to danger in general, think of the
facts. At any moment, perhaps one person in five hundred actually is in
danger of disease or other misfortune. But the remaining four hundred
and ninety-nine are not, except in the distorted imagination of far
too large a proportion of them. There’s a big chance--perhaps one in
three or four, that you who read these lines, being a person who lives
not merely on the surface of things, are in the habit of letting your
imagination play too much with what is under the surface. Now stop it!
You _may_ of course be actually the victim of ill fortune; but even if
you are, there’s a chance that, in compensation, you have been made
a saint by it, and that you really get more out of life than do most
people more happily situated: for that’s the way of saints, as you can
tell by looking at their serene expression.

True, a few terrible disasters must be expected, but they are generally
so much like surgical operations that, unless they are fatal, the
character recovers with some of its evil elements removed. And most
strange to say, outside of character, and merely in relations to the
external world--to wealth, opportunity, friendship,--the very worst
disasters are often blessings in disguise. It pays as well to seek
for the bright side of our miseries, as it does to count our mercies.
“Count yo’ mahcies, Honey, count yo’ mahcies!” recommended the old
colored auntie. You will remember it in that shape.

I have heard one of my ink-diffusing friends confess that having had
an infirmity that interfered with his sleep, he long grieved over
it as lessening his production. But at last he realized that the
sleeplessness had enforced economy of time, in which, before the
infirmity, he had been sadly lacking, and that his waking hours, in
the undisturbed night, had bred the best of the thoughts which have
contributed to his share of fame and fortune, and to the philosophy
which secures his happiness.

But the realization of hidden blessings in misfortunes to ourselves
generally requires a long experience: so let us take a case concerning
everybody. It is not long since the civilized world experienced from
the earthquakes in Sicily and Calabria, a thrill of moral stimulus
probably the most intense it ever knew.

At first, on reading of such widespread and merciless
destruction--maiming, killing, starving, roasting of children to death
before the eyes of pinioned mothers, mothers pinioned before strong
sons also pinioned from helping; large communities destroyed, and the
survivors driven mad; horror piled on horror until the mere reader
suffers, the imagination shrinks back miserable and incapable, and the
mind loses faith in a beneficent cause and control of the universe. But
after the first intense revolt of feeling has spent itself, and the
reason attempts calmly to estimate the evil and what there may be of
resultant good, the preponderance of the good, even in such an extreme
case, may not seem impossible. The disaster evoked a universal burst of
charity that turned fleets of battleships into engines of mercy. The
moral advantage to humanity was colossal--nothing less than a distinct
injection of kindness into all the relations of men.

It involved the death of but one in hundreds of thousands of the
inhabitants of the civilized world. Most of the survivors received
distinct moral benefits, not to speak of the advantage to future
generations from the effect on the moral quality of the race.

Moreover, the case cannot be justly put without noting that the
sufferers were of a people notoriously lawless (the Northern Italians
are reported to have said: “After all, they’re nothing but Calabrians
and Sicilians”), and that the survivors received a powerful call to
righteousness.

But reason on them as we may, and get from them what moral good we
can, great tragedies tend to breed a terrible uncertainty regarding
the stability and goodness of life--and indeed of the universe and the
moral law. Yet though much uncertainty is very apt to start from great
troubles, it is by no means sure to wait for them. This skepticism is
the bottom horror. I have wondered if Sill was thinking of it when, in
his poem “Truth at Last” about the Alpine guide hurled down by the snow
slide, he asks:

  Did he for just one heart-throb--did he indeed
  Know with certainty, as they swept onward,
  There was the end....
      ’Tis something if at last,
  Though only for a flash, a man may see
  Clear-eyed the future as he sees the past,
  From doubt, or fear, or hope’s illusion free.

Did Sill mean that even death may be preferable to that haunting
uncertainty which is the worst of the blues? Early in life he had more
than his share of it, but he lived it down.

If any man can look on birds and flowers and most women and children
and some men, and upon the manifold beauties of earth and sea and
sky, from dawn on to dawn, if any man can realize that we might have
been driven by pain more effectively than even attracted by pleasure,
to feed ourselves and reproduce ourselves--if any man can see these
things, and not be certain that behind the universe there is intention,
and effective intention, to produce happiness, that man simply has, at
least temporarily, an abnormal mind. But he is the very kind of man who
gets the blues. All that can be done for him is to help him see the
other side of the shield. As for mere argument, sometimes one might
almost as well use it against paresis as against pessimism.

Neither can much be done for fools. But there are degrees and kinds of
fools. The worst are probably those who, having committed a folly of
lasting consequences, sulk over it instead of facing it cheerfully and
trying to make the best of it. When we can’t get happiness, we can at
least get discipline. But the hopeless thing about a fool is that he
can never be convinced that he is one: his follies are always in the
past tense.

Next to doubting too much, is expecting too much. Aside from the few
great disasters of a lifetime, the worst things are proverbially
those that never happen. This paper has not much to say about things
that _do_ happen. They may involve feelings not to be remonstrated
against, or even mentioned lightly. But still those feelings, often
very sacred, should, like everything else, be limited to their proper
range. The chief cause (and the chief consequence) of the blues are
_borrowed_ troubles. One of the most effective ways of borrowing them
is to take for granted that a bad situation will not right itself, and
then, instead of merely taking care of the immediate issue, letting
the imagination work at all possible issues, and devising means of
taking care of them. This is often promoted by a mistaken notion that
such constant thought over the matter is a duty--that if the worst
comes, one will at least have done one’s best. Generally one’s best
really is to drop the subject. But that is not so easy. Just as the
tongue always seeks the uneasy tooth, so the mind always seeks the
uneasy question. But the tooth is not always under control, and the
question generally is, or ought to be. Rigid discipline will develop
a habit of leaving it alone except as something can be done about it.
The true method generally is to decide what the moment admits of,
and then to await the next real occasion for decision, and meanwhile
to keep the mind occupied with other things. Usually thought between
times is worse than wasted. An occasion when it is not, is usually
not between times, but one of the times. Of course one does not want
to be taken unawares, but not a tithe of the imagined situations ever
occur, and those actually to be met are often not foreseen at all:
so most of the devising is wasted, attention is distracted from the
immediate requirements of life, and time is spent in a continuous
overshadowing of the blues. All this takes tissue, and when the next
issue comes, the power to meet it is dulled. The strength of the
great fighters--generals, lawyers, parliamentarians, depends largely
on temperaments which preserve them from such waste of their powers.
“The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man dies but one,” and
exaggerated anticipation of evil is simply cowardice.

       *       *       *       *       *

Akin to doing work that never is called for, is over-refinement in
needed work. True, “perfection consists in trifles,” but don’t forget
that “trifles can’t make perfection.” There comes a point beyond which
the most conscientious workman can really do no more. Part of the
equipment of a true artist is the capacity to recognize that point.
After every essential thing is done, there remain non-essentials which
may as well go one way as the other. They raise the hardest questions,
if they are permitted to raise any, because they are as nearly balanced
as the load of Burridon’s ass. Moiling over them is threshing straw: it
leads to no result but fatigue and monomania. Monomania is generally
the first step in insanity, and nearly every step in insanity is
attended by the blues.

But objections to superfluous work and over-refined work, are not
objections to hard work, especially when one is in trouble. Carlyle
says (I quote from memory): “To him who can earnestly and truly work,
there is no need for despair.” But that advice is generally superfluous
for an American. He is more apt to need advice to play hard--to mount
his hobby or get hold of a new one, and ride it hard.

It is especially bad to let the mind run on worries at night; and to
take them to bed with one is madness. This is a special reason for
seeking society or the theatre: other people, in real life or on the
stage (better in real life, of course, because there one has to talk
back) can best pull one out of oneself when one’s own powers are
utterly inadequate. When actual causes of anxiety seem overwhelming,
if one can be made to forget them for a time, hope comes into the
ascendant.

One most important point is that worries are apt to settle themselves
during sleep. There may be a subconscious mental action, or one may
wake up with the thinking powers invigorated; but whatever the reason
may be, people go to bed in perplexity, and soon after waking, do
certainly often find that all the considerations have slipped into
their relative places, and that the perplexity has cleared.

The best of all remedies is perhaps the most difficult, though
not impossible. It is to “rise superior” to your troubles--to
convince yourself, lift yourself, force yourself into the feeling
of directorship--of competent and confident directorship of all
your affairs. Add “with God’s help” if you want to: for that may
back up our worthy intentions more even than our ancestors began to
realize--whatever they professed to believe. This feeling of calm
adequacy does much to _secure_ adequacy, and what is of perhaps more
importance, compels peace.

But adequacy is only adequacy to do the best that circumstances permit.
To attempt more than circumstances permit is at once inadequacy--to put
yourself on the weak side of a false equation. Attempt only what you
can do, and you never need fail. Yet unless you attempt the best you
can do, you do fail--fail just so far as the difference between the
actual and the best possible. But if you are reasonably brave and wise,
that difference will be slight; and the healthy conscience, like the
law, takes no account of trifles.

Shoot your arrow at the sun, and hitch your wagon to a star, all you
want to--as religious exercise; but in your daily work shoot only when
game is within range, and hitch only to something which will hold
tight, and is reasonably sure to draw.

And don’t be misled by shrewd Yankees who make divine phrases, but who
regulate their actions in daily life as cannily as other Yankees who
never make phrases at all.

Absence of work, and no less absence of play,--the mere opportunity
to brood, is dangerous to those subject to the blues. When we are in
the busy haunts of men, their activity inspires ours, and keeps our
thoughts away from introspection and baleful notions; but if we are
alone, even with Nature in her loveliest aspects, the mind is apt to
seek the profundities, and to drag the spirits with it.

Interest in this subject has brought me some confidences. I knew a man
beyond middle life, who had long longed for more opportunities of study
and meditation. At last he obtained the cherished desire in the most
desired way--in a lovely home amid the loveliest scenery. He took three
solid months of it, and found himself low-spirited, ailing, and in need
of tonics. But when he was called to the city, the first time he walked
down Fifth Avenue, he felt that he didn’t need any other tonic. Yet the
habit of years had put him, all unconsciously, in chronic need of that
one. He took it at monthly intervals, and it did its work. But it cost
time. As he approached old age, he realized in himself a tendency to
melancholy, that, in spite of the city life that had been efficacious
for himself, had given the declining years of one of his parents much
unhappiness. He was frightened: he felt that external aid, like all
tonics, must lose its effect in time; and so he worked hard to develop
powers in himself that would put him above the need of it. After a few
years, circumstances led again to three months away from the city, and
so effectually had he enlightened and trained himself that it was a
period of greater cheerfulness, health and fruitfulness than he had
ever known.

His bottom principle was: “Kill the thing at the start. Watch! As soon
as the serpent’s head shows itself through the egg, scotch it. If you
don’t, your mind will become the abode of monsters.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course to those who believe in immortality, a faith in the ultimate
goodness of the universe is almost unescapable. Beliefs cannot be made
to order, but looked at in the most Philistine way, this one fills
so many otherwise apparent gaps in the order of the universe, saves
so many apparent wastes, changes so much chaos into kosmos, that,
when relieved of some of its absurd accompaniments from the past, the
belief seems, in the broadest view, almost a matter of course; and
the narrowing of one’s view of existence by physical death appears
absurd. The belief in immortality is such a simple and inexpensive
machine for settling bad problems that, as in the case of any simple
and inexpensive machine that throws out good results, there is a
presumption in favor of investing in it. This, I suppose, is what they
call Pragmatism. It has its dangers: for its principle is apt to be
misconstrued, and Hope tells such flattering tales! But apparently
Pragmatism has no direct business with hopes, but only with cold
hypotheses; and if one must choose between hypotheses, the preferable
one is that which strings the facts into the most orderly coherence;
and certainly without immortality, the universe is much nearer chaos
than with it.

Most of our upsets come from lack of health, or money or friends. Now
if the universe holds for us ultimately an existence where we shan’t
have to bother with such vile bodies, or such demands as they make for
money, and where we may recover all the friends we have lost here,
and if our troubles here aid in our development, as they certainly
do, the universe appears much more orderly, and our worst problems
are fairly settled. Perhaps a strong proud effective soul might not
care much for a future existence that, in such brief outline, seems
so easy; but I don’t know that our wide and exact knowledge of that
existence contains anything to indicate that in it one will not have
at least as good a chance as here to make his own way, or the way of
those he cares for; and while doing this, to make his own additions
to the gayety of nations, or their celestial equivalent. I don’t see,
either, any indication warranting any shameless, weak and impotent
soul--one like yours and mine when we have the blues--in refraining
from doing its little best here, on the ground that everything will be
made straight there, and that therefore it is just as well to wait. For
there appear more and more weaknesses in the demonstration that even
shining garments and harps and halos are to be passed around free, or
indeed that anybody will start there with anything more than he takes
with him. There does not seem, however, aught to negative the guess
already hazarded regarding health and fortune and friends--that what
capacity for winning them one does take, may have a better chance for
activity there than it has here. And as capacity improves by practice,
all this plain paragraph is an argument for doing one’s best here, and
not sitting around indulging in the blues.

I freely admit, however--most freely--that such views, especially
regarding the gayety, have not the sanction of very old or very wide
acceptance; but with the decay of Puritanism, they seem on the way to
more.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before we leave old-fashioned remedies, under however new-fashioned
aspects, it may be well to consider another one that greatly helped
our ancestors--the belief in an over-ruling Providence that really
does help those who help themselves. In the form the belief was
known to them, it is not known to many of us; but we may have it in
a better form. For the narrow conception of an anthropomorphic god
constantly tinkering at the universe, we can substitute the idea
of an intelligence so great that it does not need to watch each
act, and specifically adjust each result; but has established a
law so comprehensive as to give each of our motives its legitimate
consequences--a law that in some ways rewards each of our good
intentions, even when it seems to fail, and punishes each of our evil
ones, even when it seems to succeed. Faith in such a law makes us
feel secure in spite of the haunting anxiety lest we break through
the volcano’s crust. The sparrow’s flight may be free if compensation
awaits its fall. And we may know a higher freedom and a fuller meaning,
even a creative joy, in the feeling that when we shape our acts toward
the best ends we know, we can leave the rest to a benign law that goes
deeper into motive than human gropings can, gives rewards better than
we can devise, and punishments that do not merely afflict but tend to
cure.

       *       *       *       *       *

But all these faiths are another story. Faiths are good when they
are not counter to reason, and the most matter-of-fact of us act on
them every hour. But the big ones won’t come at mere bidding. What
I have been principally trying to get you to do, in case you are
subject to the blues, is to take hold and keep hold of the actual
prosaic fact that in our year and place of grace, life has reached a
fairly substantial foundation, and that throwing oneself open to every
possible attack of the blues, through a chronic feeling that life
is on a very ticklish basis, not only permits a great many needless
attacks, but goes counter to the facts--is mathematically absurd.
When you are scared, it is not because the universe is going to turn
turtle, but because you are confusing its center of gravity with your
own, and developing too much of a wrong sort of gravity above your own.
Hopefulness is really the only reasonable attitude; at worst you lose
nothing by it, unless it makes you careless.

Life is fairly reliable, and death at worst is simply nothing, while
there are growing reasons to believe that it is better than life.
And yet it is the one unfailing subject of abnormal brooding. It is
possible at any moment, inevitable at some moment; and for that very
reason it is, from most aspects, as a subject of worry, absurd at any
moment. One of the sanest and sweetest men I ever knew, who lived to be
nearly ninety, told me that he never thought of it.

Of all the humbugs of priestcraft, it is the greatest. The priests, who
once owned a third of England, and probably more than a third of Italy,
made more money out of death and its accessories than out of all the
rest of the paraphernalia in their kit. Hell and purgatory and poor
dear Dante’s scenery and properties were all part of the machinery. How
shocked Dante would have been if he had realized how he was furnishing
such ammunition! (A friend, on reading this, was surprised at my
calling Dante “dear,” because he is generally regarded as so austere
a man. To me he is not only dear, but like nearly all great geniuses,
“as a little child.”) And some four centuries later, how shocked would
have been another poet--not so poor or quite so dear, if he could
have realized what a part he was playing in the same loathsome game!
With them, one thinks of the geniuses who wrote the _Dies Irae_ and
those other wonderful hymns, and questions what they too might have
felt if they had realized all they were doing. Then come to mind some
other contributors to the humbug, who as a rule were not poor, and
were not dear at all, and who stole the sheet-iron thunder and resin
lightning--John Calvin and Cotton Mather, and so on down to some poor
dear men even so late as when the older of us were in college, who made
us get up before daylight in winter, and go and hear them pray, because
they feared that if they didn’t, and we didn’t, we should all go to
Dante’s or Milton’s or some other man’s Hell.

Well, perhaps we who have a new century to play with, especially
the younger of us, fancy among its fresh attractions a thorough
emancipation from these old superstitions. But they are in the very
blood our fathers transmitted to us. Many have had all the anti-toxic
serum needed for immunity from serious attacks, but we are all liable
to twinges--hours, perhaps days, of discomfort from that identical
disease, when we don’t know what’s the matter with us.

Fear of pain is part of the equipment of self-defense evolved in the
higher animals, but whether those below man fear death, is, I suppose,
open to question. I believe horses and sheep, at least, show fear or
aversion from the dead of their own kind. I have known it instantly
shown by a child supposed too young to know anything of the subject.
But be all that as it may, you can get far above the mere animal
instinct, up into the tender human affections like those of my dear old
friend, and find it probably true that normal creatures do not think
about death, unless some external circumstance leads them to. Yet my
old friend, with intelligence enough for the ordinary demands of life
and the most delicate of its courtesies, would not have been called
a thoughtful or imaginative man. But another dear old friend who was
both (I don’t know why I shouldn’t say that I’m thinking of Stedman),
I don’t believe ever thought much about death, except in the abstract,
unless some distinct external circumstance led him to. And he was a
very unusually normal man. On the whole, I don’t believe normal people
do think about it, in the concrete, unless they have to. Well then,
most of the thought about it in the concrete is abnormal, and in more
senses than even the priests made it, death is a humbug.

Don’t let us get the blues about it then. If we want an excuse for
them, let’s find it reasonably, in being obliged to survive when we
prefer to follow. But there are few such cases, and Time takes care of
them; and, as reasoning beings, let us realize that it is sweet and
normal that he should, and let us no more resist Time in our perverse
ways, than we would in the ways of the Egyptians.

And our ways are very perverse when they make us cling to some of the
most absurd fashions from older civilizations, and neglect the wise
ones. How long will it take us to put the Greek symbol of the lovely
youth with the inverted torch, in place of the skull and cross-bones on
the Puritan tombs? But we are coming on well when we bring forward the
symbols of love to cover grief, and put flowers with the crape outside
the door, and over the coffin. But we are not doing equally well when,
after we let a woman have a veil, or a man slink down a side street,
because they don’t want to recognize people, we, after they have got
beyond that, still compel them to keep away from people, and even from
music and the theatre, when they most need them. We can generally count
on mourners suffering enough without any aid from such fashions.

But leaving out our relations to other people, in the deepest part of
our very selves--the part that gets the blues, why have them over the
certainty of death? When we were boys, wasn’t it a good way to avoid
them before going back to school, to make the most of the last days?
Today may be the last day.

If the best way out of worry is work, don’t sit around moping about
that journey, but work. Pack up. You can’t take too much baggage--of
the right kind. There are some reasons to suspect that in the new
country you’ll find more use than you had here for all that you can get
together of learning and wisdom and aspirations and affections: love
is giving rather than receiving, you know--even to the point of giving
unrecognized. Why not there as well as here? True, your constitution
may not be up to that one-sided kind forever, but you may not have to
wait so long as that.

And even if you’re lost, baggage and all, it will not have been
wasted: for it will have done its service here, and it will not need
to be renewed. And you can’t be sure now that you won’t want it. And
how ineffably silly it is to worry over the possibility of oblivion!
That surely can’t hurt. But if anybody believes that consciousness
continues, shut up in a Pozzi-like darkness, deprived of an opportunity
to enjoy this beautiful universe or any other, _that’s_ something to
worry over. But did anybody ever invent such a Hell as that, or if
anybody did, has anybody now any justification for having the blues
over it? If you are worried by Scripture, probably you know that of the
three uses of “outer darkness” in Matthew, two plainly refer to earthly
conditions, and the third may fairly be taken in the same sense.

If you get tired packing, and need more work in view of departure,
don’t go back to moping, but get right up and put things in shape
for those you’re going to leave behind. But don’t bother them, or do
foolish things. One of the best things about that journey is that
nearly all the wise preparations for staying here are equally wise
for going. So you would be foolish to make very many _specific_
preparations for going. In fact specific preparations for that journey
have involved more of the waste and tomfoolery of the world than almost
anything else--perhaps more than even war or fashion.

But be ready to go when you’re called.

Meantime circumstances may be so against you that you can’t have a
happy life; but probably you can, if you so will, have at least a
cheerful one, and those who have had the experience say that it’s
pretty hard to tell the difference--that they amount to about the
same thing, except that, on the whole, the cheerful life is the more
effective; and that, at best, happiness is but a by-product.

All this simple advice may be easier to follow than you think, and if
you do follow it, probably you won’t have the blues.



THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF KICKING


Now, at this present moment, and for the next two months, twenty
million American youth,--turning from syndicalism, the new morality,
forgotten virtues, capitalism, psychical research, sociology,
trust-busting, fly-swatting, preventive medicine, the evils of
alcohol and tobacco, and other of the million burning questions
of the day,--are and will be chiefly occupied with the important
historical problem as to whether Mr. Charles Brickley, captain of and
kicker-in-extraordinary to the Harvard football team, is a mightier man
than the ancient heroes of the kicking game,--Moffatt, Bull, Brooke,
Trafford, O’Dea, Poe, Sharpe, Eckershall,--and with this discussion
they will couple the practical ambition and personal hope of joining
the great galaxy.

But why bother about such matters? We cannot all, dear brother sports,
become members of the firm of Brickley and Company. There is no use in
trying. Besides, satisfaction for disappointment is ready at hand. As
is common in human affairs, when we cannot do a thing literally, we
may always turn to a metaphor. The turn has this advantage: whereas
actual kicking is the prerogative of a few favored mortals, its
practice, under the metaphor, may become the pastime of any person,
however humble. For this use of the word there is the highest possible
authority: the heavenly vision that appeared to Saul of Tarsus on the
road to Damascus, was accompanied by a voice which said, “It is hard
for thee to kick against the pricks.” It is interesting to note, by
the way, that these words were the only ones uttered in that famous
conversation which bear any suggestion of rationality, and it is not
unlikely that the great and able apostle, perceiving the hard-headed
and common-sense quality of the advice, made haste to adopt a less
futile pursuit than that of persecuting new movements.

Now this metaphor stands for an operation far more common than most of
us are usually aware. Figuratively, we are all kickers, at least nearly
all of us, in one way or another, at one time or another, for one cause
or another. Illustrations are as common as football associations or
earth worms. Thus that oracular Englishman, Mr. G. K. Chesterton, has
all Victorian literature the outcome of various reactions against the
“Victorian Compromise,” but, in less elegant phrase and from the point
of view of the aforesaid “V. C.,” all Victorian literature might be
said to have arisen from the _Stossenslust_, or desire to kick. And,
whereas that desire, literally considered, is surging in the breast
of every manly young American at this very moment,--the metaphorical
function may be administered by young and old, male and female, alike.
An extra strong cup of coffee, too many buckwheat cakes, too prolonged
indulgence in prayer-meetings, will often do the trick, without those
long years of patient practice which make certain of our football
heroes distinguished above their kind.

Personally I like the easy way, and therefore I may, at the outset, and
with all due modesty, lay a not-to-be-denied claim to some share in the
function that I am describing. I admire the motives, and occasionally
the works, of my colleagues in the noble art which we profess, the
art of setting the world, the whole world, or the particular world,
right,--perhaps of setting some parts of the world by the ears, who
knows? I greatly admire such periodicals as are instruments and
vehicles for the “registering of kicks” that will take the offender and
the offence squarely and forcibly and leave the remains to be carted
away by the scavengers of reform. I enjoy nothing more than a blithe,
personally conducted “muck-rake”; I hope sometime to offer a Nobel
kicking prize. Whatever makes against the crudeness, the carelessness,
the complacency especially, and the contentment with mediocrity that
so pervade some of the aspects of our modern civilization charms me.
Doubtless we in America are eaten up with the heir-to-all-the-ages,
we-can-do-as-we-like, America-for-the-Americans sort of feeling
and sentiment. Though Mr. Wells is probably right in saying that
“the United States of America remains the greatest country in the
world, and the living hope of mankind,” yet anything that checks our
bumptiousness is surely a good thing. But I do not halt here; far be
it from me to delight solely in the advantages of my own land. I love
to read about Ministerial and Opposition struggles, and the Austrian
parliament and the French strikes are very merry spectacles. Kicking
is really the most sacred tradition handed down to us from our puritan
ancestors, themselves most accomplished in the art. Why should not
one love it? But I dislike clumsy workers. As Matthew Arnold might
have said, we want real kicking, real criticism, real objection. The
vital question is as to the nature of good kicking and of bad kicking.
What are the “pricks” to be shunned? for, as we have said, the advice
of the heavenly voice would, in general, seem to be as sound as the
Elizabethan semi-slang is lively. Into the answer enter considerations
of motive, of object, of method, and of technic. In the interests of
sound thinking, I am going to register my own demurrer against certain
abuses of the noble pastime.

       *       *       *       *       *

First as to the motive. Generally speaking this is dissatisfaction
with the _status quo_ and a desire to alter it. Altering may evidently
be about anything one pleases. Hence the motive for kicking may
be anything from crude envy to lofty altruism; it may be a simple
reaction, scarcely more noble than the electrically stimulated kick
of the frog’s leg in the classical experiment, or it may be quite
rational and untemperamental. It is obvious that the artist, the
_Stossenskunstmeister_, should avail himself of the high motive; and
no matter how much he may personally pine, should at least assume the
altruistic virtue. Skilful mammas customarily observe this principle
when they spank their children, saying, with greater reference to an
ideal than an actual world, “This hurts me more than it hurts you,” or
“I do this for your own good,” or other equally convincing remarks. In
contrast with this amiable and ambi-flagellatory or bipenal practice,
may be placed the character and instance of the unjust judge who
frankly admitted boredom as his motive for action.

It would seem as if the present generation, in America, at least,
besides losing the old fashioned virtues of tact and reticence, had
also to some degree lost the artistic sense of the selection of the
proper motive, and in so far have become unskilful kickers. Perhaps
the growth of democracy has engendered obtuseness to the more delicate
arts, but what could be cruder, for example, than the motives of many
suffragettes, of many trade unions, of many socialists. It is crude raw
envy: “You have something that I haven’t got; I want it or something
just as good.” Intellectually and morally this position is about as far
advanced as that of a group of infants, whose conception of play seems
to be the snatching of those toys that are for the moment most desired
by their companions. “What is the city doing for women to make up for
the money that has been stolen from the treasury to found a man’s
college?” cries one, and another exclaims: “What is it all worth so
long as we haven’t the vote?”

  “What are all these kissings worth
  If thou kiss not me?”

says Shelley, and the child in proportion to his infancy will not be
happy until he gets the star, the watch, the rattle, or the cake of
soap.

One may believe in Votes for Women, rejoice over the improvement of
the position of workingmen, and hope to see many of the ideals of
socialism prevail,--and yet lament clumsiness and maladroitness in the
use of motive. For all causes need the aid of the judiciously selected
method, the appeal to high expediency, whereas they have to some degree
fallen into the hands of extremely clumsy operators, the Pankhursts,
the Carons, the Tannenbaums, who recall Newman’s words: “Others are
so intemperate and intractable that there is no greater calamity for
a good cause than that they should get hold of it.” They also recall
Shakespeare’s version of the words of Antony, which may be regarded as
the epitome of good form in kicking, so far as motive is concerned:

  “This was the noblest Roman of them all:
  All the conspirators, save only he,
  Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
  He only, in a general honest thought
  And common good of all, made one of them.”

Even more various, important and interesting than the motive of kicking
is the object of the kick, _l’objet d’appui, das Stossensstoff_.
Judging from some specimens and examples still to be found among us,
we may imagine that the primitive man always objected to specific
and tangible things; if an acquaintance impinged too violently upon
the person of the primitive, the latter replied by “handing out,”
or footing out, a good “swift” blow. So too, now-a-days, the wise
and simple person is not likely to go too far afield to kick, there
being plenty of objects in the immediate neighborhood on which he
can break his toes, such as little eccentricities in his neighbor’s
or his own _ménage_. If he is wise, really wise, he takes exception
to these things from the high impersonal motives that we have been
examining, and only where he is pretty sure of success. But if he
have a disinterested mind, a philanthropic temperament, a broad
philosophical outlook on life, he will see a very large assortment of
objects that are by no means those of his special field of activity.
These are the generalized _objets d’appui_, and it may be said to the
credit of our civilization that we have accumulated them in larger
numbers than any of our predecessors. The fact is, indeed, that the
primitive had none of them, or, if in his later aeons he recognized
some of them, his attitude was religious, terrorful, abject. They
apparently grow in number quite as rapidly as other inventions of
the human mind; and as each of these latter has been devised and
recognized, so its accompanying kick has been engendered, thereafter
never quite to leave it; just as the louse of the dead Filipino
accompanies him to the nether world. Thus the general recognition of
something called Life, brings a kick at Life by those who are hard
hit by it. This is on the whole the most idle of the manifestations
of the _Stossenslust_. The most evident thing about life, for the
individual, is that it apparently begins somewhere, through no fault
whatever of the individual’s own, and ends for the individual in some
way that he cannot specifically forecast. Evidently to object to the
most hard and fast fact of the world, the time-honored premise that all
men are mortal, is a most futile proceeding; and yet it has been made
not only the subject of the most varied and legitimate inquiries, but
also of wailings and gnashings of teeth, of religious terror, fervor
and abnegation. So far as the subject of this paper is concerned, the
reasonable kick at life is the kick at conditions that lie along the
way; and it is a healthy sign of the times that our energies are being
directed rather to improvement of affairs in this world than to a too
active calculation about the compensations that the next one affords.

