The Fun I Get Out of Life

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BIG BLUE BOOK NO. Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius

B-8

The Fun I Get Out of Life E. Haldeman-Julius

HALDEMAN-JULIUS PUBLICATIONS

GIRARD, KANSAS

1

BIG BLUE BOOK NO . Edited by E. Haldeman - Julius

B-8

The Fun I Get Out of Life E. Haldeman -Julius

4

HALDEMAN -JULIUS PUBLICATIONS

GIRARD, KANSAS

Copyright, 1927, Haldeman -Julius Company

Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page 5

Foreword Credo

7 8 19 22

On Being Sent Away ..

Carl Sandburg Why, Indeed ?

23 24 25

A Word to the Barbers .

A Good, Simple Murder . Alice Gets Down to Cases .

26 27

My Idle Electric Fan .. I Go to Church ... Sinclair Lewis Gilbert Frankau Edwin Markham A Record

28 30 33 34 35

A Joke That Didn't Go Very Well ..

36

A Little Dinner Gang .

Edgar Saltus and His Collapse ..

37

He Knew What Was the Matter .

40

A Particularly Offensive Species of Pest . Another Kind of Bore .

Alice's Literary Taste Kansas Flies

40 41 : 42 42

One of the Intelligentsia

43

A Christmas Card .... Irish Stew I Invest in a New Corona .

44 46 46

“ Ask Your Banker ”

47

Thoughts on a New Key- Ring . Young Vanderbilt Is Shocked ..

49 51 51 52

Another Go- Getter in Action ..

The Compleat Angler Doing One's Job in a Workmanlike Manner . The Personal Touch... A Word on Bores “ Incredible !"

Why I Am Unpleasant and Insulting . Another Canceled Subscription .... Mainly About My Favorite Subject-Myself .. Too Serious ? Popular Superstitions The Incident of the Love- Sick Mice and the Hanging Fly- Swatter .

Miscellaneous Meanderings on a Very Hot Summer Day ...

53 54 55

56 57 58 58 64 64 66 68

On Difficulties of Writing ..

73

Paper Clips and Pipe Cleaners .

75

Pictures and Fables ...

76

646306

TABLE OF CONTENTS— ( CONT. ) Page

Morals, Art and God ..... Theodore Dreiser How to Get Rich

Eggs, Revolution and Other Things .. Golf Balls

Taking Advantage of a “ Dry " Wave . St. Christopher, Traffic Cop .. Not Cowardly, But Honest . On Free and Forced Writing . Bible Babble Atheism and Arithmetic

I Am Converted to Hash . A Bunk Scout Constitution ..

77

79 83 85 89 89 93

94 95

97 98 99

Pitch for Pastime ....

101 .105 ..107 . 108

Ham and Eggs ; or, Inside Looking Out .

..110

An Arctic Vacation ? ...... A Pleasant Little Dinner Party .

Great News ..... Youth Will Be Swerved .

.112 113

Only Glanced At ....

.115 .117 .118

The Playwright and the Pugilist . Neariy Every Day Is a Good Day . Kipling and “ Tommy Atkins” . The Kaiser Speaks .....

..119 .123

An Historical Note on Toleration ..

.126 ..127

The Trapeze Philosopher ....

FOREWORD

Every now and then someone comes along and writes something with the title :

“ What Life Means to Me.”

When life does mean some

thing to a man, to have him tell the rest of us about it is a worth -while and appreciated service. It helps others to find some meaning in a life which perhaps has not, up to the moment, meant much to them . And then there is the joy in life—the fun one can get out of it. I do not hesitate to confess, if I may use that word, that I get a lot of fun out

of life. I enjoy life hugely. Not that it is a big joke, but it is lots of fun whether it is a joke or not.

