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Books and Things

ERHAPS somebody who has done me the honor to read thus far in this article will also do me a favor. Somewhere in Carlyle there is a panegyric upon journalism. Carlyle is describing the hideous daily labors of the journalist. It is a long description, engineered with such art that the reader expects it to conclude with explosive praise of the thing thus written against time, against space, against adverse gales of circumstance. What the reader gets is this tribute to the journalist's product, output or result: "And how passable it is!" Years ago I read this clangorous chapter in the gospel of silence, and never since, despite much hunting, especially in the life of John Stirling, have I been able to find the same. My reason for hunting is belief that a journalist, like everybody else, should now and then for his soul's health's sake expose himself to the severest things that have been thought and said in the world against his gainful occupation.

In default of Carlyle there is Stevenson, of course, with his "How do journalists fetch up their drivel?" And there is also Yeats. In "Synge and the Ireland of His Time" Yeats speaks of " that which is at once the greatest and most ignoble power of journalism, the art of repeating

a name again and again with some ridiculous or evil association." You may remember, as an example of this greatest but not most ignoble power, the question so often repeated by the New York World: "Where did you get it, Mr. Croker?" Or you may remember how ignobly Charles A. Dana used to harp on Grover Cleveland's fatness. You may remember, if your verbal memory is better than mine, a Sun paragraph which I am now trying to reach with the proper approach shots. Many newspapers in many parts of the country had taken up one of the Sun's names for Mr. Cleveland, the Stuffed Prophet of William Street. Between Mr. Cleveland's terms, when he had a law office in Broad Street, New York, the old nickname was still echoed, and the Sun corrected one of the echoes in a paragraph which began by quoting, I think from a Texas newspaper, "the Stuffed Prophet of William Street," and which went on somewhat like this: "Broad, not William. It used to be William. If our esteemed contemporary will consult the New York city directory for the current year it will find the following entry: 'Cleveland, Grover, lawyer, 15 Broad.' The last specification is the business address, not the personal measurement." Yes, it was as

ignoble as you please. It was also, in its day, rather funny.

In the same essay Yeats speaks of " the defense of virtue by those that have but little, which is the pomp and gallantry of journalism and its right to govern the world." Every one of my young readers who is old enough to remember Maxim Gorki's first visit to the United States will remember also how we journalists made it the occasion of a defense of virtue by those that have but little, how we exuded deference to the sanctity of the marriage bond. Yeats speaks of " the moral zeal, the confident logic, the ordered proof of journalism." Gorki's visit gave us little chance to display the first two of these qualities, but it did instigate us to column upon column of moral zeal. Let us console ourselves, if we can, by another quotation from Yeats: "The thought of journalists is neither healthy nor unhealthy, for it has not risen to that state where either is possible, nor should we call it happy." And I suppose he has his eye on journalism when he says: "A mind that

generalizes rapidly, continually prevents the experience that would have made it feel and see deeply."

Laying down the book, and taking up another, "Ideas of Good and Evil," and reading here and there, I came across Yeats's picture of a stay he made at Stratford-onAvon, where Mr. Benson's company, at a theatre "in a green garden by the riverside," was giving six of the historical plays " in their right order, with all the links that bind play to play unbroken." In London, Yeats goes on, "the first man one meets puts any high dream out of one's head," but at Stratford "he gives back one's dream like a mirror." In London "we hear something we like some twice or thrice in a winter, and among people who are thinking the while of a music-hall singer or a member of parliament, but " in the country "we would see it or hear it among people who liked it well enough to have travelled some few hours to find it; and because those who care for the arts have few near friendships among those who do not, we would see and hear it among near friends."