Another almost equally futile aim of the _Stossenskunst_ lies in
a kind of objection to alleged tendencies. With the advance of
civilization, to use Macaulay’s phrase, new tendencies and movements
are thought to appear; and these naturally develop their own special
crop of kickings. The decay of modern manners, the growing corruption
of the English tongue, the growing impudence of modern youth, the
encroachments of scepticism upon the domain of religion, the antagonism
of classes, the sentimentality of democratic life, the general increase
of foolishness,--these and a thousand other alleged tendencies, are
really futile matter for fretting about. Here, indeed, the operation
is something like this: the kicker goes forth to kick. He mistakes
a balloon for a football and with an inflator proceeds to blow the
balloon up, puffing it into enormous size with air (at 99F) from his
own lungs. Then he paints on it the sign, “Degeneracy of modern times,”
and kicks it a mile or two into the air in about any direction, except
toward a goal. Meanwhile really skilful kickers are trying to score by
accurate judicious kicks over a cross-bar.

The recognition of real tendencies, of movements, of purposes, of
motives, on the other hand, is of course indispensable if the art of
objecting is to be successfully practiced. If I were oblivious to
the tendency of my neighbor to absorb small portions of my estate,
of harum-scarum pictures and statues to oust a more sober art, of
armaments to go on increasing, I should find myself bunkoed in a
minute; I should be as inept as Piggy Moore in the story, who did not
know one goal from another. If one looks up only when his toes are
trod on, he will see little. Tendencies must be recognized; without
them we could have no such thing as the anticipatory, the preparative,
the restraining, the stimulating kick. But it is evident that little
except by way of suggestion can come through treating these matters in
general; the effective kick has a specific objective. And unless one’s
criticism of tendency be based on facts, one does as the protagonists
of the last paragraph, booting the self-blown air of vituperation or
aspiration.

It is a pastime to kick at institutions as well as at tendencies. I
once knew a man who for a whole long year never ceased to complain
of the Subway; it was noisy, ill-ventilated, ill-mannered. The kick
was very inapposite: I was not the president of the Metropolitan,
and moreover I liked the Subway, in spite of some drawbacks. But the
correct attitude is quite simple: one is under no undeniable compulsion
to ride in the Subway; but even if one cannot escape, to destroy it is
inconvenient and impossible; and therefore the only sensible course is
to attack the abuses, by writing about them to the management, or to
some benignant newspaper. In like manner many of us find a peculiar
joy in attacking modern journalism, flats, pianolas, victrolas,
automobiles, the modern drama, the study of rhetoric, the management
of asylums, city life and many institutions of many descriptions.
Whereas the judicious kicker usually aims only at the abuses that
such institutions bring with them,--unless the evils are inherent and
colossal, as possibly in Tammany Hall and war and the corner saloon.
But even here kicking must be piecemeal.

If for a moment a practical application of the foregoing principles
and kinds of kicking be made to contemporary American life, it is
evident that we do not, on the whole, frown sufficiently at the varied
assortment of specific objects at our feet. That is the charge often
brought against us by observant foreigners. Whether in our eager
individual pursuit of the main chance we neglect the details that lie
along the way, or whether we do not like to interfere with what is
not our own particular business, it is certain that we put up with
abuses and impositions that would not be tolerated in other lands.
Every country, to be sure, has its special crop of abuses, which are
more apparent to the foreigner than to the native, and there can be no
harm in the visitor’s indulging in the very common pastime of plucking
them out if the act helps him to consider the beam in his own eye. Yet
our attitude is seldom so correct as that of the old deacon who said,
“When you see a fault in me, mend it in yourselves, brethren.” It is
really much easier,--and quite as futile,--to rail at what we don’t
like in other lands--the lack of hot bread and ice-water in England,
of swift and slaughterous railways in Germany and France, of public
control of beggars in Italy and Spain--than to set our own house in
order. But kicking, like charity, should begin at home. It ought to be
the duty of everybody at home to object, persistently and effectively,
to the specific overcrowded street-car, the badly paved road, the
encroaching door-step, the neglected yard, the malodorous cesspool,
the irresponsible automobile, and the reckless railroad--especially if
he have any personal part in the maintenance of similar abuses. If the
tendency of these evils were rightly apprehended, if a part only of
the effort that is expended, presumably, in objecting to generalized,
foreign and futile subjects, were bestowed on specific and tangible
details, if we would forego the emotional pleasure of the impersonal
“muck-rake,” to assail the evil at our very feet,--especially if
each one of us were careful to avoid offence in matters of the same
kind--our country would surely be a much fairer one.

       *       *       *       *       *

If we are to distinguish good kicking from bad the matter remains to
be looked at from a somewhat different point of view, that of method
and technic. The matter is important enough to run some risk of
repetition. I am far from following a school of thinkers who seem to
imply that when the method of a subject,--as of teaching, brick-laying,
railroading, etc.,--is properly apprehended, the learner may ride gaily
away on a successful career without reference to the facts of his
business. Nor is method easy to define; all that I know is that it is
very important. In addition to the inspiration and animus of a good,
or at least a plausible, motive and to a judicious choice of object,
good kicking should also be in the right direction. Let us see what is
actually in vogue.

A common kind of kick might be called conservative. Under the loose
figure of the “gridiron” we may imagine certain more spirited and
adventurous souls who wish to propel the game toward a more or less
distant and obscure goal; they have some idea of tendency. In their
efforts they are constantly hampered, checked, and tripped by an
equally numerous body of players, who desire to keep the game where
it is, alleging that there is no fairer prospect than the fields that
have already been played over, that every advance is sure to lead to
the bog and the morass. Life has nothing better to offer than what it
has already offered; their efforts are to keep the ball in the middle
of the field; no score games are best. Now this conservative kick
certainly has manifest advantages; it may be used, for example, with
great effect against the common cry that we are better than anybody
else, or against rash and hasty innovation. But in its extreme form
it is peculiarly irritating. This extreme form may be called the
reactionary kick, a favorite pastime in all the ages. Let me take
an example that I happened to come across a day or two ago. In _The
School of Abuse_, Stephen Gosson said among many other things of like
reasonable tenor and sense of fact,--

“Consider with thy selfe (gentle reader) the olde discipline of
Englande, mark what we were before, and what we are now: Leave _Rome_ a
while and cast thine eye backe to thy Predecessors, and tell mee howe
wonderfully wee have been chaunged, since wee were schooled in these
abuses. _Dion_ saith, that english men could suffer watching and labor,
hunger and thirst, and beare of al stormes with hed and shoulders,
they used slender weapons, went naked, and were good soldiours, they
fed uppon rootes and barkes of trees, they would stand up to the
chin many dayes in marishes without victualles: and they had a kind
of sustenaunce in time of neede, of which if they had taken but the
quantitie of a beane, or the weight of a pease, they did neyther gape
after meate, nor long for the cuppe, a great while after. The men in
valure not yeelding to _Scithia_, the women in courage passing the
_Amazons_. The exercise of both was shootyng and darting, running
and wrestling, and trying such maisteries, as eyther consisted in
swiftnesse of feete, agilitie of body, strength of armes, or Martiall
discipline. But the exercise that is now among us, is banqueting,
playing, pipyng, and dauncing, and all such delightes as may win us to
pleasure, or rocke us a sleepe.”

This is amusing; we are so far from Gosson’s time that we are not
afraid to laugh at it; we recognize its absurdity, as we recognize
the humor of the quack medicine vendor in _Punch_ (Dec. 24, 1913):
“Here you are, gents, sixpence a bottle. Founded on the researches
of modern science. Where should we be without science? Look at the
ancient Britons. They hadn’t no science, and where are they? Dead
and buried, every one of ’em.” But, _mutatis mutandis_, Gosson’s
words are a reactionary formula of all the ages: we find it, more
persuasively and more subtly, in the _Past and Present_ of Carlyle,
in some of the criticism of Arnold, in many of the denunciations of
Ruskin, and it is even betting that one will not find an example of
it any day in the pages of our more staid journals. It objects to
most modern enterprises, to imperialism, to the increase of foreign
trade, to modern science, to psychical research, to the Ph.D. degree,
to children’s courts, to scientific philanthropy, to eugenics, to the
Panama Canal, to a thousand other things, not because there may be a
reasonable and conservative scepticism regarding the outcome of these
matters and the facts on which they are alleged to rest, but because
they were not recognized by the pre-Baconian philosophers, and fail to
be specifically commented on by Aristotle or Marcus Aurelius or St.
Paul.

Whereas it must, of course, be evident to common sense that the
enterprises of an age may be properly criticised, for the most part,
only in terms of the age. One’s own age is usually regarded as a
particularly enterprising one, and an enterprising age is one full of
experiment. All that experience has to teach us about new enterprises
in the main is that they have never been tried before, and that we
were best not to be over sanguine of their success. But that is merely
reasonable caution,--such as doubtless mingled with the loftier spirit
of a Themistocles, a Pericles, a Michael Angelo, a Raleigh, a Bismarck,
a Wilbur Wright, a Scott, in the ages that we are accustomed to think
of as great. The enterprising age has always tried to find better
houses, better ships, better laws,--to find its north pole,--and it
is good much in proportion as it tries to find these things. Many of
the attempts are failures, and the way to success is strewn with bones
of men, but they are failures because they do not attain the goal for
which they are striving, because they do not win the satisfactions
of their own times; not because they do not conform to the achieved
success or to the reactionary formula of a past age.

The reactionary kick is not without virtue; it is usually a gentleman’s
instrument. It may even be charming, as with those dear ladies in
_Cranford_ who never used any word “not sanctioned by Johnson.” The
charm may arise from the fact that the reactionary kick really requires
no thought at all; a fair acquaintance with the literature of past
ages, of one past age in particular,--the Periclean, the Medicean, the
Spenserian, the Johnsonian,--is all that is necessary. Therefore one
can put one’s effort on manner and style, and may produce the effect of
great suavity and wisdom. The reactionary kick is really terribly easy,
possibly the easiest of all intellectual exercises,--indeed, it barely
merits the name of intellectual; for it really consists in putting some
standard on ice, and taking it off from time to time whenever a warm
modern idea is thought to be in need of cooling. Whereas, on the other
hand, the man in the thick of an active enterprise must work and think
with all his might, and etiquette and style are of minor moment.

Yes, on the whole, the reactionary kick must in turn react on the
intellectual and moral quality of its operator and cause his fibre to
degenerate through easefulness. But this we seldom notice. The poet
says:

  “The crown of olive let another wear;
  It is my crown to mock the runner’s feet
  With gentle wonder and with laughter sweet.”

and we scorn him, calling him hedonist, epicurean, indifferentist,
“quitter;” but he is really less bad than the reactionary kicker
who, when he has energy enough to get into the game, still hugs the
side lines or keeps trotting back to the bleachers to shout needless
warnings to players who know quite as much as he. Or again, we usually
reckon it doubtful ethics to quarrel with another man’s job, and can
see the absurdity in lack of harmony between the pot and the kettle;
for we are fundamentally of the opinion that live and let live is
ordinarily a good public and private motto. And yet, the strife that
sometimes arises between the representatives of various activities is
no more absurd than the attempt to pry down from its various pedestals
the enterprise of modern times, with the levers and pulleys of past
generations. The reactionary kick is, on the whole, as useful as
plowing with wooden plowshares, battling with the pilum, crushing flies
with a steam-hammer, repudiating the typewriter and the locomotive, or
giving one’s days and nights to the volumes of Thomas Aquinas.

       *       *       *       *       *

A word as to technic, which is in a comparatively crude state and
leaves much to be desired. That is perhaps inevitable, since really
skilful kicking, no matter in what direction, does not really proclaim
itself as such, and is consequently not likely to be thought of at
all as anything more than advice or persuasion, whereas the unskilful
technician is too likely to call names to be really effective. Some of
the phrases in vogue will show the crudeness of the technic: the white
man’s burden, the strenuous life, a tendency toward socialism, this
is an age of transition, simplified spelling is an entering wedge,
let us sweep anarchy into the sea, we are up against it in life, home
is the girl’s prison and the woman’s workhouse, I fear that I am too
old-fashioned, we must uplift the masses, what are home and children
and country if we have not the vote, America for the Americans, destroy
the very foundations of our faith, threaten to overwhelm our fairest
institutions beneath a wave of ignorance and despotism, to crucify
mankind on a cross of gold,

  “Why be this juice the growth of God, who dare
  Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a snare?
    A blessing, we should use it, should we not?
  And if a curse, why then, who set it there?”

etc., etc., etc., etc.

Nor is the pantomime of kicking more advanced: the melancholy air
of grave concern at the state of scholarship in America; the tears
in the voice lamenting the decay of our dear mother tongue; the
placid large-eyed sorrow at the spectacle of corruption, of reckless
automobiles, or of unkempt pavements; the firm and elevated chin and
stretching neck of her who presses into the service of the Cause;
the slow and silent tread, albeit in public places, of him who goes
about in meditation on the misery of mankind (_eheu miser!_);--all
these methods were the object for the satire of a Swift or the sweet
rationality of a Montaigne; but they must be content with this sketchy
cataloguing from a humbler pen.

One school of kickers only, so far as I am aware, has paid much
attention to the technic of the great art. Their names will presently
appear (for should they not be named with honor?), but the essence of
their method is this, that they side-step every move in the game and,
as the play goes rushing by, plant a skilful kick where they think it
will be effective. In this game they do somewhat imitate the methods
of the reactionary kicker, who as we have seen, retreats to the rear
of the field, bidding the play come to him on the ground where it
was played by St. Thomas, Samuel and Noah. That is to say, the method
consists in assuming a point of view different from the current one.
There the resemblance ceases, for these modern masters of technic
rarely retreat to the rear, but keep alongside the game or even ahead
of it, and even mingle in it with jest and laughter. And thus Mr. Shaw,
from his coign of vantage just ahead of the player, is constantly
thrusting things between his legs to trip him up if he run awkwardly;
and Mr. Wells is making diagrams of how badly the game has been played
in the past, and showing how it is bound to improve when we divest
it of old and ragged toggery, which somehow holds together; and Mr.
Chesterton is engaged in proving that nobody but himself knows anything
about sport anyway; while Mr. Galsworthy, Mr. Belloc, and a host of
others are kicking away brilliantly, imagining that they also have
discovered something quite new in the annals of the sport. Meanwhile
hosts of good quiet people are lending a helping hand or are, like
skilful guards or backs, actively but unostentatiously pushing the good
cause through the opponents’ line and towards the goal.

If, by way of summary, one were asked to draw a brief sketch of the
ideal kicker, much as Herbert Spencer drew the character of the ideal
writer, the answer would be something like this. The ideal kicker is
he who would improve his own condition or the condition of the town,
community, age, and atmosphere in which he lives, mainly according to
the light of his own generation. His attack is against the particular
and the immediate; for he knows that for the purposes of his art,
life is made up of an infinite number of small and specific acts. The
larger abuse he recognizes to be assailable chiefly in its detail,
and hence the pursuit of it, except in rare circumstances,--as when a
whole community is like minded with himself,--is likely to be a sort of
guerilla warfare and a kind of pot-hunting. But it is guerilla warfare
and pot-hunting directed to as large ends as can be compassed by the
limits of one’s imagination and practical common sense. The adroit
kicker knows that many sad objects will in the usual course of events
be left behind, by a sort of common consent, just as we discard certain
clothes, less by deliberate pursuit of the ragman than by forgetting
the old suit in the delightful possession of the new. He therefore
spends his strength in calling attention to the new and beautiful
attire of civilization. Nor is he likely to be seduced into the belief,
that the armor of old days, or the stately shoe buckles and flowered
waistcoats and well-curled wigs of the eighteenth century, are a better
costume for our light running modern world and our warm climate than
the flexible jersey and springy stockings of the contemporary athlete.

Do you ask if such an ideal kicker actually exists? I am forced to
admit that I know no such one, any more than Spencer could have pointed
to the actual embodiment of his deduction. And if it be further
objected that the foregoing pages do by no means wholly exemplify the
doctrine that they attempt to expound, in that they kick at what is
essentially unkickable, the _Stossenslust_ of humanity, I can merely
register a mild and dainty kick to the effect that it is unreasonable
to expect me, more than any other reformer or _censor morum_, to abide
quite exactly by the doctrine that I would inculcate. Does it at all
matter? Not very much one way or the other.



THE GENTLEMAN-SPORTSMAN


Here upon the opening of the shooting season, I am reminded of the
impression made on me some time ago by an article on hunting lions
in Africa written by a very well-known author. I remember being much
struck by his admirably expressed and lucid explanation of his reason
for engaging in that pursuit. Being a native of Vermont I had never
devoted much thought to the ethics of lion-hunting and was interested
to read that the author of the article felt justified in killing lions
because there is really no place for them in the modern world; because
they are anachronistic and objectionable survivals from another phase
of the world’s history; because they are obstacles in the advancing
tide of colonization. This very obvious line of reasoning had never
chanced to occur to me before. I stopped a moment to savor the pleasure
one always feels at having hazy ideas clarified and set in order, and
before I went on with the article I reflected that the world owes a
debt of gratitude to the highly educated men of trained minds who
undertake out-of-the-way enterprises, because with their habit of
searching and logical analysis they bring out the philosophy underlying
any occupation they may set themselves.

Then I read on further through some most entertaining descriptions
of African scenery till I came to an eloquently written paragraph
denouncing in spirited terms those men who hunted lions in “an
unsportsmanlike manner.” My curiosity was aroused. I wondered what
this objectionable method could be--probably one which involved the
escape of many of these undesirable lions, or possibly more suffering
to them. My astonishment was great, therefore, when I read that this
pernicious manner of hunting lions consisted in going after them
with dogs and horses, and that the author objected to it because it
is practically sure to secure every lion hunted. He put it with an
evident distaste, that the lion became so worn out with running and
so dazed with the barking of the dogs that the hunter could walk up
to him and put the rifle-barrel in his ear. If you really want to
kill a lion, my sportsman-author went on disdainfully, the thing to
do is to shoot a zebra, cut holes in the carcass, put strychnine in
the holes, and leave the carcass where the lions can get at it. The
ringing accent of scorn in which this whole passage was written cast
me into the greatest bewilderment. Had I not just read that the author
considered it a laudable thing to put lions out of the world? I must
have mistaken his meaning. Feeling greatly perplexed, I hastily turned
back over the pages until I encountered that first passage again, and
found that I had not in the least mistaken his meaning. He had said
in so many words that lions ought to be killed because they were an
anachronistic survival, etc., etc. Putting the two statements side by
side I looked from one to the other in the first of the seizures of
complete perplexity which marked my attempt to understand his ideal of
sportsmanship. I read on into the article with the liveliest curiosity,
hoping that the author would throw more light on the subject of what
constituted a really sportsmanlike method of killing an objectionable
animal, and from the sum total of his remarks I made out quite clearly
why he objected to the zebra-strychnine method. It was not after all
because it was sure, for his own avowed aim was to kill every lion
he encountered, and to look up all he possibly could, whether they
evidenced any desire to encounter him or not. It was because it “did
not give the lion a chance.”

In varying forms he repeated this sportsman’s ideal of “giving the game
a chance,” but from the context it was clear, even to my inexperienced
eye, that he did not mean to be taken literally. It was not a real
chance the lion had when the sportsman could arrange matters to his
taste--it was a hypothetical, metaphysical chance. The aim was to
give the animal the illusion of having a chance, and when, acting on
that idea, he had furnished the hunter with sufficient excitement in
frustrating his desperate attempts to escape, the sportsman was to kill
him in the end, thus proving his own skill and ingenuity. Yes, it was
all quite clearly set forth in the same lucid style which had aroused
my admiration at first.

With the repetition of these manœuvres in the case of every lion killed
in the author’s gentlemanly advance across Africa, I had a stronger and
stronger impression that somewhere else I had encountered this sort
of reasoning. Somewhere I had heard it all before; or if I had not
heard it, I had seen it. But how could I, a Vermont rustic, ever have
seen anything which might remind me of lion-hunting according to these
impeccably sportsmanlike rules? I laid down the book, trying to bring
up the haunting memory more clearly, and in a moment it had flashed
up vivid and clear-cut. Why yes, the sportsmanlike method of killing
lions reminded me of something with which I had been familiar all my
life,--of a cat playing with a live mouse before eating it. It was now
more evident that, in comparison with the brutally direct methods of
the pot-hunting dog, the cat is actuated by the finest devotion to the
ideals of sportsmanship. Not for her the quick pounce and avid crunch
of Rover. She “gives the mouse a chance,” and only kills him after she
has extracted the most deliciously titillating excitement out of his
frenzied dashes for liberty. The facts that he never does get away from
the cat, and that the lion does sometimes get away from the man only
prove how infinitely more clever in this game of sportsmanship, is the
cat than the man, since the open purpose of both cat and man is to kill
the other animal in the end.

Now nothing can be more unphilosophical in one’s attitude towards
the world than to blame creatures for acting according to their
natures, and I have never felt in the least inclined to censure the
cat, although I always put her out of the room with some violence if
she brings in a live mouse and begins her sportsmanlike tactics with
him. This is not because I think the cat is a wicked animal and ought
to be punished, but merely because the sight of the frantic mental
sufferings of the mouse happens to be very disagreeable to me. I have
no illusions about pussy. I know that if I kicked her out of the room
a thousand times ten thousand, I could never inculcate in her any
genuine conception of the idea that it may be wrong to get her fun out
of another’s extreme pain. That is the way cats are. Her virtues lie in
other directions. If she keeps herself and her kittens clean, and does
not steal my beef-steak, I can ask no more from her.

But now as I meditated on her character, for which I felt a
contemptuous tolerance founded on a knowledge of her limitations, I was
most disagreeably struck by the close resemblance between her nature
and that of the gentleman-sportsman. It is all very well to make the
best of the cat’s shortcomings, to refrain from expressing, in the only
way she can understand, my disgust at a trait she cannot alter, but it
is quite another thing to resign myself to the presence of the same
trait in the character of many human beings for whom I should like to
feel nothing but admiration and respect.

I recognize of course that the lion-hunter may shift his ground, admit
that he hunts more for the excitement of the chase than to protect
poor colonists from marauding lions, yet still protest against my
criticism. “It is unfair,” he may urge, “to assume that human nature
is all mind and spirit. Flesh and blood exist and have their claim for
consideration. Killing animals might be unworthy for a seraph, but I
am a man, and for me it is a harmless method of exercising my age-old
inherited battle-lust. I as well as the cat am linked to the past. Is
it fair for you to censure in me what you pass over in her?”

Such a plea will hardly answer. Human nature is not animal nature, and
though dogs and cats may possibly have their own standards of right and
wrong, based on the needs and possibilities of their species, man with
his different needs and possibilities has no ethical point of contact
with them. But in his own case he is and always has been convinced of
the spark disturbing his clod. He is not content to regard himself as
a highly intelligent primate, destined to make over the material world
for his own uses; whatever his practice may be, he cannot free himself
from the belief that he must be good, and must become better. Nor has
this conviction wasted itself in impotent speculation. Throughout his
history, he has continued to set up standards of conduct so lofty that
no age has come near to living up to its profession of right living.
Nevertheless aspiration has induced development: for the standard of
its ancestors has seemed inadequate to every generation. What the
grandfather considered a matter of course, and the father condoned as
a peccadillo, the son and his contemporaries proclaim a vice. They may
themselves indulge in the vice, but they do so with a feeling of guilt,
and they hail with rejoicing the moments when they resolve to improve
their lives: such wishes are everything: the rest is merely a matter of
time.

No man, therefore, can regard himself solely as the son of an earthy
family: for with the lusts of the flesh he has also inherited the
aspirations of the spirit; and he is bound by this mental heredity to
hold himself responsible as the father of a posterity always advancing
toward perfection. Unless he is willing to confess himself either an
imbecile or a criminal, he is not justified in yielding to an impulse
which he recognizes as unworthy.

Again, the gentleman-lion-hunter may object that I am stating the
matter with too much heat. Even though forced to admit that hunting is
neither really useful (since lions can be exterminated more easily and
surely without it) nor an ineradicable heritage from man’s savage past
(since men have outgrown so many other supposedly ingrained instincts)
he may make a stand on the contention that hunting is a blameless
pastime, and that if a gentleman chooses to spend his vacation shooting
lions, instead of climbing mountains, neither he, nor society, nor
posterity will ever be a penny the worse for it.

I cannot agree with the Gentleman-sportsman. His contention that lion
shooting is an obviously blameless recreation for civilized men does
not appear to me self-evident. Among the difficulties which beset us
in our great campaign to keep the higher elements in human nature, and
to discard the lower ones, there is no more puzzling problem than the
question of our relation to the animal-world. On this problem there
is a great difference of opinion between the older and the younger
branches of the Aryan family. The Hindus elaborated their merciful and
elevated theory of life at a time when, so to speak, we were still
tearing meat from the bones and eating it raw. When, at a much later
period, we ourselves came to face the problem, the discoveries of
science had so widened the horizon of our knowledge that we were unable
to accept the Hindu doctrine of never taking animal life because the
principle of life is sacred. Aware that life is not only animal, but
exists in everything, we perceived that to eat a dish of oatmeal is to
destroy life as truly as to butcher an ox. It is apparent to us that
one of the dark mysteries of the world is that we can avoid taking life
only by refusing to live ourselves.

Confronted with this problem, when we began to question our habits,
we have, after a fashion, worked it out on logical grounds, and have
decided that we have a right to take life which is necessary to ours,
or which is injurious to ours; but we have tempered this high-handed
decision by the feeling, based on all that is best and highest in
our natures, that to take life is a serious business, should be
undertaken in a serious spirit, for some evident purpose, and should be
accomplished in the most painless fashion possible. All the nation-wide
campaign against flies has not lessened by a jot our horror at the
child who amuses himself by tearing off their wings. Moderns think of
themselves as the legal executioners of those animals which they elect
must die; and the essence of the executioner’s duty is to be merciful,
quick, competent in the accomplishment of his task. Most of us would
not care to work in a slaughter-house, but that is not because we think
the butcher a wicked man. Neither would we choose of our own accord to
care for the insane, or clean out the sewers in a city, but that is not
because those are shameful acts. They are necessary but uncomely parts
of the world’s economy, to be performed with a decent reticence and as
quickly and economically as possible.

This theory of the entire subservience of the animal world to our
human needs can certainly not be criticized for being too ethereally
exalted. In fact its best friends cannot claim that it is very
elevated doctrine; but at least it is an honest acknowledgment of
apparent necessity, it is tempered by all the mercy possible under the
circumstances, it is fairly consistent, and it has been accepted by
the majority of the inhabitants of the civilized world as a working
theory. But how can the curious institution of the good sportsman
be fitted into this frank and open modern attitude about a sombre
mystery in the intertwined interests of the world? As a matter of fact
modern ideas and the good sportsman cannot possibly be reconciled, and
whenever society has cast a glance at sportsmanship, that institution,
dreading a real scrutiny and a resulting question concerning its
right to existence, has hastily thrown out a sop of concession,
muttering angrily under its breath about the demagogic modern mob
which undertakes to restrict the freedom of gentlemen. In this way,
some hundred years ago, the institution of bear-baiting was conceded
to be not precisely a sport to inculcate fine qualities in its human
spectators; many years later, the contention that prize-fighting
was good fodder for the younger generation was given up, and very
recently, with a pettish protest that really the world is becoming
_too_ emasculated, the fine, virile joys of trap-pigeon-shooting
have been grudgingly abandoned. But for the most part society is
busy about more important matters, and no one except a few unheeded
sentimentalists pays any attention to the conflicting claims of man
and the animals. During such tranquil periods, the sportsman revises
his code according to his own ideas, for, having long outlived the
days when its contribution to the food supply gave it actual value,
hunting has reached the critical, codified stage common to the senility
of all institutions. To an outsider it is rather entertaining to see
the unanimity with which each succeeding generation of sportsmen
looks back with scorn on its predecessors as a parcel of muckers with
no true idea of gentlemanly restraint in sport; a mild diversion
is to be extracted from the elaborate platforms in which they set
forth the latest rules,--that artificial flies are noble,--that bait
is an abomination,--that a magazine shot-gun is fit only for the
pot-hunter,--that men need precisely the exercise for their wit,
courage, foresight, perseverance and skill which is to be found in
hunting animals according to whatever rules chance to be in vogue in
the sporting world of their day.

It is true that hunting animals trains a man to use his brains and
perseverance in overcoming obstacles. It is also true that everything
worth while is achieved against obstacles, so that we do well to train
ourselves to overcome them in our play as well as our work. And it is
true that a man playing a trout with light tackle enjoys the delight
of exercising his own wit, ingenuity, and perseverance in the battle
against obstacles; but so would he if, without tying the animal, he
should set himself to the difficult undertaking of skinning a dog
alive. The fact that he causes more pain in one case than in the
other, differentiates the two pursuits only in the matter of degree.
How shall the line be drawn? How much pain, in what manner, to what
sort of animal, may a man cause for the sole purpose of enjoying the
exercise of his wit, ingenuity and perseverance?