In my Credo, herein printed, I speak of believing in “ this life.” Of course, for an agnostic and infidel like me, to speak of this life is a niistake . I admit it. But I protest that it is only a manner of speak ing, and I hope I may be pardoned for it. I explain right here and now

that I am quite aware that saying "this life” implies that there is some thing else besides. And so far as I know there is nothing else besides . What do I think of immortality ? I reply with E. W. Howe that I don't

think anything about it at all, for there isn't any. E. HALDEMAN - JULIUS.

I

THE FUN I GET OUT OF LIFE

CREDO .

BELIEVE in my work.

1

I believe one should stop making money when he knows he has enough . 0

I believe in the United States .

I believe the day will come when the United States, the richest country materially, will learn that the goal is not to go on endlessly piling dollar on dollar but using honestly made dollars to make life beautiful , to make living an art, to seek truth. I believe in self-education. I believe in the Will to Wisdom .

I believe nothing is more important than honesty in thought. /

I I I I I

believe in freedom to think, to speak, to feel , to live, to be happy. believe minorities ,have rights. believe the majority should be helped to self-culture. believe in the printing press. believe that Bunk is man's worst enemy.

I believe in facts .

I believe this life is the only life we know about, and that we know mighty little about that.

I believe in the power of books. I believe the printed word can be used to make the United States truly civilized .

I believe man will never free himself intellectually until he frees himself from the clutches of the church.

I believe in the least amount of government ; the less the better. I believe poverty is a disgrace. I believe in the war on quackery.

I believe in the power of publicity.

I believe it is vain and futile to guess what lies beyond the grave. I believe all religions are man-made pieces of folly, conceived by inen suffering from super-heated imaginations. I believe in this life .

I believe it is not important that we should know what happens to us after death.

I believe that man is a funny animal .

The Fun I Get Out of Life

8

ON BEING SENT AWAY

AM writing this in a hotel room in Kansas City, an exile. I have been hustled out of my home by a woman who said she thought I should go away for a couple of days. When I got

home at noon yesterday, I found my bag packed and everything ready for a quick getaway. So I went. The last thing I heard Marcet say, was that it would do me a world of good to get away for a little

and be by myselt. I agreed with her. I feel better already, thanks to Marcet.

The Crijeup :here was a rest initself. About 125 miles of quick riding, over 'roads that are good and other roads thať are deplorable, gave me a chance to escape endless assaults on my time and energies. What a relief it is to run away from talk, from questions, from people

who want to know things, from others who want to tell me things ! I got into Kansas City at about seven o'clock last night, and de cided quickly to have feminine company for dinner. I dropped into the home of a friend — he was busy on a brief of some kind, but his beau tiful wife, and an equally attractive friend, were there -- so the three of us went to an eatery, where we did splendid justice to numerous dishes and a few cups, one of which contained gin.

The conversation was unimportant, and for that reason was of importance to me. These two splendid Persian cats had no manuscripts they wanted me to read ; they had no suggestions for the world's re

formation ; they did not want to show me how I might improve my publications; they were like Persian cats, beautiful things that take the world as they find it.

And now, the next morning, I rise to say that it was nice of Marcet to think of all that. All wives should send their husbands away, at least once a month. It's a great thing to be able to wander around for a few hours, chattering with inconsequential, attractive females. Feminism and

all that sort of thing are marvelous inventions of modern civilization , but feminism cannot destroy the usefulness of that great army of beau tiful creatures who see life as a pretty little game and who look on the

world with sparkling eyes if once they are sure their mirrors tell them they are still beautiful .

These two women last night said nothing about their rights, their wrongs, the evils of the tariff or the necessity for a lower discount rate. One is married to a fine fellow who supplies her with everything she needs ; the other, most likely, is looking for just that kind of a man .

Others may weep over the plight of such creatures; I do not weep, I chuckle. Is it not enough to be beautiful ?