Experience has not taught me that those who travel farthest to see a play are usually those who like it best. Not the man who walked most miles to see the procession, an old story tells us, was the mirror that gave it back most perfectly, but one who was asleep under a rock in his own field, and who woke up and without stirring watched the procession go by. My own expeditions to shrine or stadium or Soldiers' Field, where a masterpiece by a master was to be given in a manner dear to the Muses, have less often landed me among ideal spectators than among persons selfconsciously anxious to be worthy of the honor, or to be less unworthy than their fellows. Sometimes this self-consciousness was precipitated in a drizzle of reminiscence, of reference to similar occasions whose glory grew in proportion to the number of listeners who hadn't been there. Sometimes it took the form of elementary information given more willingly than it was received. Sometimes it took the form of derision. The child of nature and art, quick to vibrate adequately, did not abound. After the affair one mostly heard the talk of men and women who prevented experience by generalizing too rapidly, and whose words gave a fresh staleness to the truth that not every generality glitters.

Only twice, only twice in my whole life, have I felt in exclusive purity the emotion of a circumsolar crowd. We all sat in a room of moderate size, not far from the Western Lake, our eyes turned toward the same sun, each hearing the same hope beat in every other heart. Our host, his face flushed with our noble common enthusiasm, went both to and fro among his paying guests. With joy-shaken hand he pointed to the blackboard we were all watching. In a voice shaken by reverent ecstasy he exclaimed, "Look at Northwest!" We looked and looked, while the stock we loved so well went up eighteen points under our greedy eyes. Not so many days later, and here we all are again, in the same room, our emotions purged by self-pity and terror, while waves of Northern Pacific panic break over us, and clean us out, and wash our riches away. Each of us has his selfish fears and certitudes, yet each is conscious of a community in disaster. Meanwhile, aloof, unsympathetic, the descending Stock Market looks at us, its victims, whose margins fade forever and forever as it moves. Yes, I fear it is true that all of us, had Yeats met us that day, would have put any high dream out of his head. Yes, I fear that journalists and here I had intended an adroit return to journalism, but there doesn't seem to be room.

P. L.

The Case for Conscription

Ordeal by Battle, by F. S. Oliver. New York: The Macwmillan Co. $1.75 net.

F the distinguished ability of Mr. Oliver's book there can be no question. It is able and eloquent while it

is vigorous and sincere. Here at last is a man (an Englishman at that) who in the midst of a vast chaos of uncertainties has a definite thesis to maintain and the power to build from that thesis an illuminating contribution to the present debate. A critic would be ungrateful not to welcome such a book.

What is the thesis? It is the argument that to achieve her victory Great Britain has need of conscription; that she had need of it before the war; that without it she cannot render to herself or to her allies the services it is in her power to confer; more, that without it she cannot maintain any future peace. Interwoven into the fabric of this background are two minor but important pieces of design. Why was a conscript army essential to the security of Great Britain? Because, Mr. Oliver makes answer, Germany had lusted after world-power, had organized on a scale adequate to her ambition, had necessitated thereto a reply of formidable calibre. Why, in the second place, had British statesmen so signally failed to realize this obvious need? Mr. Oliver finds the answer in the evils of the party-system, in the unwillingness it has bred in politicians to face squarely an unpopular issue, and to tell the nation of sensible defects in its system. Preparedness, he argues, is essential to peace and therefore to security. Had Great Britain been prepared there would have been no war. Instead of confronting her real problems she chose to sleep, and Germany selected the hour of her waking from that sleep to attempt her destruction. In such a moment, so German statesmen argued, she could not rightly estimate the issues. They were mistaken; but that does not alter the imperative need.

A democracy, so runs the keynote of Mr. Oliver's vision, has deep need of national service. Like every other institution of human making, it will be judged by its achievement and not by its professed virtues. It must organize itself. If it is to govern, so also it must serve; otherwise, in truth, it were the merest imposture. This need of service implies that the army of the democratic state must be no professional army recruited mainly from the starved and the outcast, but a citizen army of every available man. That is the test of citizenship-the willingness to defend its integrity. But it is useless to have the will without the training. Citizens unprepared are citizens who have left their wills unrealized. To be made whole they must give the deepest that is in themselves to the state. So will they best be themselves, because from that service manhood and strength and determination are bred into the fibre of the people.