As to the exercise of courage in hunting, it is difficult to take
seriously this claim on the part of huntsmen, who for the most part
are quite unable to travel far enough to encounter any animals more
ferocious than a trout, a fox (whose cowardice is proverbial), or at
most a deer, who asks nothing better than to be allowed to run away as
long as breath lasts. But there are exceptions. There is, for example,
the gentleman-sportsman in Africa, who by the expenditure of a great
amount of time, effort, and money has succeeded in getting to a country
inhabited by an animal which, if sufficiently annoyed would undeniably
eat up a gentleman-sportsman if he could get at him. This is exciting
no doubt, this undoubtedly calls for physical courage. Courage is a
virtue, and excitement is certainly a need of the human heart. No
observer of human nature can deny that we need excitement as much as
we do bread. But the modern world does not consider even this great
desire to justify every and any mode of gratifying it. The man who
hunts lions according to the code of the gentleman-sportsman gets his
excitement out of the fact that the animal he is attempting to kill
may possibly be able to turn the tables and kill him. It would be even
more exciting and dangerous, and would call for even more courage, to
attempt to track down and kill a man fully armed like the hunter. But
the conscience of the world, insensitive as it is to some of the finer
points of conduct, would not for a moment countenance turning loose
even the lowest of convicted criminals for the purpose of allowing
other men to extract excitement out of his chase,--no! not though all
the most delicate distinctions of the most modern and fastidious
code of gentlemanly hunting were thrown around this most inimitably
thrilling of sports. The fact is that the world is becoming more and
more squeamish about the way in which its inhabitants are to secure
their excitement. There was a time when all the gentlemen-sportsmen
supplied themselves with excitement by sitting in comfortable seats
about an arena and watching wild animals tear human beings to pieces.
There is still a modern nation which allows its gentlemen to vary the
monotony of their lives by watching bulls gore horses and even men,
to death. There is even a considerable amount of excitement to be
extracted from a whiskey-bottle if administered to that end. But there
are some ingenious moderns who manage to escape from boredom by seeking
for rare and valuable new plants in remotest Thibet, or in risking
their lives in the pursuit of the microbe which causes cancer, or (if
these pursuits are too costly for their means) there is the profession
of fireman in a great city, or coastguard on a dangerous shore, or
surveying engineer in a new country. All of these occupations call for
a reasonable amount of physical courage, and supply a change from the
dull routine of humdrum life.

To return to our lions; although to hunt them by the sportsman’s code
undoubtedly takes courage, does it not seem rather a pity to waste in
the destruction of animals admitted vermin, a human quality so fine,
so inspiriting, so necessary as physical courage, sanctified as it
is by a thousand struggles of men against disease, against wrong and
violence, against the inert forces of Nature? Lions interfere with the
peaceable occupation of the world by humanity: therefore we believe we
have a right to kill them. Formerly the only way in which they could
be killed was by the exercise of physical courage on the part of men.
But that is not in the least necessary, now that a powerful drug has
been discovered which will do the unsavory but necessary task for us
and leave us free to use our courage for more valuable purposes. Why
not let this unimportant and unpleasant detail of the world’s work be
attended to in the most competent way possible, without the unseemly
attempt to make it at the same time an entertaining spectacle for
human beings? And why not apply the same principle to the killing of
other animals for whose destruction we feel we have a fair warrant of
execution signed by our reasonable needs. Rabbits and foxes injure our
crops, and propagate so fast that they are a menace to our husbandry.
If they are to be killed, and everyone except an occasional zoölater
grants that the world is not large enough now both for them and for us,
let us kill as many as we need to put out of the way, as quickly and
surely as may be, with no quaint discrimination against ferrets in the
case of rabbits, or rifles in the case of foxes. If we need fish as a
variety in our diet, let us go honestly about the business of securing
it, and not quibble about the great ethical elevation of light tackle
as opposed to nets. And if a man is trying to kill a bird for food,
let him forget the grotesque reasoning that it is not fair to shoot it
sitting on a bough where he can almost certainly kill it at one shot,
but must let it fly so that there are ten chances to one that the shot
will only maim or mutilate it.

Now it is certainly true that there are among our twentieth century
men, a good many individuals from whom no help in the upward movement
of the race can be expected, and whose fondness for hunting,
undoubtedly is based upon the survival in them of the paleolithic
liking to kill. They prefer to hunt rabbits rather than shoot at a
mark, because a target cannot shed blood. If they make no pretence
about this taste being the basis of their liking for hunting, it
would be showing no due sense of the proportion of things to visit
them with too serious a reprobation. It is possible that this sort of
man, if he were not allowed to amuse himself by tormenting animals
might react from the humane régime of his time by committing deeds of
violence against human beings. Only let this outlet for non-eliminated
pre-historic instincts be frankly a drainage-pipe for the purpose of
moral sanitation only. Let there be no attempt to fool our noses as
to its true scent, by the use of the musk of pseudo-gentlemanliness.
If hunters will but be open about it, theirs is not a very heinous
survival of what was a most necessary, though now superseded instinct
in humanity. There are many worse things than having fun out of the
dying struggles of a trout or a rabbit. Hunting in the open air is
certainly better than the opium habit. Animals nearly always die
a violent death anyhow, and it does not, I daresay, make a vital
difference to them whether it is a fox or a man, or a bigger fish which
finally dispatches them.

The number of human beings unleavened by humanity appears larger than
it really is, because most children as they live rapidly through their
personal reproduction of the history of mankind, pass through the cave
man’s phase of frank, thoughtless, and unconscious cruelty; and some
of them are slow to pass out of it. But cases of prolonged atavism are
few, and though disagreeable, need be little more regretted than the
occasional outcropping survival in a modern of the tremendous jaw and
beetling brows of our neolithic grandsires. Left to themselves, these
anachronistic and objectionable traits will vanish as the race ascends
the slow spiral of its upward way. Already most twentieth-century boys
and girls (if their development be not arrested by perverted public
opinion) tend to outgrow this relic of savagery, as they outgrow their
exaggerated gregariousness, their slavish conformity to the ideas of
others, and the rest of the primitive phases of their development. The
process needs no special attention from their instructors: good example
and encouragement to clear thinking about habitual actions will almost
always do the work.

But few young brains are vigorous enough to continue clear thinking
under the narcotic influence of a generally accepted social hypocrisy.
It is not acquaintance with the grim necessity of killing as the
butcher practises it which is dangerous to young consciences, it is
the sight of the sportsman killing without necessity. What stupifies
the moral sense in this connection is the pretence that to take
one’s pleasure at the cost of another’s suffering is a commendable,
highly respectable, nay, even very aristocratic amusement for grown
men of brains and education. The most gentlemanly restrictions cast
about hunting animals for fun, cannot mask the fact that its essence
is enjoyment taken consciously at the expense of another’s pain, an
enjoyment against which the conscience of the world has pronounced
a righteous verdict of total condemnation. The butcher kills, the
pot-hunter kills, the sportsman kills; but only the last openly finds
entertainment in the act.



TRADE UNIONISM IN A UNIVERSITY


The so-called strike of the Wisconsin Student Workers’ Union has much
of instruction for those who have been watching the trend of University
development during the past few years and are inclined critically to
examine the effect upon the student of modern educational methods.

The strike occurred in an institution that is recognized as the leader
in progressive education; that has given extraordinary liberties to the
student body; that is probably working more directly for the material
interests of the people than is any other American university; and it
occurred in a State that is convinced of the expediency of generously
maintaining an institution of higher education, and is levying taxes
therefore which during ten years have increased more than threefold.

Largely under the initiative of the University, but with faith, often
fully justified, in the practical value of the instruction therein
given, the State has adopted many of the principles enunciated in the
class room, and has accepted as advisors, or taken over and appointed
on its commissions, practically every professor and instructor
whose counsel might be of direct service in its legislative and
executive efforts, or of indirect service to the people at large.
The professional staff of the University, and the legislative and
executive staff of the State, have thus organized what might be called
a beneficent interlocking directorate, which is expressed more or less
truthfully in the local aphorism: “The State University is destined to
produce a University State.”

During the past decade, influenced by and participating in the
political and social changes that have made Wisconsin conspicuous,
and encouraged by the large enrollment in the so-called social and
political sciences--an enrollment of nearly two thousand students,
containing a generous representation from the congested districts of
American cities, from the oppressed people of Europe and from formative
governments generally--the University has added to its staff of
professors and instructors, until these departments are not surpassed
in attractiveness by any institution in America or indeed in Europe.

There is, then, among the student body a liberal admixture of those
whose social and political convictions, so far as they are definitely
formed, are not in entire accord with prevailing conventions. Some of
the more restless have organized a Socialists Club, and affiliations
have been established with Socialist organizations at Milwaukee
and elsewhere, and speakers of advanced anarchistic views, such as
Emma Goldman, on coming to Madison, draw large and not entirely
unsympathetic student audiences.

Within the University, and justified under the plea for a more perfect
democracy, the presence of strong class distinction and party feeling
often introduces an earnestness and bitterness into student gatherings
which is much more intense than in our older institutions of the east.
Moreover, the discussion of party differences is not confined to the
campus. The contestants, even though students, are accustomed to air
their views in the public press; and the state legislature--in which
there is a liberal admixture of representatives of all political
parties--is occasionally called upon to adjust real or imaginary
student wrongs.

To the Wisconsin student there is no mystery about the making or
unmaking of law; to him the capitol is a place of recreation, and the
legislators, many of them alumni, are his companions. The freshman
comes under the control of a student legislative body that defines
his privileges and attempts to control his liberties. This elective
body not only assumes jurisdiction over the student as an individual,
but, like an interstate commerce commission, it regulates the
activities of various student organizations, particularly those
alleged to have aristocratic tendencies. It fixes penalties for the
infraction of student laws, authorizes arrests, and sees that culprits
are brought before the Student Court, where they are tried and
sentenced. This student legislative body, through its representation
on student publications, and in other ways, is an active agency in
making and molding student opinion, and the faculty has already
recognized its jurisdiction. The Regents have agreed not to alter
or abridge the control of Student Self-Government, except through
process of conference. The student body has thus assumed, in certain
respects at least, the same attitude toward the administration of the
University that the University is accused of having assumed toward the
administration of the State; or, to paraphrase the aphorism already
given, “The University Student is destined to produce a Student
University.”

The student labor trouble, therefore, is not to be looked upon as the
result of a justifiable grievance between a handful of waiters, and the
Steward in control of the University Commons. The relations between the
student workers and the Steward had been cordial, and the reduction
in the number of student employees was an economic necessity, and
ordinarily would have excited no particular opposition. But under the
peculiar conditions existing at Madison, where there are students who
do not believe in the present order of things, where it is thought,
by not a few, that legislation by labor will bring better social
conditions, where machinery for organized resistance is fabricated as
a pastime, where the tactics of “collective bargaining” are thoroughly
understood, and where there are impulsive students anxious to assume
leadership, the temptation to translate static into kinetic energy
became irresistible.

It seems that about one hundred and thirty students had been given
positions in the University as waiters, kitchen helpers, etc.,
receiving in compensation a substantial meal for each hour or fraction
thereof of service. There was no dispute concerning the amount of
service or the value of the compensation. The students admitted that
the work was light, the board excellent; and the positions were
considered the most desirable of their kind in the city. The body
waited upon some two hundred and fifty men students, and upon nearly
three hundred women students. (Thirteen women student waiters and
helpers, employed in one of the dormitories, did not join the Union,
and took no active part in the agitation.)

The completion of a new central kitchen had led to economies, and a few
weeks before the end of the semester--it was thought in ample time for
the young men to find employment elsewhere--preliminary announcement
was made that the staff of student employees would be reduced,
and twenty students out of a total of one hundred and thirty were
individually so informed. Since it was perfectly obvious that their
services were in fact not needed, the waiters received the announcement
in good spirit and without serious question.

It was at this point, however, that certain other students, who were
not employed by the University, but were generally interested in
organized agitation, called a mass meeting of the student workers both
of the University and of the city, and through the vigorous application
of well-known forensic excitants, brought about a condition of
hysteria, which affected a large proportion of the student employees,
although the general student body remained immune.

The waiters and helpers found themselves organizing a Union,
subscribing to extravagant declarations, and electing as their officers
representatives from the most violent of the agitators. It was
alleged that the organization had more than four hundred members. The
president of the Union, a student in Law, was not a University worker.
The secretary was the president of the local Socialist Club, and
originally registered at the University as from New York City.

The leaders of the “strike” (a strike was only threatened) took the
position that they would protect the student waiters, that the number
of waiters should not be reduced, that economies, if necessary, should
be effected in some other way, and that dire consequences would result
if the plans of the University administration were carried into effect.
In any event, nothing should be done until the organization was duly
recognized by the University authorities, until proposed changes in the
method of conducting the business of the Commons had been submitted to
the Student Union for its approval, and until it was agreed that all
present and future grievances and difficulties should be submitted to a
board of arbitration satisfactory to the Union.

At Madison it is customary to adjust differences through conferences,
or a series of conferences, but here was a case that affected the
business management of the University, and where delay would involve
loss to the State. The situation was also extremely amusing, because
of the fact that the longer a settlement could be deferred, the longer
the student waiters would continue to be fed at the expense of the
University. It resembled some of the difficulties our government
experienced in the neighborhood of the Rio Grande.

As a coercive measure, the leaders submitted a document to the effect
that if the original plans of the administration were not altered there
would be a sympathetic “walkout” on the part of a hundred or more
boarders.

Startling articles appeared in the press, syndicalism and sabotage were
academically discussed, and there were threats that unless “justice”
were shown the students, every dining room in Madison would be closed.

As time went on, the general disturbance had its effect upon the
regular kitchen staff of the University, composed of paid employees,
who saw, or thought they saw, in the rising power of the student
body, their own impending extinction. At this time, a strike or
walkout on the part of the regular paid force would have been serious:
for the University was practically under contract to house and feed
approximately three hundred women students, enrolled residents of the
dormitories.

Hearings were held before the Regents, but all efforts on the part of
the management to change the attitude of the leaders were futile, and
the appetites of the aggrieved seemed to increase with the vigor of the
agitation.

At a critical moment the cooks sent in their ultimatum, calling the
Steward to declare allegiance either to the insurgents or to the
regulars; or in default of such declaration, operations in the kitchen
would abruptly terminate. This announcement was decisive: for

  We may live without friends; we may live without books;
  But civilized man cannot live without cooks.

The administration ordered the doors of the dining halls closed,
locked, and guarded; service within the women’s dormitories was
conducted as is customary in convents, and the debarred student
waiters, boarders, and guests gathered without on the campus,
dumfounded that a public institution should close its doors to the
populace. It certainly looked like a “lockout,” and it was alleged that
the plant was being operated by “scabs.”

All the stage machinery that accompanies a real strike and lockout
was brought into requisition--circulars were issued appealing for
the sympathy of the public, and implying that poor students had been
discharged for no other reason than that they had belonged to the
“Union,” and stating that girls working their way through college had
been dismissed because they had expressed sympathy. Mass meetings were
called, speakers were imported, inflammatory addresses were delivered,
additional resolutions adopted, and appeals made to the Federation of
Labor, to the State Industrial Commission, and to the Governor.

But in due time the members of the Student Workers’ Union found that
their services were not indispensable, that State institutions do
not invariably yield to the pressure of organized resistance, and as
chastened individuals they applied for such positions as remained
vacant, and went back to work.

       *       *       *       *       *

The recital of these occurrences as a trivial circumstance has no place
in a publication of this kind, but the significance, so far as it
may throw light upon the general path of university development, and
may help to determine the kind of mind and men that universities are
producing or may produce, justifies serious contemplation.

It is generally admitted that universities are destined to become
something different from what they now are. University men have a
duty to perform, not only in watching the trend of this inevitable
drift, and determining its probable course, but they are in a measure
responsible for the course.

Not all institutions move with the same rapidity. Some possess a power
that takes them away from their companions and into new territory. The
records of their movements and the attendant results are generally
looked upon as public property. It thus becomes possible for the
conservative university, or the university that is not inclined, or
does not have the means, to go into expensive experimentation, to learn
much through the inexpensive process of observation.

What have we to learn from the conditions and occurrences above
outlined?

Are we really getting all of the good things out of our institutions of
higher culture that we think we are getting?

When the citizens of a commonwealth tax themselves in order to give
university instruction to their children, does it necessarily follow
that the university life will develop the highest citizenship? Does
it develop a feeling of pride in the State and of loyalty to it? Is
the position of the State as an instrument of modern civilization
strengthened or weakened thereby?

Does university training tend to produce an accelerated or a deferred
maturity of the judicial sense--the power to distinguish between what
is reasonable and what is unreasonable, what is genuine and what is
false; and to distinguish promptly between the man that is frankly
striving for principle, and the one who is falsely striving for
position?

If any considerable number of college graduates should be of the
opinion that the State, in addition to providing some twenty-five years
of free instruction, should also provide free board, is it not obvious
that difficulties akin to those that surround the issue of fiat money
would quickly arise on the issue of fiat food?

If graduates on becoming citizens believe that they are entitled
to anything and everything that can be extracted from the State,
and if their lives are to be spent under this obsession, ought not
the community to prepare itself for a long series of constitutional
amendments?

Is a university graduate sufficiently prepared to meet the strife of
adult life if he leaves his institution wise with facts, emotional to
the spell of the professional agitator, and innocent of the craft of
the publicity agent?

Our institutions may teach what is right, but what is being done to
develop the moral fibre and personal independence that will put the
right into operation? What forces are at work to encourage open and
vigorous opposition to social doctrines that are generally considered
damaging to the State?

Does free and excessive opportunity engender a feeling of gratitude
on the part of the recipient, or are such feelings inconsistent with
modern conventions?

When the lust for individual gain and personal possession on the
part of the few, is legitimatized at the expense of many, are the
results more reprehensible when the process has been conducted by the
aristocratic adult, than when conducted by the proletariat youth?

When students have listened to and communed with the most eminent
instructors in social and political science that the State can furnish,
why should they believe that labor, when organized, has inherent rights
that labor individualized does not possess?

Are the cardinal principles of our form of constitutional government
being upheld when it becomes necessary for the individual to declare
allegiance to some party or organization before he can enjoy the
ordinary privileges of citizenship?

Why should a body of university students--men that have enjoyed the
privileges of education--take the position that unless the prerogative
of the few is promptly recognized and implicitly followed, the innocent
will be harassed, and the entire community made to suffer?

Is it not possible that in our effort strictly to maintain the
principles of academic freedom, we are giving instruction with such
impartial neutrality that those who have worthy views conclude that
their convictions are subject to question, and those who have ulterior
motives are encouraged to believe themselves justified?

What the State really needs at the present time is some agency
that will develop the powers of discrimination, that will enable
its citizens to arrive at conclusions independent of plausible
presentations.



MONARCHY AND DEMOCRACY IN EDUCATION


It is a truism that since the day of Plato’s _Republic_ no subject
has had such widespread discussion as has that of the proper form of
government. It is equally a truism that if imitation is the sincerest
flattery, the hundreds of written constitutions that have sprung up
since 1789 attest the belief that America has successfully put into
practical form the theories of democracy. Yet a minority has always
questioned whether democracy is after all the panacea for political
evils, and recent writers like Mr. Lecky, have but given expression
to a somewhat widespread feeling of uncertainty as to the permanent
success of democratic institutions.

It is noteworthy, however, that the discussion of democracy has
been confined to the field of politics, and that its adaptation
to educational institutions, where presumably a high grade of
intelligence, education, opportunity and experience seem to offer the
greatest promise of success, is never publicly discussed, much less in
this country practiced.[20]

       *       *       *       *       *

It is equally anomalous that in Europe, with its tendency to monarchy
in the state, there is found absolute democracy in the government of
educational institutions, while America, democratic in the state,
furnishes the most extreme illustration of absolute monarchy in the
government of its educational institutions. It seems, if possible, even
more strange that American college students have for years been going
to European universities, and yet apparently have paid no attention
to questions of educational organization. It can only be explained
by the general lack of information and interest in the management of
educational institutions.

The UNPOPULAR REVIEW is not a fitting place for the discussion of
questions concerning the college, if frequent discussion means
popularity: for the fashionable question in the serious periodical of
the day is “What’s the matter with the colleges?” But while there is
absolute agreement that _something_ is the matter, every diagnostician
has his own explanation. Athletics, the curriculum, the classics,
vocational training, and every part of the educational system unable to
speak for itself, have been held responsible for the existing evils. It
may, however, be sufficiently unpopular for a mere college professor
to say that in his humble opinion at least one thing the matter with
the college is its form of government, and that here is an interesting
place in which to test democracy before abandoning it as hopeless.
Certainly these opinions have been so unpopular as to lead many who
honestly hold them to hesitate to state them. When they are stated, it
is generally by those not within the academic pale.

One of the most serious evils in the situation is that it is impossible
for those most concerned to meet and discuss it openly. More than one
important article has come from a college professor, but it has been
anonymous because it is out of the question for him to write freely
of the position in which he is placed. If he openly questions the
present system, he is called “a sorehead,” “a knocker,” and “a kicker.”
Every discussion of the administrative department of the university
is interpreted as “an attack on the president.” To publish a doubt
of the wisdom of concentrating all authority in him, is regarded
as “attacking the administration.” It is at least significant that
in the great work on _University Control_[21] the opinions of two
hundred and ninety-nine members of college faculties are anonymous,
while a bare half-dozen are published under the names of men holding
academic positions at the time of writing. Academic freedom is usually
interpreted as meaning the right of speaking freely about matters
and things in general, including the trusts, anarchy, socialism,
prohibition, the control of public utilities by municipal, state,
or federal agencies, and kindred subjects, but never about academic
organization. That freedom of expression for which Wycliffe and the
Lollard movement stood in England, Luther in Germany, Calvin in
France--albeit his ecclesiastical followers in this country may have
wandered far from his ideas--that movement for freedom led in Europe
by great university men, when it comes to discussion of educational
organization has, by the irony of fate, been denied to their heirs in
America to-day.

It is easy to trace the path by which monarchy in education has
been reached. When education was largely controlled by the Church,
students were educated by the Church, and for the Church. Educational
institutions, as a part of the Church, were governed as the Church was
governed. Implicit obedience was given superiors, not as educators,
but as members of the Church. We have inherited from mediæval times a
condition of educational organization that was the natural outgrowth of
this organization, but we have perpetuated it in an age when education
is controlled by the State, which has itself become democratic.
The result is a tug-o’-war between the monarchical organization of
education, and the democratic spirit that permeates the vast body of
educators and educated.

It is also easy to see the immediate steps by which we have arrived
at the present situation. The institution with which the writer is
connected had fewer than two hundred regular college students when he
first became a member of the faculty. It has shared in the enormous
development of such institutions all over the country, and its students
now number more than a thousand. Yet in all this time, the method of
government has not changed. In the early days it was convenient for the
president to decide every question, and this system has been continued,
even though the student body has increased more than five fold, and
the instructing body in the same proportion. In spite of changed
conditions everywhere, this plan has been perpetuated, and has often
been legalized by boards of trustees.

Thus, by both remote and immediate inheritance, education, in its
organization, has arrived at absolute monarchy, with all its attending
evils,--evils that affect the university as a whole and all of its
separate and individual parts.

One obvious evil is the confusion everywhere found in the academic
world between legislation and administration. The normal plan in a
political democracy--an administrative body that carries out the wishes
of the legislative body--is reversed in education. The legislative
and the executive departments may be combined, and the executive
made responsible to the legislative, as in England, or they may be
independent, as in America; but it is only in an absolute monarchy
that the administrative body both legislates and administers its own
legislation. The university has thus allied itself with absolute
monarchy rather than with democracy.

Another element of confusion is found in the anomalous conditions of
citizenship. Educational citizenship within a faculty, attaches to the
position, not to the individual. A man is appointed to a professorship
in a faculty, and _ipso facto_ he acquires full citizenship in that
body, with power to vote immediately on every question submitted to
it. Yet the faculty may list as “instructors” no small proportion of
its members who have been connected with it many years, yet they have
no share in the government of the institution. They are in a state of
indeterminate probation, and are often never admitted to the privileges
of full citizenship in the governing body.

Confusion also grows out of the application to the government of
the university, of the unit vote long ago abandoned in the federal
government. In the New England Confederation, the experiment was
tried of giving equal representation to each colony, regardless of
its population. This proved unsatisfactory, and subsequent plans of
union attempted to square the circle by increasing the number of
representatives, but giving each colony only one vote. After this in
its turn proved ill-advised, the whole system was thrown overboard,
and a “one man, one vote” principle adopted. In college legislation
has either theory or experience shown any necessity for reverting to
an antiquated political custom, and requiring that the unit rule shall
prevail and each department have one vote but only one vote?

The most disturbing factor in the situation is that all questions
concerning the actual government in a university are decided, not by
the faculty itself, but by an external board of trustees; that this
body, rather than the faculty, is ultimately and legally responsible
for all legislation affecting the university; and that it transfers
this responsibility to the president of the institution whom it
itself appoints. If it is suggested that the faculty is the natural
legislative body in an educational institution, and that this body
should determine all matters of educational policy, objections are
immediately interposed.

The first objection is the alleged incompetence of a faculty to
legislate. But it may well be asked how often matters of genuine
legislation are even submitted to it. Some years ago a university
president was elected, and the special correspondent of a great
metropolitan daily sent it a two-column account of his probable policy.
“All over America,” he writes, “the question is being asked: ‘What
are President X’s views? What is he likely to do with the elective
courses? What with requirements for admission? What with the different
departments of the University, re-modelling the scheme which now
runs through each in a confused way? What with university extension?
The compulsory chapel, and the college pastorate questions, and the
complicated problems of undergraduate and general intercollegiate
athletics?’” Yet every one of these questions represented as being
asked “all over America” concerns not the administrative office
of a university president, but the legislative department of the
institution. Whether a faculty is or is not a failure as a legislative
body, can be only a matter of conjecture until the experiment has had a
fair trial.

A variant of this objection is that “college faculties can not do
business.” To this it may be said parenthetically that a faculty has
little opportunity except to fritter away its time, when a college
president refuses to submit an agenda to it, and thus enable it to do
its business in a business-like way. But every great university numbers
among its faculty those who have from time to time been asked to render
service to the state or to the community, and this service has been
rendered in an acceptable, even a distinguished, manner. In the fields
of diplomacy, finance, organized philanthropy, municipal affairs, the
college professor is everywhere being requisitioned by the state as
a consulting expert, or asked to render it temporary active service.
Yet many of these prophets are without honor in their own country,
in that no opportunity is ever given them to suggest improvements in
the business administration of their own institutions, or to confer
officially on educational policy with the representatives of other
faculties. Thus the powers of the faculty are being atrophied through
lack of use, while the college, in the midst of abundance, suffers from
poverty of nourishment.

It is also urged that faculties are not interested in general
educational policies, since each member is primarily concerned with
his own special department. This too is a matter of conjecture until
the statement has been tested by experience. It may, however, readily
be granted that not all members of every faculty are interested in
educational legislation. But this is true in the state, and yet it
is not used as an argument either for disfranchising voters, or for
refusing them the franchise. Rather, is every voter urged to do his
political duty, and vote, and every alien urged to take out his
naturalization papers, and as speedily as may be become a voting
citizen.

The fear has also been expressed that if faculties were given increased
legislative powers, the result would be confusion in the consideration
of educational problems. This fear in its turn seems certainly not
well grounded. It is seldom expressed with reference to the political
system, yet if danger exists anywhere, it is assuredly there, and not
in the college world. What education needs above everything else,
is all the wisdom that can be contributed to it by the experience,
intelligence, observation, and theory of every person connected with
it. The result would assuredly be, not confusion, but enlightenment. A
recent examination of the academic career of the members of a single
college faculty, shows that they have been connected either as students
or officers with nearly two hundred different institutions in this
country or in Europe. This history is doubtless repeated in every other
institution, showing what a wealth of academic experience and knowledge
the college has never yet turned to account. It is generally believed
that the great work of the trained mind is to utilize the forces of
nature, and make them do its bidding, to harness fire, water, air,
electricity, and to reap the advantages of the power multiplied by
these means. But no effort is made to utilize the educational forces
that lie dormant in a college faculty, and to multiply a hundred fold
the educational forces now used. The question may at least be raised
whether some fraction of the confusion found in the educational system
may not be due to the failure to bring to bear upon it the clarifying
power of college and university faculties. Investigation has found an
outlet in every field except that of education itself.

The fear was once expressed by Edward Thring lest in any scheme for the
organization of education “the skilled workman engaged in the highest
kind of skilled work should be deliberately and securely put under
the amateur in perpetuity.”[22] This fear is not unwarranted in its
application to America. As long as college and university trustees are
for the most part chosen from business interests, they naturally assume
that college officers must “want something” in the way of personal
advantage when they discuss the disadvantages of the present system of
academic government. They do not understand that what college officers
wish is not personal gain, but simply freedom of opportunity to serve
the college to the limit of their powers, and that this opportunity
must include a controlling voice in the educational legislation of the
institutions with which they are connected, and in the formulation
of the laws governing their own actions as legislating bodies. The
members of college faculties seem justified in thinking that they
are now deprived of all the broadening and deepening influences that
come from sharing the responsibilities of the larger affairs of
education. They are parts of a machine irresponsible for its final
results: the planning, the direction, the thinking are all done by
the administrative head. Were the duties of a college professor such
as those of a letter carrier, a policeman, a snow shoveler, a brick
layer, or a day laborer, it would be a simple thing to regulate his
hours of work, his pay, his vacation, and his uniform. But the more
complex the duties of any person, the more difficult the regulation of
them by an external authority. The more serviceable any person to any
organization, the more must he have freedom of thought, judgment, and
action.

The further questions also arise--Does a university officer sustain
the same relation to the president, or the board of trustees, that a
minister does to the ministry, or that a diplomatic officer does to his
government, or to the government to which he is accredited? Are college
officers to be paid employees, or to be co-operators in the government
of the college? If the former, then certainly military discipline must
prevail. Men in high business or financial circles do not allow their
employees to go about openly discussing or criticizing the way they
conduct their business. But if college officers are to be co-operators
in determining the educational policy of the institution with which
they are connected, what is needed is not keeping them under army
discipline, but the encouragement of frank discussion with them and by
them of all matters pertaining to the welfare of the institution, and
of education in all its largest aspects.

The situation may be confused by the custom of choosing the college
president from the ranks of the clergy; the clergyman-president
naturally believes that since his relations to his congregation have
been those of an expert in theology to those who are ignorant of it,
his relations to a college faculty must be similar. He forgets that
he has to deal with those who are themselves experts, each in his own
field, and that they are also presumably interested in the general
field of education, and acquainted with it.

It may be that college authorities intend to encourage college
faculties to discuss with them questions of educational policy; but
if so, the intention has not been made with sufficient emphasis to
be clearly understood. “We are clerks in a dry goods store, the dean
is the floor walker and the president is the proprietor,” is the way
the situation has been put by a well-known university professor. The
college professor sometimes feels that while, before the law, a man is
innocent until he is proved guilty, in the college world faculties
are guilty until they can prove themselves innocent, and their normal
attitude thus becomes one of defense against an unseen power.

The results of all this confusion between the legislative and the
administrative departments in academic government are unfortunate for
all concerned. Destructive criticism will always prevail, and will sap
the vitality of any institution that denies to its members the right of
constructive action, while external government leads to the spirit and
attitude of externalism,--the members of the teaching body of a college
rarely say “we,” but refer politely to the institution with which they
are connected as “the college.” The impression is sometimes carried
away from an educational assembly, that the profession of teaching
has not attracted many brilliant college graduates. Will mediocre men
continue to seek the teaching profession, while men of independence
of judgment and character continue to shun a profession which offers
little scope for their abilities? “What science and practical life
alike need, is not narrow men, but broad men sharpened to a point,”
writes President Butler, and this admirably expresses the great need in
education,--a need difficult to be met as long as present conditions
remain. It is a grave question whether the college professor is to
continue an automaton, or to become an initial force.

The chief administrative officer of the college has come to be
considered the college; in his own eyes, and in the eye of the public,
he _is_ the college; he is the only person considered competent or
authorized to represent it; and it is his view that is to prevail in
all matters of educational policy.

Now with the college president as an individual, the college professor
has no quarrel. He often counts him among his warmest friends, and his
personal relations with him are often cordial, and even intimate. But
this is quite compatible with a strong and conscientious belief based
on a study of facts and conditions, that the organization of the
college presidency is an anomaly in a democratic state. The college
professor may perhaps recognize the justice of the administration
of the president _per se_, even when it takes such extreme form as
regulations that members of a faculty are not permitted to invite
anyone to speak to their classes without authorization from the
president; that they cannot be absent from a class without getting
permission from the president; that sudden illness, accident, or
unforeseen emergency that has involved absence, must be reported; when
the president gives permission to accept an invitation to lecture
at another university but with the proviso that it does not involve
absence from class, or that the request be not repeated during the
academic year, or with the reminder that a professor’s first duty
is to his own college; when it is the president who passes on the
propriety of a professor’s wearing a golf suit in the lecture room,
and who sometimes decides the question of wearing caps and gowns on
commencement day. The objection of the college professor lies less in
the nature of the rules and regulations prescribed than in the manner
of the prescription. He sometimes wonders why he could not be trusted
to legislate on some of these questions, and why it is so difficult for
the president to realize that a professor may take an active interest
in educational affairs, without having his eye on the presidency.

The professor realizes that the president is not always to be blamed
for present conditions,--often he is himself the victim of a system
he has had no part in creating, and forces that he cannot control
apparently compel him to perpetuate it. Yet blame must be attached to
him for defending it, and for refusing to discuss with his colleagues
the possibility of modifying it. He seems equally remiss in not
presenting the whole question of college government to the board of
trustees, and pointing out to them the incongruities and anomalies
of the present situation. The professor realizes that the president
has a hard time of it--Does he not hear it at every educational
convention?--but he always wonders if it is inevitable. He sometimes
remembers an illustrated lecture given by the representative of a great
manufacturing company, showing its organization and workings. One slide
represented in graphic form its early organization; it was a pyramid
trying to maintain stable equilibrium on its apex, and the apex was the
president supporting on his shoulders the solid mass of the employees.
Another slide represented the same pyramid on its base, and the apex,
in its natural position, was the smiling face of the president.
Underneath was the legend “It pays.” If the organization of a great
business enterprise has gained in strength and stability, and has found
that “it pays” in dollars and cents as well as in comfort and peace
of mind, to have the responsibility for conducting it shared by all
connected with it, would not a similar organization “pay” the college?
As a result of recent outbreaks on Blackwell’s Island, the Commissioner
of Corrections went among the inmates to learn the causes of their
grievances, and with the same end in view called to the office a
half-dozen of the most intelligent convicts, and invited them to state
all their complaints. It is not on record that a college president
or board of trustees has talked over causes of dissatisfaction with
educational conditions, or has invited the members of the faculty
to state their views. Is it possible that some pointers on academic
government may be gained from a method employed in a modern penal
institution?

It is conceivable that such a plan might also pay in dollars and
cents. In one college it took nine years to get a requisition signed
for a small improvement needed to relieve the officers working in the
building from undue anxiety for the care of the property; and the total
cost involved was six dollars. During these nine years the college
treasurer was on record as saying that it cost three thousand dollars a
year to enforce the compulsory attendance at chapel prescribed by the
board of trustees. Would some conference between trustees, president,
and faculty have resulted in a better showing on the treasurer’s books?

If the present system has entailed endless confusion in the relations
between the legislative and the administrative departments of the
college, it has resulted in equally anomalous conditions in the
administrative department itself. Some years ago, when a gentleman
distinguished in the educational field was chosen president of a
university, a member of another faculty remarked, “It seems a great
misfortune, does it not, that he should be made president: he has done
so much for education, and now of course he will have to give up all
that work.”

Nor are members of college faculties alone in thinking that the office
of president is overweighted. At the time of the election of a certain
university president, the alumni of the institution put themselves on
record as believing “that the presidential prerogative has increased,
is increasing, and ought to be diminished.” In this opinion, probably
the majority of every faculty in every college and university in the
country would concur.

Many college professors are restive not only because “the presidential
prerogative has increased,” but also because they are called on to
expend much mental and physical energy in preserving the prerogative.
The offense of _lèse-majesté_ has become almost as criminal in the
educational as in the political world. They are restive because the
presidential office is overweighted, and the result as regards the
administration, is to develop that most pernicious of all forms of
government,--a bureaucracy. They are restive because of their inability
to remedy conditions not of their own making. Some of these are
financial, and a college instructor once put the matter thus: “Our
president has created conditions whereby we have an annual deficit of
about $20,000. This deficit is met by the chairman of the board of
trustees, and the president must stand in with him. The faculty are
in a hole,--they must hang on to the president, and he must hang on
to the board of trustees, and they must hang on to their chairman,
and trust him to pull everybody out.” Some of these conditions are
educational. Wisdom seems to be attached to the office of president,
rather than to the individual filling it. A man may be made president
because he is known to be a good business man and an able executive
officer, and _ipso facto_ he becomes an expert on all educational
questions. Progress in all educational matter must be halted while
the excellent executive is familiarizing himself with the A B C of
education, and perhaps in time learning how large the subject is.

Many professors are discouraged because, while the same tendency
towards autocratic government has been seen in the political world,
the reaction against it is already noted. The power of the speaker of
the House of Representatives that gained the title of “czar” for one
incumbent, has already been modified by the rules of the House. But the
college professor sees nothing on the educational horizon that portends
a change for the better. Every week he reads somewhere the well-known
account of the first official meeting between a president of Harvard
University and his faculty. When changes were proposed, and some of
the faculty reasoned why these things must be, the president replied,
“Because, gentlemen, you have a new president.” The professor always
wonders if anything like it ever happens when a university acquires a
new member of the faculty; he wonders why this vivid description of
professors rubbing their eyes in amazement at the statement of their
new master, should give such pleasure to the press and to the public;
and he wonders if the spirit of it has not blossomed in the most recent
authoritative statement of the place of the university president as it
is understood by the president himself.[23]

The professor is discouraged because, although, in the present
organization of the educational system, a president is considered
necessary, the supply of presidents never equals the demand. So varied
and numerous are the qualifications insisted upon, that when a person
is found approaching the desired standard, he is sought for every
vacancy. Several well-known professors have for a number of years
been “mentioned” in connection with every presidency vacant, and as a
society belle is said to boast of the number of desirable offers of
marriage she has refused, so the professor, or more often his wife,
makes known the number of presidencies that he has declined. The
professor wonders why one or more of our great universities, in this
age of vocational training, does not establish a training school for
presidents. But this in its turn leads to the query how the supply of
students in such a school could be maintained.

The professor is discouraged because of the difficulty of “getting at
things.” The question of college government involves the relation of
the boards of control to the president and the faculty, the relation of
the president to the faculty, on the one hand, and to the student body
on the other, with the result that the president becomes the official
medium of communication between the governing body and the faculty.
This triangular arrangement can but be productive of lack of harmony,
and of constant misunderstandings; and its evils fall upon trustees,
president, faculty, students, and alumni. The trustees nominally
exercise an authority that is virtually given over to the president,
the office of president is overweighted, the faculty are left without
responsibility, as are the students in their turn, and the alumni
are often in ignorance of what the policy of the college is, while
everybody is exhorted to be “loyal to the college” without any clear
understanding of what loyalty to the college means, or even indeed just
what “the college” means. He sometimes wonders if the Duke of York’s
gardener was anticipating present academic conditions in America, when
he instructed his servants,

  “Go, bind thou up yond dangling apricocks,
  Which, like unruly children, make their sire
  Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight;
  Give some supportance to the bending twigs.
  Go thou, and like an executioner
  Cut off the heads of too-fast growing sprays,
  That look too lofty in our commonwealth;
  All must be even in our government.”

Yet after all ’tis a good world, my masters! The professor is not
wholly downcast. If he does not know by name, without consulting
the catalogue, a third of the members of the board of trustees that
controls his academic destiny; if he does not know by sight a fourth of
them, and if he has never exchanged comments on the weather with more
than a fifth of them, he at least hopes that the sixth of the board who
may chance, through the college catalogue, to know of his connection
with the institution, may not feel unkindly toward him. He can only
plead in extenuation of his rashness in suggesting a more democratic
form of academic government, his strong conviction that only as _all_
parts of the educational structure are strengthened, can the structure
approach perfection, and serve the end for which it has been erected.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] The only important exception to this statement is the University
of Virginia. The feeling of college faculties evoked by its change
from democratic to monarchical organization is probably expressed
by a contemporaneous editorial. “The thirteenth of June is to be an
important date in the history of the American college. On that day
the democratic system of government by the entire body of professors,
which has marked out the University of Virginia from almost all other
institutions of learning in the country, is to come to an end. This
system, in spite of all that can properly be said on the other side,
has good features which it is a pity to see extinguished.”--_The
Nation_, June 11, 1903.

It is evidently the college president who speaks in an editorial some
weeks later in the same publication. “We believe that the president
should be something of an autocrat in his proper domain and that
faculty government would be bad government.”--_The Nation_, Sept. 24,
1903.

[21] J. McKeen Cattell, _University Control_, Science Press, 1913.

[22] _The Schoolmaster’s Year Book_, 1904, p. 4.

[23] Charles W. Eliot, “The University President in the American
Commonwealth,” _Educational Review_, December, 1911.



OUR DEBT TO PSYCHICAL RESEARCH


I

Early in the history of the Society for Psychical Research, Von
Helmholtz speaking to Professor Barrett, of telepathy, said, “Neither
the testimony of all the Fellows of the Royal Society, nor even
the evidence of my own senses, could lead me to believe in the
transmission of thought from one person to another independently of
the recognized channels of sensation. It is clearly impossible.” Many
have followed the example of the psychologist Wundt, in holding that
“no man of science, truly independent and without _parti pris_, could
be interested in occult phenomena.” Stranger still, as reported by
William James, “An illustrious biologist told me one day that even if
telepathy were proved to be true, the savants ought to band together to
suppress and conceal it, because such facts would upset the uniformity
of nature, and all sorts of other things without which the scientists
cannot carry on their pursuits.” Dogmatic skepticism, veiled or overt
contempt, and an unreasoning aversion--such was the attitude of the
scientific world in general toward the men who, in the early eighties
of last century, first seriously grappled with the problems of the
weird and the uncanny; while the great majority of educated laymen,
almost equally under the spell of the preponderating materialism of the
age, heartily endorsed the verdict of the scientists.

Things have not much changed in the years that have passed. It is
true that there have been numerous accessions to the ranks of the
“psychical researchers” from the scientific world itself. Many men of
science--some among them even eminent men of science--have scandalized
their fellows by adopting Newton’s ridiculous point of view--“To
myself I seem to have been as a child playing on the seashore,
while the immense ocean of Truth lay unexplored before me”--and by
deeming psychical research not unworthy their personal participation.
Crookes, Lodge, James, Richet, Flammarion, Flournoy, Bergson, Lombroso,
Morselli, are a few names that instantly flash into mind. And from
some great thinkers of non-scientific training, but justly esteemed
for their intellectual powers, has come an endorsement of Gladstone’s
appreciation: “Psychical research is the most important work which is
being done in the world--by far the most important.” But scientists
and laymen, so far as concerns the great mass, are still over-eager to
deride and belittle the delvers into the occult--who, so their critics
say, have been laboring all these years to no purpose whatever, and
whose labors, no matter how long continued, can have only futile or
mischievous results.

This widespread conviction of the futility of psychical research is
evinced in many ways. It is seen in the jesting or scornful comments
of writers in the periodical press; it is continually cropping
out in the half-contemptuous, half-pitying smile that greets any
sympathetic reference to “ghosts” or “telepathy”; it manifests in
petulant outbursts from “orthodox” scientists, akin to the outburst
of Von Helmholtz, as when our genial friend, the excellent Professor
Münsterberg, heatedly proclaims, “As to spirit communications, there
are none, and there never will be any.” Perhaps most striking of all
is the almost complete indifference with which the published reports
of the various psychical research organizations now in existence
are regarded by instructors and students alike in many, if not all,
institutions for higher education. In one great American university, to
the writer’s personal knowledge, the many volumes of the _Proceedings_
and _Journal_ of the English Society for Psychical Research, and of the
younger American Society for Psychical Research, are seldom removed
from the library shelves except to be dusted. Truth-seekers in this
university, it would seem, have no time to waste on the “bosh,” “rot,”
and “rubbish” which these silly publications contain.

Now, it may be true--though a number of really learned men believe
otherwise--that those engaged in psychical research have not as yet
demonstrated scientifically either telepathy or survival; and it may
be true that they have set themselves a hopeless task in endeavoring
to establish communication between this world and the next. But it
decidedly is not true that their investigations have been entirely
fruitless. On the contrary, it is safe to say that no other scientific
movement ever set on foot has, in the same length of time, contributed
so much toward the advancement of knowledge as has psychical research.

Few will dispute that psychology today is the most conspicuous and
most promising of the “recognized” sciences. Its marvellous growth
during the past quarter of a century is quite generally attributed to
the increasing application of the laboratory methods devised by Wundt
and his pupils. In reality a large part of the credit--perhaps the
larger part--must be given to those “dabblers in the occult,” who,
like Sidgwick, Myers, and Gurney, in England, and Janet and Richet in
France, thought it not beneath their dignity to study table-tipping,
alleged telepathy, and the disputed phenomena of the hypnotic trance.
To them, incontrovertibly, we owe the foundation-laying of abnormal
psychology, with its manifold practical implications to the physician,
the criminologist, and the educator; to them, as will hereinafter be
shown, we chiefly owe the opening up of vistas of progress undreamed in
the days before scientific psychical research began.

The men who enrolled under Sidgwick in 1882 to form the English
Society for Psychical Research, were not the fanatical, credulous
“ghost-hunters” they are commonly supposed to have been. Their first
task, they saw clearly, was to determine whether the alleged facts
adduced in support of the soul doctrine were really facts; and, if
facts, whether they were not susceptible of adequate explanation on a
wholly naturalistic basis. In the words of Frank Podmore, one of the
earliest and most active members of the Society (_The Naturalization of
the Supernatural_, p. 2):

  The title which I have chosen for the present book, _The
  Naturalization of the Supernatural_, describes in popular language
  the object aimed at. The facts which the Society proposed to
  investigate stood, and some still stand, as aliens, outside the
  realm of organized knowledge. It proposed to examine their claim to
  be admitted within the pale. And it is important to recognize that
  whether we found ourselves able to accept the credentials of these
  postulants for recognition, or whether we felt ourselves compelled
  to reject them as undesirables, the aim which the Society set before
  itself would equally be fulfilled. In undertaking the inquiry we did
  not assume to express any opinion beforehand on the value of the
  evidence to be examined. Whatever the present bias of individual
  members toward belief or disbelief, it will not, I think, be charged
  against us, by any one who dispassionately studies the results ...
  that any private prepossessions were allowed to pervert the methods
  of the inquiry. To ascertain the facts of the case, at whatever cost
  to established opinions and prejudices, has been the consistent aim
  of the Society and its workers.

In this spirit the Society for Psychical Research attacked the whole
strange medley of occult phenomena, from hypnotism to premonitions
and hauntings. To most readers of these pages it may seem almost
incredible that so short a time ago hypnotism was still outside the
pale of science, and was pretty generally regarded as imaginary or
supernatural, according to one’s temperament and training. But,
prior to the founding of the Society for Psychical Research, only
a few inquirers of established reputation--such as Esdaile, Braid,
Liébeault, and Charcot--had deemed it a proper and desirable subject
of investigation; the scientific brotherhood would have none of it,
and frowned on its exponents as self-deluded simpletons or impudent
charlatans. As late as 1875 a writer in the _Grand Dictionnaire
Encyclopédique des Sciences Medicales_, summing up in a few words all
that was to be said about hypnotism, brushed it aside as non-existent.
It was because they questioned dogmatic utterances like this, and
because they hoped through hypnotism to gain fresh light on the problem
of the soul, that the members of the English Society for Psychical
Research listed the study of hypnotism among their principal activities.

The result was not merely the confirmation and correction of much that
Esdaile and other earlier inquirers had noted, but also an impressive,
and in some respects startling, extension of knowledge concerning the
processes of the human mind. Bearing out these discoveries, moreover,
came the findings of sundry French savants--Janet, Binet, Féré,
etc.--who, about the same time as the English investigators, and in
the same spirit of open-minded research, sought to ascertain the true
inwardness of hypnotism. On the one hand, the work of the Englishmen
and the Frenchmen, between the years 1882 and 1890, made it certain
that in hypnotism psychology possessed a wonderful instrument for
experimentation. And, on the other hand, their own experiments with
hypnotism revealed the various mental faculties--perception, attention,
memory, and the rest--in entirely new aspects; paved the way to a
correct understanding of hitherto obscure and baffling maladies; nay,
even made necessary a radical readjustment of the scientific concept of
human personality itself.

In this productive study of the phenomena of hypnotism two names stand
supreme--the names of Pierre Janet and Edmund Gurney. Janet, who still
is with us, deservedly enjoys today a worldwide fame for the part he
has played in the inception and development of psychopathology, or
medical psychology. Gurney to most people is not even a name. Yet in
the brief period of experimentation that preceded his untimely death,
he achieved so much as to suggest that had he lived he would probably
have won a place in contemporary science fully as high as that held
by Janet. More than one medical psychologist, in all likelihood, has
been inspired by Gurney’s researches to specialize in that fascinating
and important branch of the healing art--as was Morton Prince, on his
own statement to the writer. It was not for medical purposes, however,
that Gurney himself experimented with hypnotism: medical psychology
was then in embryo, and Gurney was only secondarily interested in
its possibilities. His great aim was to ascertain the nature of the
hypnotic state, and the condition of the mind during hypnosis.

To review adequately the ingenious methods he adopted and the results
he obtained, would delay us unduly. Enough to stress the salient fact
that, through a brilliant series of experiments full of interest
to modern psychology, he demonstrated the existence of a great
undercurrent of mental life, in which the most complex processes are
carried on without the individual’s conscious knowledge. Already, to
be sure, several students of personality--Hamilton and Carpenter, for
instance--had recognized the necessity of postulating something of
the sort as the only means of rationally explaining certain anomalies
and mysteries of human behavior. But to take it for granted was one
thing, to demonstrate it was obviously quite another. And it remained
for Gurney’s experiments--together with the concurrent experiments of
Janet and his French colleagues--to effect the work of demonstration,
and, still more, to trace the operations of this mental undercurrent in
channels, and with consequences, formerly unsuspected.

Not until Gurney’s and Janet’s time, to be more explicit, had
experimental proof been forthcoming of the far-reaching influence
of “subconscious ideas” in affecting human conduct, and of the
possibility of initiating trains of thought completely cut off, or
“dissociated,” from the field of conscious mentation. This was first
convincingly revealed by experiments based on the discovery of the fact
that commands “suggested” to a hypnotized person would be faithfully
executed at a stated moment after the awakening from hypnosis, and
this despite the absence, in the normal waking state, of any conscious
recollection of the commands in question. That this actually involved
mentation beneath the threshold of consciousness was shown by Gurney
in a number of experiments made possible by the further discovery that
there are some people who can write “automatically”--that is, without
conscious control of the words they put on paper, and even without
knowing that they are writing anything. Thus Gurney records, in the
course of his detailed record of these experiments (_Proceedings of the
Society for Psychical Research_, vol. iv, pp. 268-323):

  On April 20 [P--ll] was told [while hypnotized] that half an hour
  after his next arrival he was to wind up a ball of string, and to
  let me know how the time was going. He arrived next evening at 8.30,
  and was set to the planchette [an instrument then often used to
  obtain automatic writing] at 8.43. He wrote, “13 minett has passed,
  and 17 more minetts to pass.” Some more experiments followed, and
  it so happened that at 9, the exact time when the fulfillment was
  due, he was in the trance. He suddenly said “Oh!” as if recollecting
  something, but did not move; he was then woke, and at 9.2 he walked
  across the room to where some string was lying, and wound it up....

  Another day the same “subject” was told that when I coughed for the
  sixth time he was to look out of the window. He was woke, and I gave
  at intervals five coughs--one of which, however, was a failure, owing
  to its obvious artificiality. He was set to the planchette, and the
  words produced were, “When Mr. Gurney cough 6 times I am to look
  out.” At this point I read his writing and stopped it. I asked if he
  had noticed my coughing, and he said, “No, sir”; but this, of course,
  showed no more than [that] he had heard without attending. He was now
  hypnotized, told that I wanted to know how often I had coughed, and
  at once woke. The writing recommenced, “4 times he has cough, and 2
  times more he has to cough.” I coughed twice more, and he went to the
  window, drew aside the blind, and looked out. Two minutes afterward
  I asked him what sort of a night it was. He said, “Fine when I came
  in.” I said I thought I had seen him looking out just now, but he
  absolutely denied it.

Any doubt that the memory oblivion in the waking state was genuine was
removed by the interesting circumstance that though the “subjects”--men
to whom even small sums of money meant much--were repeatedly offered
substantial rewards if they could state what had been said to them
during hypnosis, they were invariably unable to do so. Stranger still,
Gurney demonstrated that it was entirely possible to develop, in the
hypnotic state itself, different sets of memories, each completely
independent of the others; so that, so far as concerned the contents
of his consciousness, the hypnotized “subject” seemed to possess two
or more personalities, each with its own distinct set of memory-images
(_Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research_, vol. iv, pp.
515-521). This may be made clearer by giving a sample of the many
curious conversations between one of the “subjects” and G. A. Smith
(known in the published reports as S.), a hypnotist often employed by
Gurney to assist him in his experiments:

  A young man named S--t ... after being hypnotized was told in state
  A that the pier-head had been washed away, and in state B that an
  engine-boiler had burst at Brighton station and killed several
  people. He was then roused to state A, when he proved to recollect
  about the accident to the pier; after which a few passes brought him
  again to state B.

  S. “But I suppose they’ll soon be able to build a new one.”

  Had the pier been now present in S--t’s mind, this remark would
  have been naturally understood to refer to it, as it had formed the
  subject of conversation a few seconds before. But he at once replied,
  “Oh, there are plenty on the line”--meaning plenty of engines.

  S. “The pile-driving takes time, though.”

  S--t. “Pile-driving? Well, I don’t know anything about engines
  myself.”

  A few upward passes were now made, and it at once became clear that
  the memory had shifted.

  S. “If they have plenty more, it doesn’t matter much.”

  S--t. “Oh, they can’t put it on in a day; it was a splendid place.”

  S. “Why, I’m talking about the engine.”

  S--t. “Engine! What, on the pier? I never noticed one there.”

  Again, the same “subject” was told in state A that a balloon had
  been seen passing over the King’s-road. Some passes were made which
  carried him into state B, when S. said, “But I didn’t see it myself.”

  S--t. “What was that?”

  He was now told that two large dogs had been having a fight in the
  Western-road; and a few upward passes roused him to state A.

  S. “But it was a good long time in sight.”

  S--t. “The balloon?”

  S. “No, the dog.”

  S--t. “Dog? Why, was there one on it? A dog on a balloon!”

  The “subject” is brought down again to state B.

  S. “But it didn’t remain in sight long; it soon went up.”

  S--t. “What didn’t? What went up?”

  S. “Weren’t we talking about balloons?”

  S--t. “No; but one of them dogs looked like a busted balloon when he
  was down.”

  A few upward passes, and S. says, “Which one?”

  S--t. “Why, there was only one.”

  S. “One what?”

  S--t. “Balloon.”

  S. “I was talking about dogs.”

  S--t. “I don’t know nothing of dogs.”

  Three days afterward S--t was again hypnotized, and S. said, “What
  was that you said about the pier?”

  S--t. “Oh, about the head being washed away.”

  This, it will be seen, was the memory appropriate to state A. Some
  downward passes were made, and S. said, “A good thing that things
  don’t often happen like that.”

  S--t. “No, they don’t at Brighton; they do on the Northern lines.”

  Here we have the engine accident again--the memory appropriate to
  state B. The balloon over the King’s-road was now strongly suggested
  to S; but that idea belonging to state A, it could not be recalled in
  state B.

In all these conversations, in short, it was exactly as if the
hypnotist, S., when talking to his subject in state A, and talking to
him in state B, were talking to two different persons, each ignorant
of facts known to the other. (The profound significance of this, from
a practical as well as a theoretical standpoint will be made evident
later.) On the other hand, and in sharp contrast, Gurney, in common
with the Continental investigators, also demonstrated through hypnotic
experimentation that the memory process as a regular thing is almost
incredibly retentive, so that under appropriate conditions it is
possible to recall happenings, it may be of earliest childhood, which
have long since dropped out of conscious recollection--happenings,
even, of which one has never had conscious knowledge. But, indeed,
credit for the experimental demonstration of this twofold principle of
subconscious perception and subconscious memory--which lies at the very
root of abnormal psychology--by no means belongs wholly to Gurney and
the French hypnotists. Many other pioneers in the systematic study of
the “phenomena outside science” had a hand in proving and elucidating
it, notably those who made a special study of crystal-gazing.

The average scientist of that time--perhaps it would be true to say
the same of the average scientist of today--had about as much interest
in the phenomena of crystal-gazing as he had in the “ravings” of the
entranced spiritistic “medium.” He well knew that from time immemorial
it had been a practice among the mystically minded to employ crystals,
mirrors, or other objects with a reflecting surface, for purposes of
divination; and that it had been insistently claimed that, by gazing
steadily into such objects, hallucinatory pictures often became
visible, imparting useful knowledge about people and events outside the
crystal-gazer’s ken. But the scientist dismissed this as merely another
evidence of the invincible superstitiousness of mankind. It never
occurred to him to try crystal-gazing on his own account; or if it did,
he shudderingly repelled the idea. The founders of the Society for
Psychical Research were not so squeamish; crystal-gazing was approved
by them as a fitting subject for investigation; and ere long, their
decision was abundantly vindicated.

One member of the society, Miss Goodrich-Freer, finding that she
possessed the crystal-gazer’s “gift,” sedulously cultivated it for
experimental purposes, and made as careful and detailed a record of
what she observed as would any scientist employed in the vitally
important task of watching and recording the wriggles of a tadpole.
A fact which soon made itself evident to her was the frequency with
which her crystal-visions represented incidents in her own past life,
sometimes incidents dating back to early childhood. On one occasion,
she notes, somebody was speaking in her presence, though not to her,
of Palissy ware. She happened at the moment to be staring aimlessly
at a dark green scent-bottle. At once there appeared in it a picture
of a man furiously tearing up garden palings. She was wondering what
this meant, when it was followed by a second picture showing, with the
greatest distinctness, the library where as a child she had kept her
books. Among these, Miss Goodrich-Freer now remembered, was one she had
not seen for many years called _The Provocations of Madame Palissy_.
Then she also remembered that one of this lady’s provocations was a bad
habit her husband had of using the first material that came to hand as
fuel for his furnace; and immediately the meaning of the first picture
became clear to her.

Similarly one of her earliest experiences in crystal-vision was a
picture of “a quaint oak chair, an old hand, a worn black coat-sleeve
resting on the back of the chair--slowly recognized as a recollection
of a room in a country vicarage, which I had not entered, and had
seldom recalled, since I was a child of ten.” Again, looking in her
crystal she saw a copy of a medical prescription for which, a few
hours before, she had been vainly hunting. On further inspection she
perceived, without being able to read the words, that it was in the
handwriting, not of her physician, but of a friend. Acting on the
hint she searched through her friend’s letters, and found the medical
prescription folded in one of them, where, she had reason to believe,
it had been for more than four years. It could have been put there
only accidentally, yet it was clear that she must have subconsciously
perceived what she was doing when she slipped the prescription into the
letter, and that the mechanism of memory had registered an image of her
absent-minded act. Many other examples of the memory registration of
subconscious percepts are given in Miss Goodrich-Freer’s reports to the
Society (_Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research_, vol. v,
pp. 486-521; vol. viii, pp. 484-495). For example:

  I find in the crystal a bit of dark wall, covered with white
  jessamine, and I ask myself, “Where have I walked today?” I have no
  recollection of such a sight, not a common one in the London streets
  but tomorrow I will repeat my walk of this morning, with careful
  regard for creeper-covered walls. Tomorrow solves the mystery. I find
  the very spot, and the sight brings with it the further recollection
  that at the moment we passed this spot I was engaged in absorbing
  conversation with my companion, and my voluntary attention was
  pre-occupied.

  To take another example. I had been occupied with accounts; I opened
  a drawer to take out my banking-book. My hand came in contact with
  the crystal, and I welcomed the suggestion of a change in occupation.
  However, figures were still uppermost, and the crystal had nothing
  more attractive to show me than the combination 7694. Dismissing
  this as probably the number of the cab I had driven in that day, or
  a chance grouping of the figures with which I had been occupied, I
  laid aside the crystal and took up my banking-book, which I certainly
  had not seen for some months, and found, to my surprise, that the
  number on the cover was 7694. Had I wished to recall the figures I
  should, without doubt, have failed and could not even have guessed
  at the number of digits or the value of the first figure. Certainly,
  one result of crystal-gazing is to teach one to abjure the verb “to
  forget,” in all its moods and tenses....