It is a brilliant argument, to the splendid eloquence of which the mere statement does less than the barest justice. Nowhere have I seen so vividly depicted the character of Prussian militarism. Nowhere have I seen so clearly limned the patent vices of modern English politics. And it is a stirring appeal of that there is no denial. The picture of a nation organized to maintain its integrity, asking from no section of itself service the other sections do not render, has a natural and irresistible fascination. So, at least, one would think. Yet it is undeniable that to a great and important part of the British people-the working classesthe appeal is largely without meaning, is even instinct with

danger, is hated. What is the cause of this divergence? It lies, as I think, in a certain over-simplification of the structure of society in minds like that of Mr. Oliver. He sees the nation as one and indivisible; to him the nation is also the state. National service is state service. The state has its problems. It wants to meet those problems. What more simple or effective than to organize it to do so? But it is necessary to look a little deeper. Below the One a Many is visible. If there is Belgravia there is also Whitechapel; if there are people who read the Times there are also people who do not read the Times; if there are the rich there are-it was the discovery Disraeli made when he wrote "Sybil "- the poor. Now before you can organize your nation you have to convince every part of it (or coerce it if you can) that your proposal is to its advantage. You have to make it understand that your intentions towards itself are beneficent. There can be no shadow of doubt that the workers of Great Britain are not convinced that government is instinct with good-will towards them, are suspicious in a profound sense of its intentions. Why? They will without hesitation make sacrifices for a thing they call "England"; but they have first to believe that the "England" for whom the sacrifice is to be made is not the people we broadly term the employing class. For these workers are perpetually engaged, in time of peace, in warfare against that class and it is the government which represents that class that is, on Mr. Oliver's scheme, to bear to them this new gift. What is this gift? A strong army drawn mainly from the workers' own ranks. But it is matter of the most recent history that an army less strong has been used against them in industrial warfare, has fired on them, has blacklegged them; the army, at any rate in time of peace, looks to the workers very like the most powerful weapon the capitalists can use against them. "Are we," they not unnaturally ask, "to strengthen a weapon certain to be used against ourselves?" May I point the moral with an actual instance? Mr. Oliver makes much play of the illegitimate use of the army. It will not condescend to do the dirty work of fighting rebellious Ulster and a leader guilty of constructive treason; but it does not object to do the equally dirty work of shooting down strikers at Tonypandy. Mr. Oliver must explain this distinction.

And he must be at pains to remove other suspicions which point in the same direction. I open my Spectator each week and find enthusiastic colonels on the retired list, writing from the comfortable seclusion of a Pall Mall club, asking for conscription as a means of dealing with industrial unrest. Mr. Oliver, who has, of course, other and far higher motives for his demand, tends to be confused in the worker's mind with my retired colonel. If he wants to remove that confusion he must deal with the retired colonel before he asks for the attention of labor. He must see that the worker is guaranteed in some way against capitalist extortion, that the war is not made, for example, the occasion of an insidious replacement of men by cheaper female labor or even cheapest child labor. He must not write-particularly from a country house of a pay of eighteen pence a day as "millionaire's pay" even in relation to the pay of the French soldier. He must try to think himself into the position of the soldier's wife who, with little children, is trying to make both ends meet on a minute separation allowance in a time of rising prices; he must remember that the people mainly profiting from the rise are the adherents of national service. He must be brief if he wishes to carry conviction to the workers, try to see things from their point of view.

I feel tolerably certain that no thinking Englishman will

now reject Mr. Oliver's appeal for national service so long as he studies the needs of labor. He must see to it, for example, that the relation between his foreign and domestic policy is such that the cares of the latter are not subservient to the delights of the former. When an English workingman sees how light-heartedly a peace-loving foreign minister can sacrifice a democracy in Persia, or jeopardize peace because some English capitalists have found it more profitable to invest in Morocco or Mexico than at home, he does not sympathize with plans which might as easily result in the extension of such adventures as in the maintenance of peace. If Mr. Oliver will see his industrial problem as clearly as his military, if he will look at home as well as abroad, I am sure that common ground between his ideals and those of labor can be found. Labor, equally with Mr. Oliver, is passionately eager to organize the nation in the service of the state, but it is not unreasonable to ask for security lest that organizing prove its own destruction?