  I saw in the crystal a young girl, an intimate friend, waving to me
  from her carriage. I observed that her hair, which had hung down her
  back when I last saw her, was now put up in young-lady fashion. Most
  certainly I had not consciously seen even the carriage, the look
  of which I knew very well. But next day I called on my friend; was
  reproached by her for not observing her as she passed; and perceived
  that she had altered her hair in the way which the crystal had shown.

  Next as to sounds not attended to.... A relative of mine was
  talking one day with a caller in the room next to that in which I
  was reading, and beyond wishing that they were _further_ I paid no
  attention to anything they said, and certainly could have declared
  positively that I did not hear a word. Next day I saw in a polished
  mahogany table, “1, [Earl’s]-square, Notting Hill.” I had no idea
  whose this address might be. But some days later my relative
  remarked, “H. (the caller aforesaid) has left Kensington. She told me
  her address the other day, but I did not write it down.” It occurred
  to me to ask, “Was it 1, [Earl’s]-square?” and this turned out to be
  the case.

From investigators in other departments of psychical research came--and
still comes--evidence no less impressively testifying to the marvellous
power of the human memory, with its subconscious awareness even for
sights and sounds not consciously perceived. It was further discovered
that memory-images not infrequently emerge above the threshold of
consciousness in the form of spontaneously externalized visual and
auditory hallucinations, sometimes of a striking sort. The discovery
was also made that, in persons of a peculiar temperament, subconscious
memories might be so completely switched off, or “dissociated,” from
the field of consciousness that on coming into it again they would
be unrecognized, and would give rise to the conviction that they
related to matters which could not possibly have been within the range
of previous knowledge, conscious or subconscious. Perhaps the best
illustration of this curious and important psychological fact is found
in a case reported quite recently by Mr. Lowes Dickinson.

Among his friends was a young lady who developed a form of “trance
mediumship,” in which she claimed to visit another world and meet
and talk with people there, particularly a certain Blanche Poynings,
described as an earth-dweller in the time of Richard II. This “spirit,”
speaking through the voice of the entranced “medium,” gave as proof
of her identity many interesting particulars regarding her sojourn on
earth. She had been, it seemed, an intimate friend of Maud, Countess
of Salisbury, and much of her talk had to do with that lady, and with
the Earl of Salisbury. Odd little incidents in the latter’s life were
vivaciously recounted--such as his throwing an image out of his chapel
into a ditch, where it was found by a wayfarer, who repainted it and
set it up in a bake-house. “Blanche” also commented in an amusing
way on the appearance of Joan, “The Fair Maid of Kent,” and other
historical personages; told about her own exile from Court; and gave
much information respecting the customs and manners of the period.

All this interested and puzzled Mr. Dickinson, because his friend,
whose veracity he could not doubt, assured him that she had never made
a study of the events of King Richard’s reign, and had not so much as
read anything about it. Yet, as he ascertained by patient research
among old chronicles, the alleged “spirit” unquestionably possessed
accurate and extensive knowledge of the men and women who had been
prominent at King Richard’s Court, and of happenings which in some
instances were barely mentioned by the annalists. The only logical
explanation seemed to be that this was a genuine case of “spirit
communication.” But one day, taking tea with his friend and her aunt,
Mr. Dickinson made a discovery that placed the affair in an entirely
different light.

The subject of automatic writing chanced to come up, and it developed
that the “medium” owned a planchette, and often experimented with it.
At her investigator’s request it was brought out, she placed her hands
on it, and questions were put to it concerning the Blanche Poynings
statements. These questions elicited the unexpected announcement, by
the automatic writing, that corroboration of every statement made by
“Blanche” would be found in a book called _Countess Maud_, written by
Emily Holt. So soon as planchette wrote the name of this book, the
“medium” exclaimed that she believed there was a novel with that title,
and that she had once read it. Her aunt confirmed this, but neither
she nor her aunt could recall anything about its plot or characters,
nor even the period with which it dealt. Following the clue thus
strangely given Mr. Dickinson soon had _Countess Maud_ in his hands,
and found mentioned in it, with corresponding detail, almost every
person and every incident given by the “spirit” of Blanche, who, in the
novel, was of quite secondary importance. Even then his mediumistic
friend could not recall anything about the book, except a vague
impression that she had read it as a child.

He now caused her to be hypnotized, and questioned her anew, when he
learned to his surprise that she had never actually read _Countess
Maud_ herself, but had heard her aunt read it aloud. “I looked at it,
and painted a picture in the beginning. I used to turn over the pages.
I didn’t read it, because it was dull. Blanche Poynings was in the
book; not much about her.” And, in response to a question as to how the
Blanche Poynings impersonation really originated, she made the reply,
of great interest psychologically, “There was a real person named
Blanche Poynings that I met, and I think her name started the memory,
and I got the two mixed up.”

These, then, were some of the first-fruits of systematic psychical
research: Proof that percepts may be subconsciously, as well as
consciously acquired, and that, as Pierre Janet so tersely put it,
“Whatever has gone into the mind may come out of the mind”; proof
that the emergence of subconscious memories may be in the form of
self-induced hallucinations; proof that such memories sometimes develop
a dynamic force, impelling the individual to seemingly inexplicable
conduct; proof that the personality itself may be artificially
dislocated, so that whole areas of memory sink temporarily below the
threshold of consciousness; proof that, even below the threshold,
intelligent mentation continues in a fashion similar to the mentation
consciously directed by the waking will; and, finally, proof that in
hypnotism, crystal-gazing, and automatic writing, invaluable means
are available for exploring the remotest nooks and corners of “the
subconscious.” From one point of view their establishment of such facts
as these was, indeed, disconcerting to the “psychical researchers,”
for it obviously made increasingly difficult the demonstration of
the survival of the soul on evidence afforded by phenomena like
apparitions, hauntings, and mediumistic utterances. But it also marked
an enormous advance in man’s knowledge of himself, and in his control
of his development here on earth.

The first to appreciate this--at any rate, the first to turn it to
practical account--were the Frenchmen who, like Gurney, had attacked
with special vigor the problems raised by hypnotism. Sharing to the
full the belief of their English colleagues that here was a subject
which science ought to have investigated long before--many of them,
in fact, expressing their sympathy with the general purposes of the
Society for Psychical Research by becoming members of it--the French
savants’ motive in invading the realm of the occult had in most cases
been intellectual curiosity rather than any ardent desire to prove life
after death. They were not so much concerned with the possible bearing
of hypnotic phenomena on the soul problem, as with their possible
bearing on man’s earthly welfare. And no sooner was it borne in on them
that hypnotism did have practical uses, than the majority concentrated
their efforts on ascertaining what these uses were, and to what extent,
and with what consequences, the phenomena of the hypnotic state were
paralleled in everyday life.

The leader in this movement--which, with Gurney’s experiments
in England, may be said to constitute the beginning of abnormal
psychology--was Pierre Janet, who, in 1881, at the early age of
twenty-two, had been appointed professor of philosophy in the college
of Chateauroux, and soon afterward received a similar appointment
in the College of Havre. At Havre, Janet took up in earnest the
investigation of things psychical, studying mediumistic phenomena, and
making a series of experiments in hypnotic telepathy that brought him
into mutually helpful relations with Gurney, Myers, and other active
workers in the Society for Psychical Research. But from the first he
was specially interested in the peculiarities of the mind in hypnosis,
and his interest in this particular problem became all-absorbing
when he observed that even the most bizarre hypnotic phenomena
were sometimes spontaneously produced. Perhaps most influential in
determining the future course of his life-activities was his discovery
that hypnotization was not always necessary to effect the strange
dissociation of personality evinced in, for instance, the case of
Gurney’s “subject,” S--t, cited above.

Janet himself, experimenting with Madame B., the peasant wife of a
charcoal-burner, had been astonished to find that when hypnotized
she developed a personality markedly different from that of her
normal waking life. The waking Madame B. was a timid, dull, ignorant
woman; the hypnotized Madame B. (who called herself Léontine) was
bright, vivacious, even inclined to be mischievous. Between the two
personalities, again, there was an absolute cleavage of memory; each
knew nothing of the other’s thoughts and actions. And after a time,
to Janet’s profound astonishment, the Léontine personality began
to manifest spontaneously. In an article contributed to the _Revue
Philosophique_, for March, 1888, he records (translation by Frederic
Myers):

  She had left Havre more than two months when I received from her a
  very curious letter. She was unwell, she said, worse on some days
  than on others, and she signed her true name, Madame B. But over
  the page began another letter in a very different style, and which
  I may quote as a curiosity, “My dear good sir, I must tell you that
  B. really, really makes me suffer very much; she cannot sleep,
  she spits blood, she hurts me; I am going to demolish her, she
  bores me, I am ill also, this is from your devoted Léontine.” When
  Madame B. returned to Havre I naturally questioned her about this
  singular missive. She remembered the _first_ letter very distinctly
  ... but had not the slightest recollection of the second.... I at
  first thought that there must have been an attack of spontaneous
  somnambulism between the moment when she finished the first letter
  and the moment when she closed the envelope.... But afterward these
  unconscious, spontaneous letters became common, and I was better
  able to study their mode of production. I was fortunately able to
  watch Madame B. on one occasion while she went through this curious
  performance. She was seated at a table, and held in her left hand
  the piece of knitting at which she had been working. Her face was
  calm, her eyes looked into space with a certain fixity, but she was
  not cataleptic, for she was humming a rustic air; her right hand
  wrote quickly, and, as it were, surreptitiously. I removed the paper
  without her noticing me, and then spoke to her; she turned round,
  wide awake, but surprised to see me, for in her state of abstraction
  she had not noticed my approach. Of the letter which she was writing
  she knew nothing whatever.

To Janet this strange occurrence, when viewed in conjunction with
phenomena manifested by two or three other of his “subjects,” was
chiefly significant as hinting at the possibility that the same
mechanism which produced the various phenomena of the hypnotic
state--from hallucinations, loss of memory, and automatic execution of
“suggestions” given during hypnosis, to the production of blisters,
paralyses, and other physical effects of hypnotic suggestion--might be
operant in, and responsible for, the protean manifestations of that
baffling disease hysteria, with which Madame B. and the other subjects
were known to be afflicted. On this theory, hysteria--which until
then had been generally assumed to have a physical basis--would be
essentially a mental malady; and its fundamental characteristic would
be some degree of dissociation of personality.

Already, as Janet was aware, Charcot had demonstrated the inadequacy
and downright error of the prevalent medical notions concerning
hysteria, and had also rendered a splendid service to humanity by
compelling recognition of the fact that sufferers from hysteria often
develop symptoms--paralyses, growths, etc.--all too easily mistaken
for the symptoms of some really organic disease perhaps incurable, or
curable only by the aid of the surgeon’s knife. But while he had thus
revealed the wholly functional character of hysteria, and had saved
countless sufferers from useless and unnecessary operations, Charcot
had thrown little or no light on its causation and mechanism, and this
was the problem which Janet now undertook to solve, removing from Havre
to Paris, and associating himself with Charcot in the latter’s clinic
at the Salpétrière Hospital.

Observing, experimenting, recording--with a truly catholic mind
profiting from the observations and experiments of other workers,
including his fellow-members in the Society for Psychical Research--he
gradually achieved his epoch-marking demonstration of the rôle played
by “dissociated memories” in the causation, not alone of hysteria, but
of all functional nervous and mental troubles. He showed that severe
emotional shocks--frights, griefs, worries--might be, and frequently
were, completely effaced from conscious recollection, while continuing
to be vividly remembered in the depths of the subconscious; he showed
that thence they might, and frequently did, exercise a baneful effect
on the whole organism giving rise to disease-symptoms, the particular
types of which were determined by the victim’s “self-suggestions” (just
as Mr. Dickinson’s “medium” suggested to herself the Blanche Poynings
impersonation); and he showed how important it was, as a preliminary to
effecting a permanent cure, to get at these dissociated memories and
drag them back to the full light of conscious recollection.

To get at them he made use, as medical psychologists all over the
civilized world are today making use, of hypnotism, of automatic
writing, even of the “mystical” crystal-gazing, the use of which for
medical purposes was directly suggested to him by the experiments
of Miss Goodrich-Freer. Janet himself, it should perhaps be added,
would be the last to disavow the assistance he received in one way or
another from the “psychical researchers” of England; indeed, he has
not forgotten that everything he has accomplished is the outgrowth of
his early studies in the “occult” phenomena of hypnotism. It is to be
regretted that many of his present-day fellow-workers in the domain of
scientific psychotherapy are not equally appreciative of the fact that
every “cure” they put to their credit--every hysteric, neurasthenic,
or psychasthenic patient whom they send on his or her way rejoicing in
a restoration to health--is a living witness to the beneficial results
that have flowed from the patient labors of the courageous pioneers,
who, at the risk of their scientific reputations, so boldly adventured
into the psychical thirty years ago.

We shall have more to say in a later article on what society owes to
psychical research.



THE WAR BY A HISTORIAN


When for slight reason a continent shakes with the tread of marching
battalions, it is easy to fall into moral despair. We seem to confront
a world-order that limits the sway of reason between nations, and
gives full scope only to the hatreds and destructive ingenuities of
mankind. In the wholesale deliberate slaughter of multitudes of men of
good will, workers, lovers, husbands, fathers suddenly dedicated to
systematic homicide of their fellows, piling up in blood and travail
grievous burdens for their own children’s children--in such a spectacle
the thoughtful mind at first finds only nightmare. And nightmare
intolerable it is, if to the end of time a few out of pride or fear or
sheer incapacity shall thus be able to decree the last sacrifice and
swift death to the many.

In such moments of natural dejection, the mind must rally to its own
defence. We live after all in a moral world. Intelligence has persisted
and grown through worse occultations. The future may hold out hopes
of a world-order in which the nightmare of the present cannot repeat
itself. Meanwhile if we face the thing steadily in the light of its
underlying causes, considering the moral issues involved, looking
forward to the just retributions that the world will surely require of
those who have shattered its peace, we may reëstablish in ourselves
the sense of an overruling moral order, toward which we may each in
his degree work. Such an inquiry into the responsibility for the war
will lift the obsession of universal, insensate violence. Even the
offenders are obeying race loyalty, and responding to certain obsolete
ideals which yet are deeply grounded in history, while the defenders
are vindicating the cause of the world’s peace by the only course left
open to them. Against the brute law of strongest battalions, they have
been forced to fight, that ideals of forbearance, comity, and honor may
still be held among nations.

On the broader moral issue of the war, mankind has already spoken.
The military isolation of Austria and Germany is no more marked than
their moral isolation. In the history of warfare, has there ever been
so uniform a verdict of the human race? Though instinctive and rapid,
the sentiment may also be rationally grounded. Let us test it by an
examination of the causes of the war.

What made the war possible is the fixed antipathy between impatient,
ruling Germans and restless, subject Slavs. Such racial discord is
naturally most acute in Austria, where a domineering Teuton minority
holds in uneasy subordination the Slavs of Bohemia, Austrian Poland,
and the Balkan and Adriatic range; but it is a distinct factor also
in Prussia, where an embittered and losing campaign against Polish
national feeling in the Posen region has long been waged. These
disharmonies are an inevitable incident of expansion without the
consent of the annexed peoples. The part of wise statesmanship is to
bear much of this sort of opposition, trusting to healing process
of just government and time. In Austria and Germany, however, these
antipathies, were deliberately fomented by the war clique. The surest
way of getting huge army appropriations is to show a foe or a rebel
in being. In 1908 the unrest of all the Balkan Slavs was increased by
Austria’s assuming permanent tenure of Bosnia and Herzegovina, where
by treaty she had been exercising a temporary, police jurisdiction.
The annexation extinguished national hopes, and while it undoubtedly
established order, did so in arbitrary and oppressive fashion. The fact
that Germany supported the annexation, intimidating the natural ally
of the Balkan Slavs, Russia, accentuated the racial feud. The recent
heroic struggle in the Balkans, which resulted in the aggrandizement
of the Slavic powers of Servia, Bulgaria, and Montenegro, naturally
excited the Slavs under Austrian domination. Austria, on the other
hand, had maintained a persistent hostility to her southern neighbors,
and after the war, had by diplomatic means, and again aided by Germany,
frustrated many of the legitimate hopes of Servia and Montenegro.
An illogical and already derelict Albania, is the chief result of
Austria’s dog in the manger policy. Her smouldering resentment against
Servia was raised to an intense pitch by the deplorable assassination
of the Crown Prince and his wife. It was an act as foolish as heinous,
but it was also a natural product of arrogant and oppressive rule.
Though the deed was done on Austrian soil, the assassins were Slavs,
and the plot traceable to Belgrade, and this gave Austria the chance
to hold Servia nationally responsible for the crime. She issued an
ultimatum in which Servia was virtually required to avow responsibility
for the outrage, to investigate and punish anti-Austrian agitators, and
in such proceedings to admit Austrian officials. In effect, Servia was
asked to plead guilty, on penalty of invasion, and to place her case in
the hands of Austria as both prosecutor and judge.

The ultimatum of July 23, was outrageous, such as no state ever dreams
of issuing to an equal. Weakened by two wars and apparently menaced by
overwhelming force, Servia drank the cup, hesitating only at the last
dregs. With the bulk of the Austrian demands she complied, demurring
only to the waiver of her own national estate implied in alien
interference with her police. Even this humiliating stipulation she
offered to arbitrate. The reply of Austria was to set 300,000 troops
across the Danube, and to shell the undefended city of Belgrade. The
history of war has shown few more baseless aggressions. Austria had
reckoned on Servia’s weakness, and on the willingness and ability of
Germany, as in 1908, to hold off Russia. Austria unwittingly reckoned
with forces to which Russia and Germany are small. The analogy of
the Bosnian annexation was false. There the deed had been carefully
prepared and delay had blunted the effect of the final move. This
time Austria suddenly and without preparation outraged the moral sense
of the world. The official plea is that in some mysterious way the
Austro-Hungarian Empire was threatened in its very existence by the
machinations of the Serbs at home and in the newly annexed Austrian
provinces. That plea is hollow. Austria was neither more nor less in
peril than she has been for sixty years; she was merely enduring a
slight, however sensational, exaggeration of the chronic difficulties
of dominion over alien and unwilling races. The reality is that Austria
was incensed by the prosperity of the new Slavic nations in possessions
that she had prospectively marked out as her own. To confuse ulterior
ambitions with immediate rights is characteristic of the mentality of
neo-Imperialism.

So far, for convenience, I have spoken of Austria and other powers as
units, and with the usual rhetorical personification. The practice is
misleading. When we say Austria, in the political sense, we mean a mere
handful of high administrative and military officers, a few diplomats
and journalists, a portion of a small and exclusive aristocracy, a
pack of manufacturers of arms and military contractors, a rabble
of speculators hoping out of troubled waters to fish extraordinary
profits--that is political Austria, that with slight differences is the
permanent war party in every nation. The peace of the world ultimately
hangs on the nod of a few hundred individuals--men at best of intense,
narrow, and backward-looking vision; at worst basely interested in the
destruction of their fellow beings, accustomed to regard carnage as
normal business. The problem of insuring the world’s peace is that of
putting such men out of control, and replacing them by men who think
the thoughts and feel the feelings of modern civilization. Incapacity
to grasp the modern man, is the defect of the war caste everywhere.
It indulges mediæval alarms, appeals to factitious loyalties, speaks
an obsolete tongue. Politically Austria is still very much where
Metternich left her. A crafty balancing off of the aspirations of new
nationalities has been the method of consolidating the artificial sway
of the Emperor. There has been a constant disregard, perhaps ignorance,
of the generous motives that move in modern society. The aged and
afflicted Emperor has many times shown himself to have an insight
superior to that of his counsellors. Had the present emergency not
caught him infirm in body and spirit, I believe the event would have
been very different. Free from his controlling hand, the war machine
has worked almost automatically its fitting product.

When we say Austria and Germany, we must distinguish clearly between
the peasants of many tongues, the thrifty tradesmen, the ingenious
manufacturers and hardy artisans, the scientists and scholars, the keen
students of public betterment, the artists and musicians,--between
these socially useful people with their women and children, upon
whom falls the actual burden of this war,--and a little, complacent,
opinionated minority, miseducated, aloof from the generous instincts
of humanity, dead to the kindling enthusiasms of the new century,--a
little complacent, pitiful, minority which from any outcome of the
worst war reaps its private harvest of profit, promotion, and prestige.
Any genuine representation of the real Austria and Germany would have
made this war impossible, any adjustment looking to permanent peace
must include the elimination of the misrepresentative administrators
who have frivolously plunged a continent into war.

In a moral analysis of the causes of the war, the single ambiguous term
is Russia. On the face of it she promptly rallied to the support of her
fellow Slavs in Servia, by diplomatic protests at Berlin and Vienna
and by mobilizing on the Austrian border. Humanitarian and political
motives combined to force some kind of intervention. Without denying
the bond of race, Russia could not permit any Slavic nation to be
ruthlessly overborne. Honor in the highest sense and policy combined
to dictate some such course as Russia actually took. The official
statements of Austria and Germany waver between two attitudes. On the
whole, the Austrian apologists condemn the Russian move as merely
defective and unhappy in form. Had Russia not mobilized, the Servian
situation might have been adjusted diplomatically. As things went,
the provocative moves of Russia, forced similar precautions first on
Austria, then on Germany, with the unforeseen result of a general
war. The speech of the German Chancellor, however, echoes that of the
Kaiser, in charging Russia with deliberately provoking Germany and
Austria into war.

To me the issue, though evidently a crucial one,--for if Russia is
deliberately making a war, most of the European world is being dragged
into devil’s work,--is set in such technical fashion by the German
manifestoes, that their own sincerity is open to doubt. It remains a
somewhat interesting academic question what a Russian protest without
mobilization might have effected. The obduracy of Germany in the face
of more formidable military preparations by France and England, seems
to indicate that a wholly pacific intervention by Russia would have
effected little. On an alternative theory, Germany and Austria are
fighting solely on a point of technical honor. They couldn’t “take a
dare” from a threatening neighbor. Doubtless some of the arbiters of
war in Germany and Austria did honestly so feel. But in so feeling they
were parrotting the phrases and indulging the alarms of forty years ago.

The figment of a ruthlessly expansive Russia has today little reality
behind it, but for militaristic ends it is still a most useful bugbear.
Twice in a generation Russia has tasted the bitter fruits of heedless
aggression. Today she is overtaxed, not merely by the arrears of these
wars, but also by the great task of assimilating her present subjects.
Her political situation at home is one of instability. Direct gain
from venturing to support Servia, Russia had none to hope for. Twice
she has stood aside while her sphere of influence in the Balkans was
being repartitioned. In short, there is no conceivable reason why
Russia should have invited war at this time, and every reason why she
should have desired peace. Her mobilization must be interpreted in that
light. Ostensibly it was done _pari passu_ with similar preparations in
Austria and Germany, but suppose she began first. Mobilization means
just what those who order it mean. It is not _per se_ an offence, much
less a cause of war. Russia made most solemn protestations that she
would fight only in the last resort. All the world except the Germans
and Austrians believed these assurances.

What weakens the Austrian case is the unduly spectacular demonstration
she made on the Danube. Ostensibly she was engaged in a punitive
expedition which might have been satisfied with the occupation of the
offending capital, and an indemnity. It is probable that Russia and
the world, rather than hazard a general war, would have tolerated a
reprisal, which however inherently excessive, did not transcend the
usual bounds of such enterprises. But Austria hurled half her effective
force into Servian territory. Surely she had given ground for the
inference that no argument unaccompanied by show of force would deter
her. In our day we shall probably not know what Austria actually
intended towards Servia, but it is plain enough that, granting the
whole thing was a merely punitive move, it was exaggerated with the
insolent thick-headedness characteristic of military bureaucracies.
At best it can only be said that Austria needlessly blundered into a
demonstration that must be alarming to Europe and most offensive to
Russia, without correctly calculating either the moral reaction of
Europe or the limits of Russia’s forbearance. It must be conceded,
however, that the Austrian militarists had been grievously exasperated
by the murder of their Prince, and the impulse to seek somewhere some
sort of vengeance was, however mistaken, entirely natural.

So much cannot be said for the conduct of Germany. Her grievance
was remote and indirect, her public sentiment relatively calm and
tractable. A word from her would have checked Austria at any time.
Accordingly upon Germany falls the heaviest responsibility for the
war. From her power and detachment she was doubly in a position to
play the peacemaker. There are those who think that the Kaiser and his
counsellors foresaw the whole outcome and deliberately hastened it. I
am unwilling to think such baseness of any human being, and find the
evidence for such a suspicion as yet lacking; the whole transaction
seems to show a blundering from step to step, making each decision
not on principles of common sense, but under some esoteric code of
military honor, honor soon being forgotten in the pursuit of military
success. Germany’s official attitude, as voiced by her Chancellor, is
that she was forced to mobilize under menace at her Russian and French
borders. This is the best construction that can be put on her case.
Whether one accepts this plea or not, will depend on his view of the
motives that prompted the Russian and French mobilization. Would France
and Russia have waited quietly during long negotiations, or were they
awaiting the favorable moment for an invasion? Did they want peace or
war? Considering the little advantage and the certain sacrifice that
each nation finds in this war, the answer can hardly be in doubt.
There is not the slightest indication that either had any intention
of invading Germany, or anything to gain by it. But the militaristic
mind is trained to see in every movement of foreign troops a direct
threat, and it is credible enough that the Kaiser’s counsellors were
intellectually incapable of grasping the idea of a mobilization in the
interest of peace. For years they have propounded the axiom that to
negotiate without show of force, is fruitless waste of time, and now
they add the paradoxical corollary, “But Germany will not treat with
any nation that makes a show of force.” Obviously Germany could have
mobilized while continuing to treat. There were evidences that Austria,
had her face been saved, would have reconsidered her rash move. From
the British “White Paper” it is plain that, had Germany effected any
slight modification of the Austrian demands, England would have stood
out of the war. The fact that three weeks after the declaration of
war Russia was hardly ready for an advance shows that Germany was not
immediately menaced by the Russian mobilization. The German ultimatum
which cut short both the direct negotiations between Vienna and St.
Petersburg and Lord Grey’s promising plan of mediation was a crime
against civilization--and stupid military policy as well.

The German attitude may again and most simply be construed as blindly
loyal support of an ally right or wrong. It is a purely technical duty
that Italy very sensibly repudiated. In the sense that Germany had
unquestionably countenanced the ultimatum to Servia, she would seem
committed. But such committals are subject, after all, to humanity
and common sense, and to the conduct of the ally to whom support has
been engaged. No nation is bound to risk its very existence for a rash
ally. Yet on the theory of _pundonor_, that is where Germany finds
herself today. The stern unreasoning maxims of a military caste must
have counted for much in Germany’s obduracy. No motive of interest,
immediate or remote, would at all justify or account for the assumption
of a hazard involving the continuance and integrity of the Empire
itself.

It is certain that Germany underestimated the hazard. A dynastic
war with Russia she was willing to accept and almost courted. The
contingent hostility of France she apparently did not fear. For
securing the neutrality of England she had a most plausible programme.
The explicit warnings from London she believed to be bluff. She
probably counted on a servile Belgium. How badly she had misconceived
her world, the event promptly proved. England and France were as ready
to make the last sacrifice for ideals of international moderation and
good faith as Germany for mediæval punctilio; industrial Belgium was
capable of heroic resistance.

All the official statements of Germany abound in technicalities which
to common sense are negligible. The precise amount and chronology
of French and Russian provocation at the border, the amount of
infraction of Belgian neutrality implied in the secret presence of
French officers--all these matters are weighed with the solemnity and
exactness of the seven degrees of the lie. The very language is that
of the tiltyard or fencing floor. Such a move implies another; to the
thrusts of Russia and France, Germany always parries in the forms.
This was throughout the temper of the Wilhelmstrasse and of the German
ambassadors at the danger points, Vienna and St. Petersburg. Had the
Germans wanted the war, they could not have acted a whit otherwise. It
is entirely possible that the secret memoirs of the future, will show
that the whole clumsy transaction was merely the Kaiser’s parody of the
astute machinations of Bismarck in 1870.

The position of France was in all main regards a defensive one,
although she was bound as well by treaty to support Russia. Against
unavowed German military movements, France openly reinforced her
frontier, meanwhile seeking a diplomatic solution. Germany once more
took the ground that she would not negotiate with a foe in process of
mobilization, and precipitated the rupture by an ultimatum. In a larger
sense France is defending her own civilization and her own influence
among nations against the pretension of Teutonic preponderancy in
Europe.

England’s participation in the war was required, first, by her naval
agreement with France; next, by her determination to maintain the
neutrality of the small nations Luxembourg and Belgium. For several
years the English in the North Sea and Channel and the French in the
Mediterranean, have mutually engaged to defend each other’s interests
in those respective waters. This meant that imminent war found the
French fleet in southern waters, and her northern and western coast
open to Germany’s attack. Sir Edward Grey in his first statement before
Parliament promised that England would live up to her bargain, and if
necessary undertake the naval defense of the French coast. This was
the frank acknowledgment of a minimum obligation, to break which, Mr.
Asquith later justly remarked, would have utterly discredited a private
individual. England’s next move was determined by the appeal for aid
of neutralized Belgium. England demanded a statement of Germany’s
intentions as regards Belgium and the other neutralized powers, and
when the note was answered by the hastening of the invasion of Belgium,
declared war.

Sound national policy as well as honor forced the decision. England
could not take the risk of Germany at Antwerp. And German assurances to
respect the sovereignty of Belgium had been proved worthless in advance
by Germany’s violating the neutrality she was pledged to maintain.
It is significant that the bullying sophisms with which Germany had
confronted her Continental neighbors were not even hinted at in the
case of England. There was no longer any disinclination to confer
with a power in a state of martial preparation. There were numerous
suggestions by which England might defend France passively, there was
even a hint that the violated neutralities would be respected, for a
consideration. In any case the evident preparedness of the British
fleet was not regarded as disqualifying England as a negotiatory power,
though as a matter of fact the bounds of Germany were never more
effectively attacked than when sealed orders were issued to Admiral
Jellicoe. Germany could, when she wished, deal with a potential foe in
arms,--deal patiently and at length. The point of honor raised against
France and Russia should be interpreted in the light of the repeated
offers to buy off England.

England had the good fortune to take the clearest and most
disinterested stand of all the embroiled powers. She was bound by a
special obligation, which she could not dishonor, but which, had the
Germans engaged not to attack France or her colonies by sea, might
have left England a neutral. She was driven to arms by the ruthless
molestation of neutral Belgium. It was the cause of civilization. In no
particular have international law and world peace been more developed
than in the neutralization of states. To attack this is to attack in
perhaps its most vital spot the progress of the world. It is at best
the act of a barbarian and an outlaw, and when committed upon a people
who have offended in nothing but in asserting the right that the
aggressor himself has guaranteed, it is the act of a savage. That there
is a penalty for violating a neutralized state, the presence of England
in this war is most exemplary evidence. She has truly taken up arms in
the cause of peace.

Reviewing the motives of the combatants, Austria and Germany are
fighting for the prerogatives and ideals of a politico-military
hierarchy; Russia is fighting for a little nation of kindred blood
and identical faith which had been outrageously attacked; France is
fighting in self defense and for her treaty obligations; England is
explicitly fighting for the principle of neutralization. In a larger
sense the various motives of the powers embattled against Austria and
Germany merge in the need of a gigantic police enterprise. We have on
a tremendous scale the attempt to chastise two criminally aggressive
powers, which Mr. Norman Angell proposed, on a smaller and less ruinous
scale, as a means towards securing peace. The spirit that animates the
European coalition against the two central Empires is that a small
nation should not be brutally entreated by a stronger by reason of its
greater strength, nor a neutralized nation be molested by violation of
its soil and slaying of its citizens. If we hold clearly in mind this
police aspect of the war, we are in a position to weigh some of the
possibilities.

The success of Austria and Germany would mean the extinction of what
little international law and morality has been painfully built up
through the centuries, the impact of the mailed fist throughout Europe,
the rigid rule of a pedantic and tyrannical bureaucracy, the diminution
of the variety and vitality of western civilization, the clamping
upon the world for an indefinite future the most unendurable bonds
of militarism. Fortunately there is small reason to dread so dire a
disaster for humanity. The stars fight in their courses against those
who would undo the work of time.

The success of the _Triple Entente_, may, as it is directed, take
us far towards permanent peace, or once more establish a military
tension that in its turn must produce new wars. What is all important
is that the police character of this war should not be lost sight of.
It is always easy for the most generous causes to sink to a level of
immediate small interests--the Crusaders forgetting the Holy Sepulchre
while Constantinople is being looted. Such temptations will beset the
_Triple Entente_ in the event of a triumph. Meanwhile, it may be the
part of France and England to restrain the bitterness of Russia, who is
engaged in a war essentially racial. It is necessary that the lesson
administered to Germany and Austria be complete and convincing. Their
best wishers can only desire for them a prompt and sharp chastisement.
The peace of the world requires either the reduction of Germany to
military impotence or a change in the arrogant temper of her ruling
class.

Since the war has been occasioned by the stubborn folly of a military
and diplomatic caste, the minimum of reform, is that that caste should
be deposed in Austria and Germany. France set an example over forty
years ago. Such deposition to be effective would apparently involve
such constitutional changes that it is difficult to see how either
the Hapsburg or Hohenzollern dynasty could logically survive the
revolution. In the light of history neither would be missed.

Historically, the notion of a central European Empire has meant
nothing but harm. Through the Middle Ages the cheap parodists of the
Cæsars trafficked when they might, and fought when they must, claiming
territory at large, setting race against race, and pontiff against
king, raiding and looting rich neighboring lands rather than waging
war, fomenting religious persecution, opposing by trickery and force
the development of the new races and nationalities. Such was for
centuries the record of the Holy Roman Empire. For Europe its legend
has ever been baleful. Everybody knows that the House of Hapsburg
inherits by direct descent this tradition, and Austria with its loose
hold over many races is today a simulacrum of the Mediæval Empire,
owing her new lease of life, after the Imperial idea had discredited
itself, to the suppression of Hungary with the aid of Imperial Russia.
In the Emperor Franz Josef we have an individual superior to his
origins, but he inevitably inherited the diplomatic and military caste
of advisors and administrators who have brought Austria to the present
pass. The mentality of this hierarchy was fixed after the Napoleonic
wars, at the moment when reaction was exaggerated, and has not changed
with changing times.

At least the Austrian Empire and its ruling caste had the warrant of
tradition. In Germany the tradition was recently made to order by the
genius of Bismarck. The mediæval caste which Austria inherited, Germany
deliberately created for herself. The Empire rose out of no instinctive
need of the race, from no demand of the numerous small states and free
cities, but as the clever utilization of a brilliant military triumph.
What war gave, war could take away. The Empire that was proclaimed at
Versailles might be terminated at Potsdam. The offence of the Empire
is not its title and form but in the changing for the worse of the
German character. Governments are worth just what they produce in
national character. The German temper is naturally genial, thrifty,
deliberate, patient, scholarly and musical. Official Germany has
developed an intolerable arrogance that threatens the whole world. The
Kaiser has mediævalized Germany’s ruling caste, and is the symbol of
that process.

Personally I do not believe that the _Triple Entente_ will be called
upon to dispose of the Hapsburg and Hohenzollern dynasties, any more
than in 1871, Germany was burdened with the disposition of Napoleon
III. Like causes produce like effects, and when Austria and Germany
shall have awakened from red dreams of conquest, to the gray reality of
defeat, they may be trusted to call to account these responsible for
their humiliation.

With an Imperial Austria and Germany, the _Triple Entente_ could only
deal most sternly, always along those modern lines of penology which do
not avenge the offence, but see to it that the offender be not allowed
to repeat it. On the theory that the present administration of Germany
and Austria is to be perpetuated, nothing less than the crippling
of those powers could guarantee even a few years of peace. With a
reorganized Germany and Austria, the allies could and should deal far
more generously than Germany did with the bantling French Republic.
Belgium, for violated neutrality should obviously be made Germany’s
preferred creditor.

Into more speculative matters I will only briefly inquire. There
will naturally be some readjustment of the central European map to
make political and racial lines more nearly coincident. Many of the
historic states which have been whipped or cajoled into the two Empires
may reëmerge. A number of small neutralized states in central Europe
is among the possibilities. How much of such a process the loosely
articulated Austrian Empire can stand is problematical. Some kind of a
coherent Germany should emerge from the disaster, and all that is most
certainly and valuably German will be preserved. German victory would
overwhelm it under militarism. The intellectual primacy of Germany has
never depended on the legend of the Empire. It was acknowledged before
the Empire was dreamed of, and would survive if the Empire were only an
unblest memory. The real Germany has today only friends in the world.
To many of us she is an intellectual foster mother and very dear. We
hope to see her relieved of disguising mediæval frippery, and once more
her radiant and edifying self. In the Kaiser’s proclamation he protests
against world wide jealousy and hatred of Germany. Without mincing
words, it may be admitted that the world is justly hostile to him and
what he represents. He identifies himself and what he represents with
Germany. When she shall have set that misunderstanding straight, she
will find in the world only friends and sympathizers.

Looking to the future, and especially to the cause of peace, the war
suggests certain reflections. If the war results only in a consciously
suppressed Germany and Austria kept in order by the armies of the
_Triple Entente_, nothing much will have been done. If the ruffian
temper of German officialdom persists, Europe will merely have lavished
once more her treasure, tears and blood in the old inconclusive way.
The hope lies in a solution so just that the defeated nations may
accept it, so wise that it may safely include a general reduction of
armaments. The cause of peace is already the gainer by a sensational
demonstration of the fallacy of the stock sophism that the only
guarantee of peace is competitive arming. The way in which the little
spark struck on the Danube overran Europe proves that competitive
arming is not merely the ready occasion of war, but of war on the most
costly and disastrous terms.

But pacificists should not press their momentary advantage beyond the
bounds of common sense. There is already a fanatical tendency to
denounce war as such, instead of seeking out and denouncing those who
have made war without just cause. Of course war abstractly is just as
much and just as little moral or immoral as a cyclone. It would be
quite as logical to meet and pass resolutions against the earthquake
that filled peaceful Messina with human carrion, as to denounce
wholesale this or any war. The case of Belgium suggests that it is
not the moment for any sensible person to waste his time in working
for complete disarmament. Had she trusted solely to the treaties that
protected her, how complete would have been her humiliation! Belgium
also shows most instructively that the maintenance of an effective
military _morale_ does not imply militarism. None of the Belgian
officers who held the cordon of Liege had been taught that his honor as
a soldier might at any moment require him to sabre an unarmed civilian.
Yet the Belgian officers gave a sufficiently good account of themselves
against those who had been trained in the bullying tradition. With
Belgium still in view, and recalling what would have been her fate had
she trusted solely in the treaties that protected her, no sensible
person could now advise any nation to disarm below the reasonable
requirements of defense. It is possible however that these limits
may be greatly reduced by right thinking among nations. Already the
individual is measurably free to criticise his own country when engaged
in a war that he deems unjust. How great a liberty that is few of us
realize. The next step is freedom for large bodies of individuals to
refuse to serve their country in a war waged without popular consent
and palpably unjust. A people thus minded would be the greatest check
on that interested bureaucracy that any military establishment,
however, moderate, involves. How far we still are from that, the
rallying of the socialists to all the colors shows plainly.

Perhaps the most fertile notion arising from the situation is that
of an international police function to be exercised by the most
enlightened nations. Something of this there was, though motives were
badly mixed, in the Spanish-American war; the notion has plainly
governed President Wilson’s Mexican policy. Indeed this police right
has at all times been pretty freely claimed by strong powers against
weak. It is a tremendous moral gain to see the principle asserted
against strong powers who are imperilling the good order of the
world,--and this irrespective of the outcome of the war.

A most valuable demonstration has been made of the validity of the
principle of neutralization. Since small neutralized states are not for
the future to be abandoned to any strong aggressor, they may safely be
multiplied. Here may be a solution of the problem of racially varied
central Europe. Everything depends upon England and France holding
their representative function loyally to the end, and avoiding the
national egotism that war in the past has usually aroused. If they are
faithful to the charge they have explicitly undertaken, a new era may
open for humanity.

The part of pacificists is to avoid phrases, and deal with facts.
In the long run there can be no peace so long as individuals put
their lives at the disposal of any kind of leader who waves the flag
in any kind of cause. So long as nations are unreasoning mobs the
moment the trumpet sounds, it will be idle to depose military castes;
others will promptly form, and in their turn prevail. Accordingly the
educational campaign of the pacificists must continue,--continue,
however, with the frank admission that the sword has often in the
past been drawn for ulterior righteousness and peace, and that if the
time ever comes when from mere horror of war men decline to draw the
sword in a clearly righteous cause, so exanimate a world will enjoy
precisely the peace it deserves. We must beware of considering peace
and war as respectively _bonum_ and _malum in se_. In the present
case, to have yielded to Germany would, in the lowering of the moral
tone of Europe, have been more disastrous than the unhappy war that
has resulted from a single outrageous move: for submission would have
meant that the world was content to continue in the twentieth century
the ethics of Metternich and Bismarck, while the fact of the war means
that the twentieth century world is prepared, at whatever cost, to
repudiate the neo-mediævalism that paradoxically imposed itself upon
the international politics of the nineteenth century--prepared to work
out a better ethics and politics, looking to a more peaceful future.
Meanwhile the present task of civilization is to avert an imminent
Prussian Peril, and to humble the new Tamerlane who has thrust a
continent into war. Should he win, no nation is safe.



THE WAR BY AN ECONOMIST


It is early to hold inquest upon European civilization. But to attempt
to forecast the findings of the historian-crowners of the next period
of peace, is neither presumptuous nor premature. Experience has taught
us much of the evolution of the written record of a war. After our
Civil War we had two distinct historical traditions, Northern and
Southern. Nearest the event, personalities, deified and damned, loomed
portentously. “If Lincoln’s character had been different--if Jeff
Davis had been more forceful”--why, perhaps there might have been no
war, or its issue might have been other than it was. In a later stage,
Civil War history, though still sectional, accepted the obligation
to set forth and make plausible the motives animating either side.
Finally, sectionalism is fading from Civil War history, at least in
so far as the work of the trained writer is concerned. Whether we are
Northerners or Southerners, we see in the great war the natural outcome
of the irreconcilable conflict between two economic and social systems,
each seeking expansion to the detriment of the other. A particular
personality may have worked to bring some of the contending forces to a
focus; a particular political movement may have hastened, another may
have retarded, the final appeal to arms. Given, however, the underlying
social economic situation, given, too the existing limitations upon the
political intelligence, North and South, and the appeal to arms was
inevitable. Neither party, to be sure, can be absolved from the charge
of wrong-doing, or even of crime. But it is not now so important to
strike a balance of guilt as it is to determine the conditions that
made wrong seem right in the eyes of otherwise moral men.

When the present war is over there will be a flood of nationalistic
histories. The literary representatives of each party will endeavor to
roll the whole blame upon the enemy. Vast significance will be attached
to personalities; emperors and kings, statesmen, prelates, journalists,
will stand forth in light supernal or infernal, according to the point
of view. Were the Servian authorities in league with the assassins of
the Archduke? Did the German emperor dictate the terms of the Austrian
ultimatum? Was the Czar preparing war while pretending peace? Was Sir
Edward Grey watching for an opportunity to crush the German fleet? In
a later stage impersonal political forces will assert their claim to
the foreground of history: the expansive tendencies of Russia; the
fatal pride of armed Germany; the pretensions of England to the empire
of the seas. Ancient antagonisms of race and nationality, of culture
and religion, will aid in explaining what would otherwise remain
inexplicable.

No one will dispute the fact that certain individuals in positions of
power worked actively to bring on the present crisis, nor that acts
were committed that deserve the execration of mankind. It will not be
denied that ancient political and cultural antagonisms essentially
conditioned the present war; but for such antagonisms the peace would
have remained unbroken. Still, these forces are, in a sense, static,
and hence not adequate to explain change. The Russian is not more
aggressive, the German is not more arrogant, nor the Englishman more
intent upon naval dominance, than they were twenty years ago. Pride of
race and intolerance of religion have been with us always, and there
is no evidence of their recent intensification. What chiefly needs
explanation is that for a generation the consciousness of Europe has
been filling up with fighting concepts. The fact has been noted by all
serious students of European international relations. It is forcibly
demonstrated by the enthusiasm with which the several nations, each
with a reason of its own, has entered the present conflict. Desperate
efforts have been making, for years, to prepare for the struggle that
was regarded as inevitable.

Accordingly we can impute to the acts of particular persons little more
than the choice of time and occasion for the outbreak of hostilities.
The time may have been inauspicious; the occasion may have been one
that will not look well in history. For the underlying forces working
cumulatively toward an issue, we must, however, look elsewhere than to
personal volition.

The greed of the armament industries and the incessant playing upon
popular opinion by their subsidized organs have often been assigned
to a chief rôle in the drama of international discord. Competitive
military preparations, drawing to themselves an increasing share of the
intellectual energies of a nation, have long been regarded as a menace
to the peace of the world. Every organ seeks to exercise a function.
The Crown Prince of Germany, in his panegyric of militarism, expresses
poignant regret that all the splendid military forces of the Empire
should be expended futilely, in peaceful show. Professional warriors
want war, and will work to bring it about.

The future historian will doubtless give weight to the above mentioned
forces, as well as to many others that can not here be touched
upon. But he will assign vastly more importance than we of today,
to the national antipathies engendered by the scramble for colonial
possessions, and to the motives giving rise to it. It may be worth our
while, even now, to fix our attention upon this aspect of the question.
Not only for the light that may be thrown upon the fundamental causes
of the present conflict, but also for the grounds we may discern for
conjectures as to the international relations of the future.


II

Every one at all familiar with recent German literature will recall
frequent references to the _Drang nach Morgenland_. The “impulse toward
the Land of the Morning”--fit inspiration for a sentimental nation.
It has been pointed out, again and again, that the open road to German
expansion lies in the direction of Anatolia, Syria and Mesopotamia.
Indeed, the expansion has been actually taking place, by a process
of infiltration, as it were. Recall the Bagdad Railway, the German
incursions into Ottoman finance, the German reorganization of the
Turkish army. All that lay between the Germans and their dream of the
Morgenland was a group of petty states, easily to be subjugated or
overleaped, and the decaying Turkish political organization.

But there was an irreconcilable Russian dream of Constantinople and the
Eastern Mediterranean, and a British dream of a sub-tropic zone, all
the way to India, taking laws, if from any power, from Britain.

For years, as every one knows, these dreams have played at cards with
the Balkans. Not to go beyond the present century, did we not see
Russian influence steadily advancing there, until rudely checked by
Austrian annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina? Again, the insidious
development of Russian influence, culminating in the humiliation
of Bulgaria in the Second Balkan War, but checked by the creation
of an independent Albania under a German prince. Russian influence
encroaching once more, stimulated by the Albanian fiasco and the
intensification of Pan-Serbism, to be checked--for no doubt so it
was intended--by the utter humiliation of Servia. Probably it was
not believed that Russia would trump the Austrian ace. But who could
suppose that, in such a game, the trumps would not, sooner or later, be
drawn out?

It would be interesting to know why the ace was led just now, and why
it was trumped at this precise moment. What is of more importance,
however, is to know why the game was set. What did Germany want with
the Land of the Morning? What does the Eastern Mediterranean mean to
Russia? And what would it signify to England if either dream were
realized? Is it matter of sentiment, of “historic mission,” or is it
matter of practical interest? And if matter of practical interest,
whose interest weighs so heavily that it must be bought with cities in
ruins and provinces devastated, with hundreds of thousands of the best
and most useful lives sent down to dusty death?

Manifestly, not the interest of the mass of humanity.


III

The Morgenland, be it understood, is only one of the rotten stones
in the arch of civilization. Mexico is another. India, China, Africa
are of similar character. But the Morgenland may serve as type for
our study, and we may profitably confine our analysis to the German
yearnings for the Morgenland, not because they are in any way unique,
but because they are typical.

There are political scientists who tell us that Germany is forced by
her teeming population to seek this outlet to the East. This would
imply that the impulse toward expansion is similar to that which
carried the Anglo-Saxons to England and the Lombards to Italy. Let us
consider whether this is really the case.

It is admitted, of course, that never before was the population
within the present borders of the German Empire so great as it is
today. Mere physical density of population is, however, a fact of no
direct political significance. The important question is, whether the
population is too dense to be comfortably maintained. Now, there is
undoubtedly much privation in Germany, but it appears to be almost the
unanimous verdict of economists and statisticians that the standard of
welfare in Germany is constantly rising. Of this fact we have indirect
evidence in our own immigration statistics. In the early eighties
Germany sent us 200,000 immigrants a year; now she sends less than
40,000. Why have the numbers dwindled? Not because our free land is
gone: for the Germans never were distinctively pioneers. In so far as
they turned to agriculture, they settled in the older communities, and
by superior thrift and industry, took the land away from the native
born. This was never easier to do than today. Such of the Germans as
remained in our cities occupied themselves with small business, the
mechanical trades and the professions. The demand for such services is
greater today than ever. The costs and hardships of oversea migration
are less now than formerly. If the Germans stay at home, it must be
because Germany, in spite of its great population, offers better
opportunities for life and work than formerly.

It is not the land area of a nation that determines the magnitude
of the population that can be supported in comfort. Rather, it is
the organized intelligence of the people; and this, as every one
knows, has been steadily advancing in Germany. There are, of course,
ultimate limits beyond which organized intelligence can not provide
for an increasing population under the handicap of restricted natural
resources. Was it perhaps a recognition of this fact that led the
statesmen to seek new territories for the Germans of the future?

The birth rate in Germany is declining, as in every other modern
state. Conservative statisticians have estimated that, unless the
tendency to decline is checked, the German population will come to a
standstill within a generation. Germany has now no excess of population
wherewith to plant colonies, and will probably never have such excess.
Accordingly, it can have been no part of the _Morgenland_ dream that
the mongrel population of Turks and Armenians, Syrians and Arabs,
was to be supplanted by German _Biedermänner_. It can not have been
imagined that Antioch and Bagdad were to become German cities, the
seats of German universities; that Gothic spires were to rise among
the ruins of Palmyra, and over the redeemed wastes of Bassorah. The
life of the _Morgenland_ will pursue its dark and furtive ways, whether
under German rule or the rule of any other Power of the light or of the
darkness.


IV

It will be said that the standard of wellbeing of the German Empire has
advanced _pari passu_ with her foreign trade, and that trade needs a
secure market. Hence the requirement of a rich colonial domain, from
which the German trader can not be excluded by hostile customs laws.
Perhaps we have here an adequate justification for Germany’s Morning
Land aspirations. Germany is an industrial nation; so also are England
and the United States and France, and Russia will soon become one. Now,
is it not inevitable that the trade of the industrial nations shall be
directed toward the non-industrial? That is, towards the tropics and
the subtropical belts? The argument is trite, but it looks reasonable
enough to deserve consideration.

Germany is indeed an industrial nation, and so are we. But the German
industries are not the same as ours, nor can they ever be the same, so
long as the German genius and natural environment continue to differ
from ours. So long as difference exists, some German goods will command
our markets, whether we pursue protectionist policies or not. Germany
need not write our laws for us in order to control our markets; she
has an indefeasible title to those markets so long as she maintains
superiority in supplying our needs. And the same thing is true of
the markets of England and France and Russia. They take German goods
eagerly, in vast quantities. Wipe out Germany’s trade with industrial
states, and her commerce is practically at an end.

The trade between nations of rich and varied industries is alone
capable of indefinite expansion. Yet the delusion persists that a
nation’s closed trade with a subject state is somehow of superior
importance. Such trade is admittedly incapable of great development.
Only semi-barbarous peoples will submit to foreign control of their
trade; and such peoples produce little beyond the requirements of home
consumption, and therefore, having hardly anything to sell, can buy
but little. But colonial trade, meagre as it is, may be monopolized
and made to yield large profits. The trade between industrial nations,
since it is essentially competitive, diffuses its benefits throughout
the trading nations. Hence these benefits are easily overlooked. The
rapid enrichment of a few houses engaged in the colonial trade gives
visible evidence of national gain.

Out of the overestimation of the value of the colonial trade arises,
unquestionably, some part of the international jealousies now working
out their nature upon the field of battle. Control of the trade of the
Levant would advance the general welfare of the German people in very
limited measure; but it would greatly enrich a small number of traders,
and this very fact of the concentration of the gains gives them added
potency in determining political relations.


V

The colonial trader was once the chief cause of wars, and he still
contributes his quota to international misunderstanding and hostility.
But there is another interest that has grown to far greater importance
in the colonial domain. This we may describe as the concessionary
interest. Vast fortunes have been accumulated, in the semi-barbarous
belt, by the exploitation of natural resources and works of public
utility. The Land of the Morning would be exceptionally rich in
concessions to the nationals of any imperial state. There are oil
fields and mines to open, railways and irrigation works to construct.
Some of these opportunities are already in German possession; their
security, however, depends upon continued exercise, by Germany, of
influence upon the Ottoman government. That government is notoriously
shifty, and the interests involved will never be wholly safe until the
Levant is a German colony.

The concessionary interest, like the colonial trading interest, offers
chances of sudden wealth. The former, however, is far more vulnerable
than the latter. The fixed investment of the concessionary is far
greater than that of the trader. Hence, while the colonial trading
interest thrives best with the support of the home government, to the
concessionary interest such support is indispensable. Politics is a
necessary part of the concessionary business.

How far is the concessionary interest identical with the national
interest? Let us consider what difference it makes to you and me
whether the Pearson interests, or the Waters-Pierce interests, control
the oil fields of Mexico. If the Pearson interests, several great
fortunes will be constituted in England; if the Waters-Pierce, similar
fortunes will be constituted here. In either case the money will lie at
an infinite distance from you and me. Still, we are patriots, and would
rather have it here than in England.

Patriotism aside, the great fortune here will pay income tax to our
own treasury. Its spending will afford many golden crumbs to fellow
citizens of ours. The exploitation of the oil fields will require much
machinery, for which, under Waters-Pierce control, the first bid would
be offered to our own industry. Many young men of our nationality would
find employment as engineers, foremen, superintendents. Undoubtedly, it
is better for the national interest to have the concession in national
hands.

But what is the magnitude of the concessionary interest, and how
many votes should it have on questions of peace and war? Of the
whole capital of Great Britain, not one-fifth consists in foreign
investments; and of that fifth scarcely a quarter can be concessionary.
One-tenth of Germany’s capital is invested abroad; probably not a fifth
of that is concessionary. Of our own capital one part in a hundred is
in foreign investments, of which one-half is in Mexico. Not nearly all
of that half is concessionary. It did not prove to be enough to go to
war over.


VI

From the foregoing review it might appear to be the natural conclusion
that the economic element in the present war is practically negligible.
By far the greater proportion of the trade relations of the world--and
the relations most significant to the general welfare--obtain between
the very nations that are now endeavoring to destroy one another. The
opportunities for concessionary capital that could be secured by any
nation, if completely victorious, can hardly be equivalent to the
losses of the far more important industrial capital at home. It is
certain that if all capital had been conscious of its interest, and the
question of peace or war had been left to capital, each hundred dollars
having one vote, there would have been no war. There is a war: costly
demonstration to the Socialists that capital does not, as alleged,
enjoy control of modern political society.

Before we accept this view, however, let us look somewhat more closely
upon the structure of capital as a social economic force. We shall
find that it is not homogeneous, but embraces two elements differing
widely in character. The one, which we may denominate capital proper,
is characterized by cautious calculation, by a preference for sure
if small gains, to dazzling winnings. The other, which we may call
speculative enterprise, is characterized by a readiness to take
risks, a thirst for brilliant gains. The relative political power
of the two elements, as we shall see, is not proportioned to their
respective pecuniary volumes. Accordingly, altho it may easily enough
be demonstrated that the majority interest of European capital has
been seriously prejudiced by the present war, it does not follow that
a large share of the responsibility for the war may not be fixed upon
capital. The minority interest may have determined a majority vote.

Capital proper thrives best in a settled order of society, where the
risks of loss are at a minimum. It accepts favors from government,
to be sure, but politics is no part of its game; peace, and freedom
from disturbing innovations, are its great desiderata. Speculative
enterprise, on the other hand, thrives best in the midst of disorder.
Its favorite field of operations is the fringe of change, economic
or political. It delights in the realm where laws ought to be, but
have not yet made their appearance. To control the course of legal
evolution, to retard it or divert it, are its favorite devices for
prolonging the period of rich gains. Politics, thus, is an essential
part of the game of speculative enterprise.

At the outset of the modern era, speculative enterprise quite
overshadowed capital proper. Colonial trade, government contracts,
domestic monopolies were the chief sources of middle class fortunes.
But with the progress of industry, slow, plodding capital has been
able steadily to encroach upon the field of enterprise, or to create
new fields of its own. In our own society the promoter of railway, and
public utilities, the exploiter of public lands, the trust organizer,
are as prominent, relatively, as in any modern nation. Quantitatively
their interests are, however, greatly inferior to those of the trader,
manufacturer, banker, the small investor and the farmer, to whom a ten
per cent return is a golden dream, and twenty per cent a temptation
sent by the Evil One.

But quantitatively inferior as the speculative capitalist really is,
his hold upon the popular imagination is vastly more powerful than that
of his slow-going colleague. Say that an employer of this type prefers
to spend money on machine guns to repress strikes rather than in better
wages: instantly it is declared by all the radicals of the earth that
such is the general spirit of capitalism. No radical is able to keep
clearly in mind that the overwhelming majority of employers are doing
their best to keep their working forces contented, and are succeeding
fairly well. The radicals, however, are not the only persons whose
minds are overcrowded with the doings of the speculative capitalist.
You and I read eagerly the lives of Jay Gould, Oakes Ames, Harriman
and Morgan, feeling that somehow we are thereby brought nearer to the
spirit of modern life. We find it impossible to sustain an interest in
the account of the life of James Metzger, grocer, who set out in life
worth ten thousand, and by faithful attendance upon his customers,
without ever once taking a risk, ended life with an estate of one
hundred thousand. James Metzger is a type of the thousands making up
the ranks of capital proper. His story is told in statistics, which you
and I won’t read.

We may love or we may hate the speculative capitalist, but at all
events we admire him. We admire him when he works for the public
interest, and we admire him when his efforts are subversive of the
public good. We admired Harriman when he built the Salt Lake cut-off,
and we admired him when he cut the Alton melon. Now, is it to be
supposed that the speculative capitalist does not turn this popular
admiration to use as a political force, since politics is a part of his
game? Inconceivable! As compared with his brother of the small profits
and quick return, he enjoys a plural vote in our political scheme.


VII

In a new country of vast natural resources, especially if it is not
too well governed, there is sufficient scope for both speculative
enterprise and capital proper. The United States has been such a
country, at least down to a very recent date. There was easy money
enough for all men of shrewdness and resolution possessed of the
necessary initial stake--public forests to be leveled, railways to be
built or wrecked, trusts to be organized, cities to be provided with
public utilities. But all this easy money now appears to be in danger
of being locked up. We have a conservation movement in full swing,
and a civic reform tendency that is no longer a mere cloak for the
insatiable appetite of plunderers out of power. The popular attitude
toward monopolistic combinations is growing ominously serious; if old
and strong combinations do not dissolve in fear before it, yet those
who would organize new combinations are deeply discouraged. We have an
Interstate Commerce Commission with the will and the power to choke
all railways when some are believed to have stealings in their gorge.
Already we are beginning to hear murmurs about town, that in view of
the popular hostility to wealth, it will be necessary for American
capital to look to foreign investments. Not foreign investments in
England and France and Germany, where government is efficient and
capital proper prevails. But foreign investments in the undeveloped
countries, in a Land of the Morning, “east of Suez.”