One or two minor criticisms I venture to suggest. There are some dangerous personalities from which this book would be better free; as, for instance, the extraordinary reference-which in anyone but Mr. Oliver would be called incredibly vulgar-to one of the most distinguished of modern economists (p. 153); it is possible to be ironical without being offensive. Lord Haldane and Mr. Asquith might, one conceives, be treated with some shadow of respect even if on the opposite side to Mr. Oliver; either he does not know them or he has let his feelings get the better of him. Mr. Oliver may dislike lawyers; but his wholesale condemnation makes entire abstraction of their services to Eng

Elish liberties of men like Coke and Mansfield and Camden, to take but three names at random. Lastly, Mr. Oliver cannot let this be a people's war on p. 72 and a war of Court, Army and Bureaucracy on p. 44.

I have criticized freely. That is because this is a big book and a valuable book, symptomatic of much that is best in the British temper. But where there is so much that is fine, I think it is strategic error not to separate the alloy from the gold.

HAROLD J. LASKI.

The Easiest Way

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could say on a given occasion. Don't say what you were going to. If you are being "Complimentary of Things," for instance, use one of these instead:

How delightfully cosy!

Isn't that jolly?
A capital idea-
Simply splendid.

Even more unusual and breezy are such greetings as

The Happy Phrase, by Edwin Hamilton Carr. New these: York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. $1.00.

HERE is a real treasure, to be hailed with gratitude

everybody who now and then tires of the effort

to express himself. The author of this newly-published handbook, Edwin Hamilton Carr, has been impressed with the Average Man's conversational poverty, and has hit on the idea of providing him with a multitude of felicitous phrases, classified for use on various occasions. It is not a reference book, as Bartlett is, but actually a text to be studied, its aim being "the enrichment of conversation, writing and public speaking. When the mind is filled with good phrases they will spring spontaneously to the lips or pen." Thus runs the compiler's promise.

In Mr. Carr's preface he generously gives credit for many of his choicest blooms to four writers so dissimilar that surely we may look for spicy variety later-Dumas, Mrs. Hannah More, Thackeray and Dr. Crothers (with his name spelled wrong). We can hardly imagine another spot in which these worthies might find themselves juxtaposed, save perhaps heaven. And then follow the phrases, by the hundreds and thousands, each precisely the most pointed, distinguished, and utterly original thing you

I am delighted to make your acquaintance, though indeed I seem to know you already through hearing speak of you.

It is a great pleasure to have met you.

I trust we shall meet again.

Here an unaccountable omission is "Pleased to shake you by the hand."

"Courtesy" includes, in a long list:

You are most kind.

Permit me to thank you.

Please accept this as a slight token of my regard.
Aren't you going? (The fine flower of hospitality.]
Hearty congratulations.

I beg to offer my profound sympathy.

I was not clever enough to catch your name.
It is good of you to say so.

Chosen from several lists are these bits of conversational parsley:

It was real stupid of me.
Not that I know-

Quite likely.

It looks as if it would rain.
Ask me something easy.

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The brilliant author of "Visions and Revisions, "Zhas produced in this, his first novel, a startling and original work. It suggests Dostoievsky rather than Mr. Wells, and Balzac rather than Mr. Galsworthy.

It has something of the formidable intensity and fantastic waywardness of a story by Jean Richepin, and in its attempt to answer some of the more dangerous dogmas enunciated by Nietzsche, it does not scruple to make drastic use of that great psychologist's devastating insight.

The author has the courage to deal frankly and fearlessly with those deep-hidden attractions and repulsions between people forced into relations with one another, which most novelists complacently and dishonestly gloss over.

The psychological value of many of the illuminative human documents laid bare in the book cannot be over-rated. Men and women are shown as they really are, neither idealized nor condemned.

Order from your bookstore to-day

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Having duly memorized these and the hundreds of others that Mr. Carr has collected, we proceed to the invaluable sections which help the clergyman, public speaker and letter-writer. And here we find illustrated the laborsaving advantages of that newspaper English" which O. Henry celebrated in the story about the Russo-Japanese war correspondent. Give me the first word of any phrase you have in mind and I'll tell you the rest of itits parts all hang together in the well-trained memorу. Dastardly-villain. Facile pen. Snowy-linen. Irksome task. Domestic-felicity. Of these Happy Combinations nearly four hundred are suggested. "Quite frequently" is one of the Four Hundred. Mere "frequently," you see, is neither Happy nor in the right set.