In England the domestic field for capitalistic speculation has long
been restricted. For generations the British citizen has been taught
to look to Asia, Africa, America, for the opportunities for sudden
wealth. Germany, more recently launched upon an industrial career,
might have offered many rich opportunities at home. But Germany has
been well governed. The early nationalization of railways closed one
lucrative field; the cities, with their excellent business governments,
have taken control of their own utilities, or have driven hard bargains
with private enterprise. Industrial combinations have been as numerous
as with us; but they have assumed the form of the Kartell--a legally
binding agreement between independent producers, fixing prices and
volume of production. Such a form of organization, like our former
“pools,” distributes the profits of combination fairly equitably
among all the producers, and therefore has offered little opportunity
for such promoter’s gains as we are familiar with in American trust
finance. Some opening there was, of course, for speculative enterprise.
The launching of new industrial companies, dealings in real estate,
the military and naval industries, laid the basis for many astounding
mushroom fortunes. But the progress of governmental effectiveness
has been steadily encroaching upon these fields. The German internal
situation, then, has been such as to recommend the _Ausland_ to those
who wish to risk large stakes on the chance of brilliant returns.

The progress of modern industrial society, with its parallel
development in the art of government, tends to the extrusion of
speculative capital, and its concentration in the tropical and
subtropical belts. In the older societies the process has been in
operation for a considerable time; with us it is just beginning. But in
a generation, we may be sure, much of our own speculative capital, like
that of the older countries, will be engaged in colonial exploitation.


VIII

Capital, it is often said, is cosmopolitan; capital knows no such thing
as patriotism. This may be true of the cautious, colorless capital
of ordinary finance and industry. It is not true of the capital upon
which speculative enterprise is based. It was an intense patriotism
that was avowed by Jay Gould and Harriman; intense is the patriotism
of J. J. Hill, of the DuPonts and the Guggenheims. Even Mellen is, or
was, patriotic in his feelings toward New England. But most intense
of all is the patriotism of the capitalist whose interests lie in the
twilight zone of the barbaric belt. Purer expressions of devotion to
America, of deep concern for her future, than those issuing from the
lips of American concessionaries in Mexico, you never hear. We were all
moved by the grandiose African dream of Cecil Rhodes. “All red”--i. e.
British--a British heart within every black skin, from the Cape to
Cairo. The case is typical of the capitalist speculator abroad. He
is a patriot through thick and thin, not a white-blooded “cit” like
you and me, who before volunteering support for our country’s acts
would presume to pass judgment upon them. He is a patriot who would
knock a chip off the shoulder of the meanest upstart of a barbarian
dictator--without regard to the cost of doing it: not a calculator,
like you and me.

By interest, the concessionary capitalist is a patriot. He needs his
country in his business. But this is by no means the whole explanation
of his patriotism. His type is reckless, and therefore generous and
idealistic. He must love and admire great things, and what thing is
greater than the imperial dominion of his country? One must have a mean
opinion of human nature to suspect the purity of the motives of Cecil
Rhodes. Doubtless Rhodes began with selfish motives, but his private
interests were soon submerged in his imperial ambitions. We may not
be justified in assuming that selfish interest operates, to the utter
exclusion of all patriotic motives. It does not necessarily follow
that because Mr. William Randolph Hearst, for example, has mines in
Mexico, his motives are determined by them. His Mexican interests would
be advanced if the American boundary were extended to include all on
this side of Panama. Is this, however, the whole tale of his aggressive
Americanism? Patriotism has always burned more brightly in border
provinces than in the heart of the national territory. It is natural,
then, that patriotism should be still more intense in those extensions
of the national domain represented by permanent interests abroad.

In an ideal scheme of things, love of one’s own country would not
involve hatred and contempt for other countries. But patriotism
compounded with financial interest does usually produce detestation for
the corresponding alien compound. We who meet the Germans in America,
in England, in Germany, engaged in the common labor of advancing man’s
control over nature, respect them, and if we see much of them, love
them. Our capitalist speculators in South America and in the Orient,
meeting their similars of German nationality, hate them heartily. Those
speculators are the nerve ends of modern industrial nationalism, and
they are specialized to the work of conveying sensations of hate.
For the present we have few nerves of the kind, and all they have
succeeded in conveying to us is a vague feeling of uneasiness over the
German advance in the colonial field. Far more powerful must have been
the reaction upon nations like England and France that are serious
competitors in the same field. And German capitalist speculators,
thwarted in their designs by the English and the French, have
contributed to the popular feeling that Germany must fight for what she
gets.

The capitalistic speculator, even when operating at home where
his action may be directed against us, enjoys a power over the
popular imagination, and a political influence quite incommensurate
with the extent of his interests. When the seat of his operations
is a foreign territory, whence flow back reports of his great
achievements--achievements that cost us nothing, and that bring home
fortunes to be taxed and spent among us--his social and political
influence attains even more exaggerated proportions. And this is
the more significant in view of the fact that his relations with
government--now even a more important part of his business--are
concentrated upon that most sensitive of governmental organs, the
foreign office.

When diplomatic questions concerning the non-industrial belt arise, and
most modern diplomatic questions concern this belt, the voice of the
concessionaries is heard in the councils of state. This voice is the
more convincing because of the patriotism that colors its expression
of interest. What is perhaps more important, the ordinary conduct of
exploitative business in an undeveloped state keeps the concessionary
in constant relation with the consular and diplomatic officers
established there. In a sense, such officers are the concessionary’s
agents, yet their communications to the home office are the material
out of which diplomatic situations are created.

It is accordingly idle to suppose that exploitative capital in foreign
investments weighs in foreign policy only as an equal capital at
home. When we consider the personality of the director of colonial
enterprise, the conditions in which he meets competitors of foreign
nations, and his relations with the foreign service of his home
government, we can readily understand how a very small investment may
prove a great menace to the peace of nations. For years the popular
consciousness, in the several nations, has been steadily absorbing
conceptions of rivalry of interest that have no meaning except to the
category of concessionary capital. Germany, Russia, England and France
have been brought to the belief that something very vital turns upon
the control of the Land of the Morning. Indeed the whole civilized
world has been seduced into accepting the view that something very
vital turns upon the control of the tropics. Yes, something very vital
for exploitative capital. Indirectly vital for the rest of society: for
from such delusions spring wars that sow the unwilling fields with the
shattered limbs of the best of our youth.


IX

It is the interest of exploitative capital that makes the Morning Land,
Mexico, China and Africa rotten stones in the arch of civilization. But
for exploitative capital, those regions might remain backward, socially
and politically: this would not greatly concern any industrial nation,
except in so far as it responded to a missionary impulse. The backward
states afford, however, possibilities of sudden wealth; and since this
is the case, they must attract exploiters, who must seek, and obtain,
the backing of their home governments, with resultant international
rivalry, hostility, war.

If we could confidently predict the industrialization of the backward
countries, we should be able to foresee an end of this one most
fruitful of all sources of international strife. But China will not
be industrialized for a generation, at least; and many generations
must elapse before the tropics are concession proof. Accordingly the
one hope for universal peace would appear to lie in the possibility of
divorcing, in the popular consciousness, the concessionary interest
from the national interest.

For the present war will settle nothing. When it is over, the skeleton
titles thrown about the undeveloped lands may have undergone change;
but underneath the new order, the struggle of exploitative capital
will emerge as before. Diplomatic squabbles will again arise; popular
envy will be wrought upon; international hostility will be fomented;
military and naval rivalry will again crush out progress. The minor
interest will once more drag the major interest to ruin.

There will, however, be in the situation one element new, at any rate,
to us. In a generation we shall not be, as now, a nation with almost
all its capital secure within its own boundaries. Our strong men of
speculative finance will be established in the undeveloped countries;
concessions will figure conspicuously among the items of our national
wealth. The foreign contingent of our capital will join battle with
that of the group of nations destined to fare best in the present
struggle: if Germany and Austria, in South America; if Russia and
Japan, in the Orient. And who shall say that our country may not be
a protagonist in the next great war? One half of one per cent of our
capital just failed of forcing us to subjugate Mexico.

The concession and the closed trade are the fault lines in the crust
of civilization. Solve the problems of the concession and the closed
trade, the earth hunger will have lost its strongest stimulus, and
peace, when restored, may abide throughout the world.



THE WAR BY A MAN IN THE STREET


That a kindly old man having his nature temporarily reversed by a
passion for revenge for the murder of two relatives, should have
the power to waste a large portion of the lives and treasure of the
civilized world, is so counter to everything that civilized men
ordinarily consider reasonable, that it is perhaps the sharpest
evidence yet given of the tyranny of the past over the present.

Perhaps the strangest thing about such a circumstance is that, while it
is counter to the deliberate reason of nearly all sane and civilized
men, millions of sane and civilized men are contributing to its
occurrence, not only with devoted self-sacrifice, but with enthusiasm.

The conflict between these two utterly opposing conditions is, in the
last analysis, simply the conflict between the jungle and the railroad,
between the lion and the savage, between the savage and the civilized
man.

And the same conflict is in each man’s soul. Behind the man of today,
who reasons, is his savage ancestor who merely felt; behind the
gentleman in evening dress who goes to the boxing match is his ancestor
who turned his thumb down over the arena; behind the jurist who
arbitrates at The Hague, is his ancestor who commanded a pirate ship in
the neighboring sea; behind the German who, less than a generation ago,
was leading civilization, is the barbarian who attacked Rome, and who
now has come out to attack Belgium.

Now absolute power is old fashioned, alliances are old fashioned, even
violence and revenge are old fashioned, and among civilized nations
they are “not done,” except through the madness or the imbecility of
crowds. Nobody really wants to do either of them, except the rulers and
soldiers who see a chance of gain.

Of the hosts of men sacrificing, fighting, suffering, dying, not one
in twenty wants to do it, or even knows why he is doing it, or what is
to be gained by doing it, and not one in fifty thousand was consulted
about doing it. Mr. Lowes Dickinson after expressing himself in the
_London Nation_ somewhat to the foregoing effect, adds:

  We are sane people. But our acts are mad. Why? Because we are all in
  the hands of some score of individuals called Governments.... These
  men have willed this thing for us over our heads. No nation has had
  the choice of saying no. The Russian peasants march because the Czar
  and the priest tell them to. That of course. But equally the German
  socialists march; equally the French socialists. These men know what
  war means.... They hate it. But they march. Business men, knowing
  too, hating too, watch them march. Workingmen watch them march, and
  wait for starvation. All are powerless. The die has been cast for
  them. The crowned gamblers cast it, and the cast was death.

But “some score of individuals” is too many. The _New York Nation_ puts
that better:

  Whatever happens, Europe--humanity--will not settle back again into a
  position enabling three Emperors--one of them senile, another subject
  to melancholia, and the third often showing signs of disturbed mental
  balance--to give, on their individual choice or whim, the signal for
  destruction and massacre.

The German tradition of 1870, so strongly in favor of getting in
the first blow, made it impossible for a spreading of the war to be
seriously threatened without Germany striking that blow, and so turning
any possibility of a general war into the reality.

In fights between individuals, the wrong has usually been laid to the
one who struck first. There is equal reason for so laying it between
nations.

When to the tradition in favor of the first blow is added the military
habit diffused through the nation to a degree absolutely strange to
modern times; when over a nation thus accustomed to arms, there is
a ruling class whose only ambition and only hope is in War, and when
at the head of this class is a ruler with a megalomaniac ambition and
conceit, the wonder is not that such a nation has gone to war with
virtually all its neighbors, but that it has so long been at peace with
them.

This war is probably the world’s greatest illustration that a condition
of “preparation for defence” is apt to lead to war. Forty years of such
preparation has developed in the peaceful scholarly German nation an
oligarchy of swashbucklers who crowd women off the sidewalk and cherish
an ambition to conquer the world.

More specific causes of the low condition of Germany are not far to
seek. If a hundred portraits of each of the rulers of, say, the ten
leading nations were culled at random from the leading illustrated
publications, a due proportion being kept of the various functions in
which the rulers were engaged when the pictures were taken, there is
no reasonable doubt that the absolute rulers would be represented the
greatest number of times in military dress--like savages in war paint,
and that William of Germany’s proportion would be larger than that of
any other ruler. The presidents of republican France and the United
States would not appear in war paint at all, and the king of democratic
England would so appear less often than the head of any other dynasty.

Of all alleged civilized rulers, William II has alone borne the
barbarous title of “The War Lord,” yet before last August he never saw
a battle. He was “The War Lord” simply because it was his delight to
pose as such, and what a man poses, he wishes to become. Since 1870,
and to some extent before, the Kaiser’s country has been, to a degree
approached by no other in Europe, an armed camp. In Germany, gentleman
and army-officer have been almost synonymous terms: no amount of
learning, genius or eminence in any other direction has brought a man
as high social consideration as eminence in the army. The army has
been the dominant interest of the Emperor, and, despite the enormous
industries, the dominant power in the eyes of the people--a power more
recognized than the legislature and the courts. Among the aristocratic
and would-be aristocratic classes, it has been the one career, and the
one avenue to eminence. But in times of peace, promotion is slow: it is
liveliest only when war kills off or wears out superiors. Hence in the
German army the chief yearning--all the stronger for being suppressed
for nearly half a century--has been for war: the daily toast at the
officers’ messes has been for many years “Zum Tag!” Of such conditions
as these, the natural outcome has been the barbarities in Brussels,
Antwerp, and Louvain.

For these conditions of course neither the German people nor their
Kaiser has been entirely to blame: everybody knows how, at the start,
the conditions were forced upon them. But what pains have been taken to
keep at the lowest terms their barbarizing influence, not to speak of
doing away with it altogether? What has been the general attitude of
Germany, under the Kaiser’s influence, toward the proposals instituted
by the Tzar--sovereign of a far inferior people--for the development of
machinery for international peace?

This war, in its murders and destructions, is probably the worst
calamity the world has ever known. Yet it is doubtful whether the
murders and destructions are the worst things about it: for it has,
for the time being, turned a people long among the most admirable and
lovable and peaceable in the world, into a nation of destroyers, and
made some of their admirable qualities--their coolness, their patience,
their energy, their system, their ingenuity, their coöperation, their
patriotism, all of which were long among the chief agencies of the
world’s progress, into the chief agencies for its misery and debasement.

But, with all the German’s old-time merits, there is no blinking the
fact that the current of civilization which came through Mesopotamia,
Egypt, Greece and Rome does not flow through his veins. He came into
civilization late, and he shows it despite the virtues Tacitus saw him
bringing with him: he still holds the barbarities of a highly inflected
speech, a highly centralized government, and a ruthless disregard of
the finer amenities of both peace and war. But we repeat that, except
as his barbarian warlike passions have been trained since the fifties,
and now been specially aroused, the great virtues which he had evolved
even when History first knew him, made him admirable and lovable, and
when he has felt the consequences of his mistakes, will make him so
again.

The obvious conditions would suggest, even to the visitor from another
planet, that there must be two Germanys; and so there are--the Germany
of industry and peace, and the Germany of idleness and war. The higher
Germany--not the higher in the army or the state, but the higher in
intellect and morals, even less than a generation ago was among the
greatest examples of mankind. The lower Germany--baser though more
brilliant--nurtures a nest of microbes, and they have entered into the
blood of the higher, and made it mad.

One thing that has made possible this great tragedy is the survival
of old ideas of high and low, which, like many other ideas, were once
true, and in the progress of evolution have now become false--more
destructively false in Germany than anywhere else in civilization.
In all savage communities, the ruling class is apt to be the best.
Evolution approaches equilibration--the beam of the scale approaches
the level--by the arbitrary power of the upper class going down, and
the capacity of the lower class rising up, until at last, we may hope
all classes will be on a level. The scale of course oscillates until,
if ever, equilibration shall be reached: the revolutionary movements
at times place the lower classes in the ascendant, even make them for
brief moments the rulers,--often very ridiculous and even destructive
rulers, as in the French revolution, and the ascendancy of the
silverites in the American congress. But the mistakes of the temporary
rulers from the ignorant classes have been nothing beside the excesses
of a Zenghis Khan, a Tamerlane, an Alexander, a Nero, a Henry the
Eighth, a Napoleon, and a William II of Germany.

The claim that Germany is waging a war of defence is too thin to
justify attention. The Kaiser’s responsibility for spreading the
conflict is of course disputed by him and his supporters; but the thing
has been brewing from the day the young Emperor, imitating the pirates
and stage villains, pasted up his moustache farther than any other
man’s to make himself look fierce. No man of peace or modesty ever hung
out such a sign.

He has hardly ever made a speech without showing his megalomania, and
placing his army first among his many interests; in agreements proposed
for the promotion of peace, from the first meeting at The Hague, he has
been the one to hang back; and he refused the arbitration suggested by
Sir Edward Grey, which the other nations seemed ready to accept.

But his responsibility for spreading the war is of little consequence
beside his conduct since it began. His first step was to trample under
foot his own nation’s contract with Civilization itself; to violate
the rules that, with infinite labor and through infinite suffering,
had been slowly built up in aid of international peace and justice;
to begin murdering an unoffending people whose peace his own country
had solemnly pledged itself to maintain--devastating their country and
robbing them of millions on millions, all because they had defended
rights which, as already said, were pledged by his own country.

He had prepared for this by debauching his own peaceful, industrious,
scholarly and harmony-loving people into such familiarity with the
apparatus and drill and idea of war, that they have been taking on the
army ways, ideas, ambitions and megalomania at a progressive rate that
has saddened the former admirers who have visited them at sufficient
intervals to notice the change. Even among the scholars, not only has
the army influence spread, but the old allegiance to the simple life is
gone. Our exchange professors report the deterioration. Says one: “They
have been bought by court favors.”

And they, like us, have been corrupted by their prosperity; their
patriotism has become perverted into greed; and the vast industry, the
vast wealth, even the vast population that this once exemplary people
had built up in spite of the Emperor’s colossal military waste, he is
destroying to feed his own lust of power, and he has impregnated them
with that lust, and the trade which his people have made worldwide by
their industry, he is, for most fallacious and insignificant reasons,
seeking to extend by their blood.

He is widely believed to be insane. However that may be, I do not see
how any candid and unbiased judgment can find him other than a man
forsworn, a robber, a murderer of the innocent--of his own people no
less than of other peoples, a destroyer of civilization, an enemy of
mankind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps the worst tragedy in the whole awful drama is this man’s
militarism rotting out the morality of the people of Luther, Kant and
Fichte. His ministers now talk of the highest moral stand a nation ever
took, in England’s defence of Belgium’s neutrality, as the absurdity
of going to war over a little piece of paper. It is also a large part
of the present German philosophy that force and cunning are essential
agents in evolution. The pity and tragedy of it!--that the German race,
long the moral leaders of the world, should have sunk to a Machiavelism
below Machiavelli--one not even, like his, superficially intelligent
and refined, but throughout stupid and brutal.

This German military philosophy that reckons only with itself, carries
the elements of its own destruction. It is already actually at war
with most of civilized Europe. It may not be destroyed this year
or even next, but destroyed it will be; and until it is destroyed,
civilization stops and stands at bay.

If necessary, its every resource must be called into play. Even those
of remote Japan are already in action. If the need becomes greater,
inaction on the part of nearer nations will become disgraceful. The
wisdom that ignored the comparatively petty issues in Mexico, will
become folly if it ignores anything so colossal as the present issues
may become, especially as they already deeply concern our own blood.

       *       *       *       *       *

If the outcome of the battles shall be the Kaiser’s victory, it will
be for us only to reflect that the end is not yet, and that the Power
which works out our good, often does it by ways that appear to our
limited vision strangely devious. But if the battles shall destroy his
dynasty, and dismember the artificial and cruel Austrian empire which
ostensibly initiated all these horrors, and lead to a concord of the
nations against such disasters in future, the justice of the Power
above all empires will, despite all the misery, again be made plain.

       *       *       *       *       *

It must no longer be possible for any madman who happens to sit upon
a throne to wreak worldwide destruction. Whatever the cost, the peace
of the world demands that Germany shall not hereafter be left in a
condition to strike the first blow--that she shall not be permitted to
keep an army large enough to give the military class the control of the
nation, and that for her crimes against International Law she shall be
made to bear proper penalties.

The next step to the limitation of her armies will be the limitation of
all, and the uniting of them ostensibly, as they are now in reality, as
the police force of the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

It may be a relief to turn from the barbarity of the war to its
absurdity. All its conditions are of course heritages from the
barbarous past, and the only process of doing away with them is the
slow complexity of human progress. Not the least element of that
progress is the development of a sense of humor. If everybody felt the
supreme ridiculousness of these conditions, they could not stand a year.

Another ridiculous element in the situation is the shortsightedness of
capital. The force of the fighting world is in its wealth--directed
by its brains. An army is proverbially a monster that crawls upon its
belly. Now how long are the brains of the world going to permit its
wealth to feed this monster, and leave industry and exchange paralyzed?
Yet though those in control of the world’s wealth have not prevented
the war, they must have learned that it will pay to devote a good
percentage of the wealth to perfecting the machinery for peace which
centers at The Hague. That the capitalists have not already taken hold
of those agencies, is as little creditable to their sense of their own
interests as to their sense of the interests of mankind--and of the
ridiculous.

       *       *       *       *       *

The nations are still in the stage of civilization that individuals
were when every man carried a sword, and impromptu fights were matters
of course. The first step out of that stage was the organization of the
premeditated duel, with its “code of honor.” The next stage was the
leaving of quarrels to arbitration and the courts, and the prohibition
of individual fights and of carrying weapons to facilitate them.

The nations have lately made rapid progress toward the second stage.
Yet International Law, though rapidly growing before Germany’s attack
on it, is, so far, nothing but a “code of honor.” It prescribes rules
for the conduct of international duels, both for the principals and
for neutrals, but, like the code of the duello, it has no sanctions to
enforce the rules but public opinion.

Among the most important of these rules is respect of combatants for
the peace and independence of neutral states, especially when the
neutrality has been specifically guaranteed by the warring states.
Another very important rule is that unfortified towns shall not be
bombarded, and that to fortified towns twenty-four hours’ notice
shall be given, to permit the removal of non-combatants. The military
oligarchy who have corrupted and misrepresented the German people, have
not attained to, or have fallen from, the stage of civilization needed
for the observance of these rules. They invaded Belgium and Luxemburg,
and dropped bombs into Antwerp without notice.

In these acts, the Germans have done what they could to destroy the
International Law which has been one of the most laborious and most
hopeful products of civilization.

       *       *       *       *       *

All law, local and international, has been made by the most advanced
people, and must be guarded by them against the less advanced. Each
civilized nation has a police force to guard its national law, but
International Law has not yet progressed so far. Yet whatever may have
been the origins of the present war, the Germans’ conduct of it has
made them international outlaws, and constituted the nations fighting
them a police to maintain the law.

Whatever the time and sacrifice involved, whatever other nations may be
needed to strengthen the police force, the law must be vindicated, or
civilization must go backward generations, and build the law up again.

That a union to develop and enforce International Law may result from
the present war, seems among the possible compensations of the waste
and misery. The world will have had enough of war, and more than
enough, to a degree never before concentrated in as brief a period. In
the early and long wars, men had not outgrown the stolid conviction
that war was the inevitable and normal condition of the race; and at
that stage of the race’s evolution, so it was. But evolution has
progressed, men’s--many men’s--ideas are different, and during this
unparalleled tragic absurdity, they are going to become still more
different, and at an unprecedented rate. Never before did a nation go
to war as England now has done, to vindicate, enforce, and preserve
what had been evolved of International Law. The German barbarities have
made all England’s allies warriors in the same cause, and have opened
the eyes of the world, as never before, to its value, its dignity,
and, the blood flowing for it is going to add, its sacredness. To the
seed planted at The Hague, this blood will be a fertilizing stream,
and a growth may be expected that will be a shade and a defence to the
nations.



EN CASSEROLE


_Special to Our Readers_

In this number, we have put the war articles last, giving them
the place of second emphasis, and at the cost of cutting into the
Casserole, because at the time the table of contents was made up,
we considered the topic of our first article, Free Speech, of more
consequence than any War possible among civilized nations. But we did
not then suppose that one of the nations we considered civilized was
capable of stamping on treaties, violating neutralities, dropping
unnotified bombs on cities, and, if late reports are true, guiding the
Turk in another assault on civilization.

Resistance to such infamies we regard as of more pressing importance
than even the main object to which our leading articles have been
heretofore devoted, namely, the elevation of the humbler man. We
even regard that as, in the long run, the most effective agency
toward Peace. But sometimes in emergencies, the long run has to be
disregarded. Thus, not the least of the bad effects of the war is
its diversion of effort from the social and political amelioration
to which, for a generation, the world has given a degree of interest
without precedent in all previous history. From this cause, where we
would have our peculiar function the saving one of a brake, even our
own humble efforts must be considerably diverted by an emergency so
overwhelming; and we know that our readers, despite their inclination
for the still air of delightful studies, can not fail to respond to so
general and poignant an interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

Buzzing around this subject, one of our most valued contributors
writes: “Please don’t print a _peace article_. There are only two
possible kinds of peace in this world, while man is man: the peace of
exhaustion and the _pax romana_.”

How prophecy does rage on this subject--on both sides!

Which peace with each other did the chief European nations enjoy from
1871 to 1914, and the English speaking nations from 1814 to 1914? And
we seem abundantly justified in hoping that it may be permanent.

“While man is man.” Which man--Homer’s,--butchering unarmed foes whom
he finds in bathing; or today’s,--arbitrating most of his quarrels,
and busying himself over schemes for the automatic settlement of the
rest? Any one who fails to recognize the change in man, may well fail,
especially at a time like this, to recognize the increasing peace and
aids to peace among the nations. Between civilized peoples, war comes
now mainly because of one decaying institution--autocratic government,
and of one vanishing human peculiarity--the madness of the crowd--the
readiness of men to do in mass what they scorn to do as individuals--to
get excited over foolish causes, or no cause at all, and to find glory
in doing at wholesale, work which, at retail, they shrink from as
robbery and murder.


_Academic Courtesy_

A certain college professor was asked by a lawyer for technical
information needed in a property case. The professor spent half a day
in disentangling the material and putting it into practicable shape.
With it he presented a bill for $25.00.

Was this sensible or shocking?--business or betrayal? The lawyer,
who seems in no way to have begrudged the money, told the tale as an
instance of vulgar commercialism worming its ugly way into the fair
ethics of the academic profession. And with him doubtless most college
professors themselves would agree, even in the face of his confession
that for any scraps of legal information formally sought by the
professor a lawyer would charge a fee.

To a layman the case for the defence seems simple. Here is no shining
opportunity for the idealism of the scientist who, preferring to give
to humanity the fruit of his works, refuses to patent discoveries made
in the university laboratory. Nor is there in such an instance any
question of aid to a disinterested “seeker after truth.” A professor
of Greek will gravely spend several hours in answering a village
clergyman’s question about the New Testament “baptism.” The historian
himself will take the free hours of several days to make out reading
lists for a woman’s club. But why should one man who is making his
living give time and work freely to another man who is going to use
them to increase his earnings? The professor’s salary, unadorned by
inherited capital or wife’s dower or extra work, is not a living wage.
He has to endure the annual appeal to humanitarian alumni to consider
his needs, the reiterated disclosures of his poor economies and poorer
expenditures. Why should he not take from a lawyer’s pocket, rather
than from a “donor’s,” in return for desirable goods, money which will
pay part of his expenses to the next meeting of that learned society
before which he is to read an unmarketable paper?

Why, indeed? we seem to hear the college professor echo. There is
no reason save that he likes learning without courtesy, as little
as religion without charity--and courtesy, like charity, makes no
exceptions.


_Simplified Spelling_

While Germany is fighting in disregard of International Law, and the
allies fighting in its defence, it is a good time to impress a very
powerful consideration for simplifying English spelling.

Probably the strongest reason why International Law has developed so
much more slowly than law in the separate nations, has been the greater
difficulty of the nations understanding each other, and this is
rapidly disappearing under increased facilities of intercommunication.
Apparently there is no agency in sight which would promote this as much
as an international language. Many considerations nominate English
for the place: not only do more people speak it already than speak
any other civilized language; but quite probably more people not
born to it, speak it. Of all civilized languages, it is by far the
simplest in its inflections and the richest in its vocabulary, and
contains most words already contained in other languages. As a possible
world-language, it far surpasses them all, except in the difficult
inconsistencies of its spelling; and many devoted men, including
virtually all the leading authorities, are now working hard to remedy
these, perhaps their strongest motive being, as it is that of their
most generous supporter, the interests of peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now for a few words regarding some details of the simplification,
which wil contain a few examples of mildly impruuvd forms, insted of
the most outrageusly inconsistent of the uzual wons. Those we uze wil
be inconsistent enuf in all consience.

Of experienses discuraging to those who favor the reform, the worst we
hav encounterd has been in the letrs from members of the Simplified
Spelling Board which hav bin evoked by our articls. Probably not one in
five of those letrs has containd any new forms whatever, or at least
enuf to be notist. If the anointed aposls of the reform don’t bac it up
any betr than that, those who oppose it hav occasion to rejoise. On the
other hand, the letrs from som of the faithful who really wer faithful,
wer deliberately impruuvd until they wer very funny, tho very probably
our grandchildren woud not find anything funny in them.

If the reform ever coms, it now seems most likely to com thru peepl
getting so familiar with the milder impruuvd forms in correspondence,
advertisments, and prospectuses, that they wil be reddy to giv their
children a consistent scooling.

In such ways, and thru argument and right reson, probably there may gro
up, in time, approval enuf to start the better forms in som scools,
and when that is don, the spred and establishment of such forms seems
inevitabl.

But there wil be som difficultys that ar obvius even now. Inevitably
at this stage, experts ar qarreling among themselvs, tho qarreling is
hardly the term: for the differenses ar in the best of temper. It is a
question whether enuf new forms ar yet agreed upon, even by those who
attemt thurro and consistent reform, to make possibl a scool-bouk that
woud succeed. The foregoing sentence givs som illustrations. The word
we spel as _thurro_ is spelt by the S. S. B. as _thoro_, and by the S.
S. S. as _thuro_. The word we spel _woud_ is spelt by the S. S. S. as
_wood_, and the S. S. B. leavs it alone, after som tentativ votes that
resulted in _wud_. _Wood_ is excellent if identity with present practis
wer desirabl, but if _wood_ is right (_riit?_), how about _food_ and
_door_, and how, in any case, about using _o_ to express a _u_ sound?
The S. S. S. setls part of the difficulty by keeping _wood_ as now, and
making _food_ = _fuud_, and _door_ = _doer_. The present _doer_ (won
who duz) it makes _duer_. With _fuud_ and _duer_ we agree; but with
_doer_ for _door_ we don’t: we think _door_ as it is, is as good as
possibl, and think that _coast_, _ghost_, _globe_, _lore_, etc., would
be vastly impruuvd if they wer made uniform and to agree with door,
thus: _coost_, _goost_, _gloob_, _loor_.

It is a question wether reform had betr wait for a betr agrement of
experts, or wether there is now enuf agrement to justify anybody’s
going ahed with his share of it, and such personal extras as his
consience reqires (_reqiirs_?) him to ad; and letting everybody’s
personal extras fight (_fiit_?) it out to a survival of the fittest.



INDEX THE UNPOPULAR REVIEW VOL. II


[_Titles of Articles are printed in heavier type. The names of authors
of articles are printed in italics._]

  A., Miss, 160-162.

  =Academic Courtesy=, 441.

  =Academic Donors, A Post Graduate School for=, 213.

  =Academic Leadership=, 132
    --uneasiness of mind among thoughtful men; its significance and
        character, 132-133
    --present small regard for scholarship, 134
    --education and society, 135
    --need of discipline; failure of language and science courses,
        135-137
    --superior discipline of classical studies, 137
    --“efficiency,” 138
    --lack of academic solidarity, 138-139
    --value of common background of the classics for social efficiency,
        140
    --Elyot’s _Boke Named the Governour_ quoted, 141-142
    --the Magna Charta of education, 142-143
    --intellectual aristocracy the basis of English education, 143-145
    --the aristocratic principle embodied in Greek and Latin literature,
        145-146
    --liberty and distinction, 147-148
    --real service of the classics in education, 148-149
    --duty of the college to mould character and foster leadership,
        150-151.

  Addams, Jane, 5-6.

  =Advertisement=, 216.

  Advertising, 246.

  Agriculture, 240.

  _Allinson, Mrs. F. G._, ‘Academic Courtesy,’ 441;
    ‘The Muses on the Hearth,’ 189.

  Americanism, 128.

  Anarchists, 231.

  Angell, Norman, 403.

  Arbitration in New Zealand, 29.

  Asquith, H. H., 402.

  Associated Press, 230.

  Austria. _See_ War.


  B., Madame, 388-389.

  Balkans. _See_ War.

  Bartlett, Geo. C, 153-156.

  Bax. _See_ Morris and Bax.

  Beer, 259.

  Belgium. _See_ War.

  Belloc, Hilaire, 332.

  Bergson, Henri, 184.

  Bernhardi, General, 201.

  Bismarck, 405.

  =Blues, On Having the=, 301
    --gloomy persons, 301
    --superior persons and the blues, 301-302
    --a fallacy, 302-303
    --depression a result of weak nerves, 303
    --folly of fearing disaster, 303-304
    --blessings in disguise, 304-305
    --moral benefits of the Sicilian and Calabrian earthquakes, 305
    --worst blues, 306
    --uncertainty as to the goodness of nature, 306
    --borrowed troubles, how to avoid, 307-308
    --over-refinement in work, 308
    --value of sleep, 309
    --on “rising superior,” 309-311
    --keeping busy, 310
    --faith in immortality, 311-312
    --the Providence that helps, 312-313
    --have reasonable since life is reliable, 313
    --brooding on death, 314
    --the normal feeling toward it, 315
    --mourning customs, 316
    --proper preparation for the end, 316-317.

  Bosnia and Herzegovina. _See_ War.

  _Brewster, William T._, ‘The Principles and Practice of Kicking,’ 318.

  _Bruce, H. Addington_, ‘Our Debt to Psychical Research,’ 372.

  _Bumpus, H. C._, ‘Trade Unionism in a University,’ 347.

  Burrows, C. W., 207.

  Butler, Nicholas M., 365.


  Cattell, J. M., 358.

  Charcot, J. M., 389-390.

  =Chautauqua, Lecturing at=, 116
    --personal point of view, 116
    --sudden summons, 116
    --arrival, reception and hotel, 117
    --early swim, Hall of Philosophy, lecture on Poe, 118
    --the settlement and its depressing effect, 119
    --relief map of Palestine, 120
    --various emotions, fame, embarrassment, 120-121
    --secret of the art of lecturing, 122
    --steamboat ride, Bemus Point and drinks, 123
    --Sunday and forbidden recreations, 124
    --life at the hotel, 125-126
    --Higgins Hall, 126
    --the point of conversion to a liking for the place, 126
    --listening to lectures, 127
    --pathetic pursuit of culture by the elderly, 127-128
    --Americanism of the people, 128
    --Chautauqua a genuine democracy, 128-129
    --economic conduct of the Institution, 129
    --teas and picnics, 130
    --a reception; pleasant memories, 131.

  Chesterton, G. K., 319, 332.

  Chicago anarchists of 1886, 231-233.

  Christian Science, 71.

  Civil War, 411.

  Classics in education, 132.

  Colleges, 189, 356.

  Comer, Mrs., 273.

  Commercialism in college professors, 441.

  Competition, 246.

  Conventionality, 280.

  Corporations, 80.

  Culture, 127.

  =Curse of Adam and the Curse of Eve, The=, 266
    --some opinion on women and marriage, 266-268
    --drudgery in man’s life and woman’s, 268-269
    --woman’s freedom, 269-270
    --women and war, 270
    --differentiation of men and women the best product of civilization,
        271
    --and more important to woman than to man, 272
    --chastity, 272
    --effect of Feminism on women, 273
    --the dress of men and women, 274, 275
    --distinctive titles for married and single women, 276
    --married names of women, 276, 277
    --sex war, 277, 278
    --self-sacrifice in man and woman, 278
    --value of matrimony, 278
    --answer to Feminism, 278-279.


  Death, 314.

  Democracy in Education, 356.

  Democratic individualism, 246-247.

  Demos, 248.

  Dickinson, Lowes, 384, 430.

  =Disfranchisement of Property, The.= _See_ Property.

  Distribution, 245.

  Domestic science, 189.

  Dreams, 152.

  Du Prel, 157.


  Education, 134, 189.

  =Education, Monarchy and Democracy in=, 356
    --anomaly of educational monarchy in America and educational
        democracy in Europe, 356-357
    --difficulty of the discussion, 357-358
    --origin and growth of monarchy in colleges, 358-359
    --evils of this condition, 359-360
    --objections against faculty legislation, discussed, 360-363
    --what college professors wish, 363-365
    --relation of professors and president, 365-366
    --what might be learned from business methods, 367-368
    --presidential prerogative, 368
    --why professors are discouraged, 369-370
    --ground for hope, 371.

  Electricity, 244.

  Eliot, Chas. W., 139, 369.

  Eliot, George, as control, 168-174.

  Ellis, Havelock, 184, 185.

  Elyot, Sir Thomas, 141.

  =En Casserole=, 205, 440.

  England. _See_ War.

  Essex Junction, 92.

  Eugenics, 60.

  Europe. _See_ War.

  =Experiment in Syndicalism, An.= _See_ Syndicalism.


  Farmers. _See_ Agriculture.

  =Femina=, 271.

  Feminism, 266.

  =Feudalism, A Stubborn Relic of=, 21
    --tipping a survival of feudal relation, 21
    --Europe and America, 22
    --ideal and practical ethics, 22-23
    --is tipping almsgiving? 23
    --position of servants, 23-24
    --reasonableness of tipping, 24-25
    --rich and poor, 25
    --private families, 25
    --progress toward ideal condition, 26
    --moderate tips legitimate, 26-27
    --wider application, 27
    --impracticability of socialism, 27-28.

  _Fisher, Dorothy C._, ‘The Gentleman-Sportsman,’ 334.

  =Flatland, The Way to=, 59
    --“Life Extension” movement, 59
    --university efficiency proposition and Harvard University, 59-60
    --eugenics movement, 60-61
    --prohibition, 61-62
    --flatness and superficiality of prevailing thought, 62-63
    --loss involved in applying factory methods to university life,
        64-65
    --loss to human dignity and rights involved in the eugenics
        propaganda, 65-67
    --significance of the prohibition movement and its impairment of
        personal liberty, 67-69
    --“Life Extension” movement, 69-70
    --the body as a machine, 70
    --concern for health, 71
    --periodic examinations and liability to errors in diagnosis, 71-72
    --greatest objection an invasion of personal liberty, 72-73
    --character of these movements and what they indicate, 73-74.

  =Fly Time, Philosophy in=, 209.

  Foster, Chas. H., 152-156, 159, 160.

  France. _See_ War.

  Francis Joseph, 405, 429.

  _Franklin, Fabian_, ‘Some Free-Speech Delusions,’ 223;
    ‘The Way to Flatland,’ 59.

  Freedom of the press, 223, 230-231, 233.

  =Free-Speech Delusions, Some=, 223
    --new martyrdom of certain agitators, 223-224
    --factitious grievances of the I. W. W., 224-225
    --the hunger strike, 225-228
    --range and limits of freedom of speech, 226-227
    --true and false doctrine of free speech, 228-229
    --J. S. Mill quoted, 229
    --confused and shallow thinking on the subject, 228-230
    --illustrated by the notion that the newspapers suppress news,
        230-231
    --illustrated also by the notion that the Chicago Anarchists of
        1886 were unjustly convicted, 231-233
    --duty of intelligent men, 233-235
    --underlying reason for free speech, 235.


  Galsworthy, John, 332.

  Gary, Judge, 233.

  =Gentleman-Sportsman, The=, 334
    --reasons for killing lions in Africa, 334
    --“unsportsmanlike” methods, 334-335
    --“giving the game a chance” compared to the cats playing with the
        mouse, 335-337
    --cat nature and man’s nature, 337-338
    --true principle as to destroying life, 339-340
    --place of sportsmanship and hunting in modern life, 340-342
    --better ways of securing excitement, 342-343
    --waste of physical courage, 343-344
    --candor needed, 344-345
    --danger to young minds in the hypocrisy of sport, 345-346.

  Germany, 199.
    _See also_ War.

  _Gerould, Katharine F._, ‘Tabu and Temperament,’ 280.

  Gilman, Charlotte P., 270, 271.

  Goodrich-Freer, Miss, 381-384.

  Gosson, Stephen, 327, 328.

  Greek and Latin, 132.

  Grey, Sir Edward, 401, 402, 434.

  Gurney, Edmund, 174, 376.


  Habay, Juliette, 270.

  _Hamilton, Clayton_, ‘Railway Junctions,’ 91
    --‘Lecturing at Chautauqua,’ 116.

  Hapsburgs, 405.

  Harden, Maximilian, 202.

  Harvard University, 60.

  “Harvey,” as control, 160-162.

  Hell, 314.

  Hodgson, Dr. Richard, 164-167, 170-174.

  Hohenzollerns, 406.

  Holland, Mrs., 167.

  Holt, Emily, 385.

  _Holt, Henry_, ‘Advertisement,’ 216;
    ‘Hypnotism, Telepathy, and Dreams,’ 152;
    ‘On Having the Blues,’ 301;
    ‘Philosophy in Fly Time,’ 209;
    ‘Simplified Spelling,’ 217, 442;
    ‘Special to our Readers,’ 205, 440;
    ‘A Stubborn Relic of Feudalism,’ 21;
    ‘A Suggestion Regarding Vacations,’ 216;
    ‘The War: By a man in the street,’ 429.

  Howells, W. D., 105.

  Hunger strike, 225-228.

  Hunting, 334.

  Hypnotism, 375.

  =Hypnotism, Telepathy and Dreams=, 152
    --some of Foster’s dreams, 152-156
    --possession, 155
    --explanation attempted, 156-157
    --where do dreams come from? 157
    --the cosmic soul, 157-159
    --Wm. James on matter and mind, 158
    --a hint of the explanation of hypnotism, 159-160
    --Stillman’s story of Turner and Miss A. under “Harvey” as control,
        160-162
    --telepathy and teloteropathy, 162-163
    --Mrs. Piper and some manifestations of free interflow of minds,
        163-174
    --story of A. and B., Mrs. Piper’s sitting with George “Pelham” as
        control, 164-166
    --cross-correspondences, Mrs. Verrall and Mrs. Holland, 167
    --Piper sittings with George Eliot as control, 168-174
    --sensitives and their dream-life experiences, 174-175
    --what are personalities? 175-177
    --postcarnate life, 176
    --our dream life and its indication of the postcarnate, 177-181
    --the cosmic soul as an explanation of dreams, 181-183
    --Lombroso on dreams, 183
    --dream life as an evidence of immortality, 184
    --Ellis and Bergson quoted, 184-185
    --Nature and immortality, 185-186
    --new moral and intellectual interests, 186
    --new evidence for immortality, 186-188.

  Hysteria, 389.


  Immigration, 45.

  Immortality, 184-188, 311.

  Industrial decentralization, 243-245.

  I. W. W., 224, 225, 238.

  International language, 443.

  International law, 437-439.

  =Investments, Unsocial=, 1
    --new social conscience in reality a class conscience, 1-2
    --excommunication of special property interests, 2-3
    --instances of such excommunication, 3-4
    --private ethical problems arising, 4-7
    --Jane Addams’s solution, 5-6
    --how we dispose of the saloon, 7-8
    --unfit tenements, 8
    --the loan shark, 9
    --mistaken method of suppressing anti-social interests, and
        consequences, 10-11
    --the principle of compensation, 12
    --its expediency, 13
    --superior claim of expediency, 14
    --public share in evils of anti-social interests, 14-15
    --growth and change of majority opinion as to illegitimate
        industries, 15
    --liquor question, cold storage, artificial butter as instances,
        15-17
    --single tax argument, 17
    --legislative evils, 17
    --need of security of property, 18
    --relation of security of human life to security of property, 18-19
    --rights of labor, 19-20
    --justice of the principle of compensation, 20.

  =Is Socialism Coming?= _See_ Socialism.


  James, Wm., 157, 158, 174.

  Janet, Pierre, 376, 387-391.

  _Johnson, A. S._, ‘Setting Bounds to Laughter,’ 210;
    ‘Unsocial Investments,’ 1;
    ‘The War: By an economist,’ 411.

  _Jordan, David Starr_, ‘The Land of the Sleepless Watchdog,’ 197.


  Kaiser. _See_ War.

  Keim, General, 200.

  Kenton, Edna, 268, 269, 270, 277.

  Key, Ellen, 267, 274.

  =Kicking, The Principles and Practice of=, 318
    --kicking in football and in metaphor, 318-319
    --the pleasure of kicking, muck-raking, etc., 319-320
    --abuses of the pastime, 320
    --crude motives, 320-322
    --the object of the kick, 322
    --kicking at life, 323
    --futility of kicking at alleged tendencies, 323-324
    --the inapposite kick at institutions, 324-325
    --duty of frowning on specific abuses and impositions, 325-326
    --method and technic of the kick, 326
    --the reactionary kick, 327-330
    --ineffectiveness of a crude technic, 330-331
    --some skilful kickers named, 331-332
    --sketch of the ideal kicker, 332-333.

  Kipling, R., 278-279.


  Labor. _See_ New Zealand.

  =Labor: “True Demand” and Immigrant Supply=, 45
    --economic motives for immigration in the past, 45-47
    --temporary immigrants, 47-48
    --Greeks, 48
    --conclusion of the Immigration Commission, 48
    --misconception in the argument for the indispensability of
        immigrants, 49
    --restriction argument; wage figures, unemployment, casual labor,
        49-50
    --“social surplus” and its bearing on future policy, 51-52
    --contract-labor exclusion, 52-53
    --bureaus for ascertaining the “true demand,” 53
    --embargo, sliding scale, and Burnett Bill, 54
    --determining real economic need, 54
    --declarations of intention to migrate, 55
    --assimilation, 55-56
    --a national question, 56
    --international aspect, 57
    --wider scope, 57-58.

  Land of the morning, 413, 415, 416.

  =Land of the Sleepless Watchdog, The=, 197
    --the watchdog in the southwestern United States, 197-198
    --a parable of Europe, 198-199
    --Prof. Nippold, 198-199
    --Gen. Keim, 200
    --Gen. Bernhardi, 201
    --Pangermanism, 201
    --Harden, 202
    --Germany and the war spirit, 202-203
    --Europe not in favor of war, 203-204.

  Larkinism, 238.

  =Laughter, Setting Bounds to=, 210.

  =Lecturing at Chautauqua.= _See_ Chautauqua.

  Legislatures, 17, 20.

  Léontine, 388-389.

  “Life Extension” movement, 59.

  Liquor question, 3, 7, 12.
    _See also_ Prohibition.

  Lodge, Sir Oliver, 174.

  Lombroso, 183.

  _Lusk, Hugh H._, ‘An Experiment in Syndicalism,’ 29.


  McCombs, Wm. F., 135, 140.

  Madison, Wisconsin, 347.

  Malet, Lucas, 266, 274.

  Manners and morals, 284, 286.

  Marx, Karl, 236.

  _Mather, F. J., Jr._, ‘Minor Uses of the Middling Rich,’ 104;
    ‘A Post Graduate School for Academic Donors,’ 213;
    ‘The War: By a historian,’ 392.

  _Means, David McGregor_, ‘The Disfranchisement of Property,’ 75.

  Mexico, 209, 409, 419, 424, 425, 427, 436.

  Mill, J. S., quoted, 229.

  =Minor Uses of the Middling Rich.= _See_ Rich.

  =Monarchy and Democracy in Education.= _See_ Education.

  _More, Paul Elmer_, ‘Academic Leadership,’ 132.

  Morgenland, 413, 415, 416.

  Morris and Bax, 274.

  Münsterberg, Hugo, 373.

  =Muses on the Hearth, The=, 189
    --the home, 189
    --women’s colleges and the teaching of domestic science, 189-190
    --education of girls, 190
    --how to learn housekeeping, 191
    --its larger meaning, 191-192
    --college the place to form habits of mental discipline, 192-193
    --human life back of vocations, 193
    --wider vision, and deeper love of learning needed for women,
        194-195.

  Myers, F. W. H., 157, 174.


  _Nation_, New York, 137, 356, 430.

  New Zealand, industrial strike, 29.

  Newbold, Prof. J. R., 168.

  Newspapers, 112, 230, 248.

  Nippold, Prof., 198-199.

  Noise, 250.

  Norton, C. E., 301.


  =On Having the Blues.= _See_ Blues.

  =Our Debt to Psychical Research.= _See_ Psychical Research.


  Peace, 407, 409, 440.

  “Pelham,” George, 164-167.

  Pessimism, 263.

  Phelps, E. J., 92.

  =Philosophy in Fly Time=, 209.

  Piddington, Mr., 167.

  Piper, Mrs., 163-174.

  Podmore, Frank, 375.

  =Post Graduate School for Academic Donors, A=, 213.

  _Powers, F. P._, ‘The Curse of Adam and the Curse of Eve,’ 266.

  Poynings, Blanche, 384-386.

  Press. _See_ Associated Press; Newspapers.

  =Principles and Practice of Kicking, The.= _See_ Kicking.

  Prohibition, 61.

  =Property, The Disfranchisement of=, 75
    --statistics, 75
    --savings banks deposits, 76
    --life insurance payments, 77
    --pensions, 78
    --waste in government expenses, 78-79
    --Macaulay cited, confidence in the State, 79
    --increasing taxes, 79-80
    --corporate wealth in the United States, 80-81
    --its disfranchisement, 81-82
    --divorce of corporate ownership and management, 82-83
    --small corporations, 84
    --manhood suffrage and property suffrage, 85
    --delegated legislation, 86
    --power of legislatures over property, 86-87
    --corporate influence in legislatures, 87
    --present relation of legislatures and corporation managers, 88
    --hostility to corporations and its effect on small businesses, 89
    --the suffering of the country from attack on property, 89-90.

  =Psychical Research, Our Debt to=, 372
    --attitude toward the occult of scientific men, 372-373
    --of the public, 373
    --psychology’s debt to psychical research, 374
    --Frank Podmore, 375
    --aim and spirit of the Society for Psychical Research, 375
    --hypnotism and its value, 375-376
    --work of Janet and Gurney, 376-377
    --subconscious ideas, 377
    --Gurney’s experiments and subconscious mentation, 378-380
    --subconscious perception and subconscious memory, 381
    --crystal gazing, Mrs. Goodrich-Freer’s demonstration of memory
        registration of subconscious percepts, 381-384
    --dissociated subconscious memories and Lowes Dickinson, 384-386
    --some of the first-fruits of systematic psychical research, 386
    --practical value of automatic writing, crystal-gazing and
        hypnotism, 387
    --French savants, 387
    --Pierre Janet’s experiments in hypnotic telepathy and their
        bearing on hysteria and other nervous diseases, 387-391.

  Psychology, 394.

  Psychotherapy, 391.

  Publishers, 206.


  =Railway Junctions=, 91
    --fine phrase of R. L. Stevenson, 91
    --Essex Junction and E. J. Phelps’s verses, 92
    --pleasure to be got from places, 93
    --picture of possible pleasure at Essex Junction, 93-94
    --enjoying railway junctions, 94-95
    --a Bavarian junction near Rothenburg, 95-96
    --Bobadilla, Spain, 96-97
    --Dol, France, 97-98
    --Nevers and Pyrgos, 98-99
    --true enjoyment of travel, 99-100
    --American haste, 100
    --anecdote of R. L. Stevenson, 101
    --Thos. Browne, quoted, 101
    --enjoyment of the present, 102
    --anecdote of a wait at Basel, 102
    --possibilities of adventure in the dullest places, 103.

  =Republic of Megaphon, The= (the evils of the modern newspaper shown
    by a Socratic dialogue), 248
    --its apparent value and trifling cost, 249-251
    --Nature of its news, 252
    --its low price necessitates profits from advertising, 254
    --its lowering of quality, 254-255
    --its falsification of truth, 256
    --its willingness to sell itself, 257
    --its low taste and vulgar language, 257
    --its vulgar advertising of worthless goods, 258
    --its vulgarization of art, 258
    --its immoral advertising, 259
    --its flattery of the people and faultfinding with the few, 260
    --its tendency to set class against class, 261
    --its teaching of skepticism in religion, of baseness in leaders,
        and selfishness in all men and consequent injury to the state,
        262-263
    --how the truth may be told and how the newspapers tell it, 264-265.

  Rhodes, Cecil, 424, 425.

  =Rich, Minor Uses of the Middling=, 104
    --charges general and specific against the rich, 104
    --historic view of wealth, 105
    --newly rich, multimillionaires, and middling rich, 105-106
    --character of the middling rich, 107
    --honesty and virtue implied in moderate wealth, 108
    --discipline, efficiency and good manners of the middling rich, 109
    --strong position in comparison with the capitalist and the
        wage-earner, 110
    --usefulness of this class in conservation of civilization, 111
    --usefulness on the lighter side of life, 112
    --newspapers, 112-113
    --poverty likely to decrease, 113
    --socialism, personality of wealth, 113-114
    --great fortunes, 114
    --prospects, 115.

  Rogers, Anna A., 267, 277.

  Russell, Chas. Edw., 232.

  Russia. _See_ War.


  Schreiner, Olive, 269, 270, 271.

  Servia. _See_ War.

  =Setting Bounds to Laughter=, 210.

  Sex discussion, 294.

  Shaw, Geo. B., 267, 332.

  _Showerman, Grant_, ‘The Republic of Megaphon,’ 248.

  Sill, E. R., 306.

  =Simplified Spelling=, 217, 442.

  Single Tax, 4, 17.

  Slavs. _See_ War.

  _Slosson, Preston W._, ‘Is Socialism Coming?’ 236.

  Smith, G. A., 379.

  Social justice, 1, 14.

  Socialism, 27, 113, 114.

  =Socialism, Is [it] Coming?= 236
    --Karl Marx and his method of realizing democracy, 236-237
    --the present position of Socialism, 237-238
    --factors that make for concentration in production, 238-239
    --advantages of the rich industry, 239-240
    --objections to the Socialist’s contention, 240-245
    --the tendency in agriculture toward small holdings, 240-242
    --the future of agriculture, 242-243
    --decentralizing factors in industry, 243-245
    --electricity, 244
    --skilled labor, 245
    --the problem of distribution, 245-246
    --rational competition, 246
    --picture of a democratic individualism in the future, 246-247.

  Socratic dialogue on newspapers, 248.

  =Some Free-Speech Delusions.= _See_ Free-Speech Delusions.

  Spanish-American War, 409.

  =Special to our Readers=, 205, 440.

  Spelling. _See_ Simplified Spelling.

  Sportsmanship, 334.

  Stevenson, R. L., 91, 101.

  Stillman, W. J., 160-162.

  Strikes. New Zealand, 29;
    Wisconsin University, 347.

  =Stubborn Relic of Feudalism, A.= _See_ Feudalism.

  =Suggestion Regarding Vacations, A=, 216.

  Syndicalism, 238.

  =Syndicalism, An Experiment in=, 29
    --New Zealand’s Court of Arbitration, 29
    --its success, 30
    --Australian antagonism, 31
    --Waihi gold mine strike and resulting conditions, 31-32
    --failure of Federation of Labor, 33
    --introduction of Syndicalist methods, 33-34
    --new unions to undermine the old, 35-36
    --strike of Waterside Workers and Seamens Unions, 37-38
    --apparent success, 39
    --public interference and its methods, 39-41
    --new unions to defeat the syndicalists, 42
    --failure of federationists, 42
    --lesson for America, 43
    --reasons for the result, 43-44.


  =Tabu and Temperament=, 280
    --meaning of temperament, 280
    --the revolt against convention, 281
    --primitive conventionality, 282
    --need and advantages of convention, 283
    --manners and morals, 284
    --originality, 285
    --essence of good manners, 286
    --charm, 286-292
    --need of some social code, 288-289
    --on being shocked, 289-290
    --requisites for being charming, 290-291
    --the unreliability of temperament, 291
    --unconventionality and the moral order, 292
    --the free discussion of vice, 293
    --advantage of avoiding sex discussion, 294
    --brutality and danger of discussing questionable topics, 294-297
    --the rightness of _tabu_, 298
    --absurd position of present-day iconoclasts, 299
    --need of self-control, 299-300.

  Tarbell, Ida M., 266, 268, 277.

  Telepathy, 152.

  Teloteropathy, 163, 164.

  Temperament, 280.

  Thring, Edw., 363.

  Tipping, 21.

  Tobacco, 259.

  _Todd, Arthur J._, ‘Labor: “True Demand” and Immigrant Supply,’ 45.

  =Trade Unionism in a University=, 347
    --relation of the State of Wisconsin to the University of
        Wisconsin, 347
    --character of the University, 348
    --the student legislative body, 348-349
    --student labor trouble and threatened strike, 349-353
    --significance of the occurrence as to university development and
        results, 353-355.

  Triple Entente, 404, 406, 407.


  Universities, 356.

  University efficiency, 59.

  UNPOPULAR REVIEW, 155, 206.

  =Unsocial Investments.= _See_ Investments.


  =Vacations, A Suggestion Regarding=, 216.

  Verrall, Mrs., 167.

  Victorian literature, 319.

  Virginia, University of, 356.


  Waihi gold mine strike, 31.

  War, in Europe not possible, 197;
    woman and, 270.

  =War, The=: _By a historian_, 392
    --the first shock, 392
    --immediate causes, 393-395
    --war parties, 395-396
    --Russia’s position ambiguous, 396-398
    --Austria’s blunder, 398
    --Germany’s conduct, 399-400
    --Germany’s error, 400
    --her statements, 401
    --France, 401
    --England’s part, 401-403
    --Germany and England, 402
    --Belgium, 402
    --the rights of neutrals, 403
    --police aspect of the war, 403
    --possibilities, 404
    --central European empire in history, 405
    --Austria, Germany, and the Hapsburg and Hohenzollern dynasties,
        405-406
    --the transformation of German temper, 406
    --further possibilities, 406-407
    --the Kaiser, 407
    --possibilities as to the cause of peace, 407-410
    --war and peace as such, 408-410
    --neutralization, 409
    --present peril, 410.

  =War, The=: _By an economist_, 411
    --usual course of war histories, 411-412
    --underlying forces of the present war, 413
    --colonial possessions, 413
    --the _Morgenland_ dream, 413-416
    --Germany’s population and welfare, 415-416
    --the delusion of colonial trade, 417-418
    --concessionary interests, 418-419
    --Pearson and Waters-Pierce as illustration, 419
    --relation of capital proper and speculative enterprise, 420-422
    --speculative enterprise in England, Germany and the United States,
        422-424
    --relation of patriotism to speculative enterprise, 424-427
    --a fruitful source of international strife, 427-428
    --the concession and the closed trade, 428
    --some predictions, 428.

  =War, The=: _By a man in the street_, 429
    --old contest of the savage and the civilized in every man, 429
    --responsibility for the present war, 430
    --change in the character of the German nation, 431-432
    --the Kaiser, 431-432
    --the higher Germany and the lower, 432-433
    --survival of old ideas, 433
    --the Kaiser’s responsibility, 434
    --his conduct, 434-435
    --Germany’s moral degradation, 435
    --the outcome, 436
    --absurd side, 436-437
    --international code of honor, 437-438
    --place of International Law, 437-439.

  =Way to Flatland, The.= _See_ Flatland.

  Wealth, 104.

  Webster, Arthur G., 137.

  Wells, H. G., 332.

  West, Prof., 137.

  Wilson, Woodrow, 409.

  Wisconsin, University strike, 347.

  Women, 266;
    education, 189.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

_The Unpopular Review_, Vol. 2, July-December, 1914, consisting of
Issue No. 3, July-September, 1914, and Issue No. 4, October-December,
1914, was published by Henry Holt and Company, New York, and
copyrighted 1914 by that company.

Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter and relabeled
consecutively through the document.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.

A change was made as follows:

p. 328: hancient changed to ancient (the ancient Britons.)





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