Would you describe a girl-a plain girl until you search Mr. Carr for Happy Phrases? She will have a matchless eye, a winning smile, a coral lip, and robust health; and the nice omelet she makes in her quaint old house will have a savory odor. Ten to one, by the end of your story she will have fallen in love with a noble youth or he may be a rising young lawyer-and will be the fond mother of a husky youngster. It is all here for you, making description as easy as rolling downhill.

It is possible that hard thinking on our part might have evolved some of the phrases suggested as "Commendatory of Persons," but such as the following no one with a mind less original than Mr. Carr's could have hit on:

[graphic]

How lovely these are!

He is a noble character.

We have beautiful neighbors.

He is irresistibly funny.

It was a very neat and appropriate expression.
A model of propriety a plain, frugal man.

The chief recommendation of these phrases is that they are so delicately diplomatic. No matter what the facts are, they suggest a happy way out. They fit the hard road of life with the softest padding. They remind one of the widow (in Dickens?) who, speaking of her late and reprobate husband, had the Carr-like felicity to declare that "the poor dear wrote such a lovely hand."

Gems from "Inquiry" include:

Have you any news?
May I have an apple?
Have you had luncheon?
Where are you staying?

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clesiastical standing, ranging in application from the Almighty to the sinner. The first are remarkably reminiscent TYPEWRITER SENSATION of the collects in the Book of Common Prayer; the others sound like Billy Sunday. So your tastes have a wide range. But all are conveniently ready-made, needing no trying-on in the vestry before use. Forget the trite phrases you have been preaching and praying with. Too many men weary their congregations with hackneyed language. You can make yours sit up and gasp in admiration if you follow Mr. Carr's advice as to phrase-making, and you will become known as the preacher who originated such unforgettable bits as,

The wondrous story of God's love.
Pity our frailties.

A hardened cynic.

Hollow shams and conventionalities.
Evil to its core.

Brighten up the corner where you are.

Has letter-writing been a burden to you? Never again need you chew your penholder for inspiration. Mr. Carr provides for all but extraordinary demands. Is it condolence or congratulation, thanks or Christmas? Here are plenty of fresh sentiments like "I hardly know how to express my thanks "-"The best of good wishes for a Merry Christmas "-the makings of an admirable letter if you will but cement them together in coherent form and add superscription and signature.

But if you lack the time or the self-confidence for such constructive effort, turn to the concluding section of readymade letters. You surely can't object to the little work required here. Just fill in the blanks left for the namesthat's all. The letter is done: a model of condolence for some suffering friend. And "Happy"? If that nation is happiest which has no history, so also is the Carr type of letter, which has no vestige of personality. These letters of sympathy twinkle with a subdued brilliance whose happiest effect is that it induces the bereaved to forget his sorrow in a vast admiration of your cleverness. And that is what is desired, is it not?

My dear friend:

It is with great regret that we learn of the sad occurrence at your home. Please accept our sincerest condolences. With deepest sympathy.

A wonderfully useful example this: it will answer almost any purpose. "Sad occurrence"-nothing could be more non-committal. You've heard that something has happened to them but you've forgotten just what. Send this and meet all requirements.

Gaiety in Verse

The Laughing Muse, by Arthur Guiterman. New York: Harper & Brothers.

M

R. GUITERMAN is somewhat in the position of
one of his own cherubs:

Who none of them, 'tis understood,
Will play a Naughty Prank;

And this is good, because they would
Be Difficult to Spank.

Mr. Guiterman's floor-walker, his antiseptic baby, his prophylactic pup may seem humorless to some. This is one of the misfortunes of such frivolity as his. But to many he is that rare creature, an unforced popular humorist. For them he fulfils his title's promise of laughter. He is to be enjoyed as a versifier who evades any attempt at serious criticism, an irreverent sprite who has immunity just because he is " difficult to spank."

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