Now pardon me just a moment, for I feel a call to become philoso phical and profound. I am going to say a piece about morality. It is considered wrong for a married man to hold the hand of a woman

who happens to be married to another man. It sounds fishy, but that's the world and I have agreed to let the world go its own way. The notion

seemsto prevail in conventional circles that that should be done only by three kinds of men—a woman's father, her brother, and finally, her hus

THE FUN I GET OUT OF LIFE CREDO

BELIEVE in my work . I believe one should stop making money when he knows he has enough. I believe in the United States .

I believe the day will come when the United States, the richest country materially, will learn that the goal is not to go on endlessly piling dollar on dollar but using honestly made dollars to make life beautiful, to make living an art, to seek truth. I believe in self- education . I believe in the Will to Wisdom .

!

I believe nothing is more important than honesty in thought . I believe in freedom 1

to think, to speak, to feel , to live, to be happy.

I believe minorities have rights .

I believe the majority should be helped to self-culture.

I believe in the printing press. I believe that Bunk is man's worst enemy. I believe in facts .

I believe this life is the only life we know about, and that we know

mighty little about that. I believe in the power of books. I believe the printed word can be used to make the United States truly civilized .

I believe man will never free himself intellectually until he frees himself from the clutches of the church. I believe in the least amount of government ; the less the better. I believe poverty is a disgrace. I believe in the war on quackery .

I believe in the power of publicity.

I believe it is vain and futile to guess what lies beyond the grave. I believe all religions are man-made pieces of folly, conceived by men suffering from super -heated imaginations. I believe in this life.

I believe it is not important that we should know what happens to us after death .

I believe that man is a funny animal.

10

The Fun I Get Out of Life

The argument then switched to : Should a husband pay his wife a salary ? The younger one ( unmarried ) said Yes. The married one said she thought it sounded mercenary. I butted in with the comment that no matter what you call it, one's wife gets the money anyway, so why

haggle over names ? The married one persisted that it would be better to call it a Budget. I dismissed the Budget suggestion as inadequate.

Budget, I claimed, suggested taxation, and taxation implies representa tion, for which we fought the Revolutionary War, and taxation brings to mind collectors, revenue agents, policemen, sheriffs, constables, as

sessors, county treasurers, income tax blanks— oh, the list was becoming formidable . I made Budget look mean, Then why not allowance ? This from the single flapper. Allowance implies a dictatorship, said the other woman.

This brought up a spirited discussion of Mussolini and Italian sardines and the Swiss Alps. There was no sense to that part of the conversation, but one thing will lead on to another. We finally ended the argument this way. One's wife will get the money whether

it is called salary, wages, allowance, budget or confiscation. That leads me to believe that I won out, but I am not sure.

When we had disposed of bobbed hair, Jack Dempsey, twin beds , one-piece bathing suits, bald men, Fords as forces for immorality , Span

ish shawls, bootleg prices, flesh -colored stockings, horses, the difference between Chesterfields and Camels, and about four hundred other sub

jects, I left these Persian cats at their home and hurried back to my hotel, where I gave word that I was not to be disturbed. This meant I was to go to bed and sleep until I woke up. Do you know what that means ? That means turning in and dying. That means no telegrams, no telephone calls, no letters, no conferences, no appoint ments, no service of any kind-sleep, endless sleep, undisturbed sleep eight hours, ten hours , twelve hours — as many hours as one might need

to sleep until one wakes up. That is what I did, and it worked . I slept eleven hours by the clock , and I am able to say that every muscle cramp was smoothed out, every sore bone was healed , every wrinkle was laid out, every tired nerve was rested, every mark of over work and strain was sent overboard.

That's what it means to sleep

until one wakes up. It is a rare luxury, I tell you. It comes once in a decade, it seems. At home, I usually have to allow myself to be

awakened. There are a thousand reasons for getting up. For one reason , Cora has come by the clock to fry eggs and toast some bread and boil some coffee. That means we have to wake up in order to eat what

Cora has made . Life begins with an appointment with the cook. She is persistent. Her salary demands service, service implies overhead, in vestment, wear and tear, depreciation — and all these things deny us the right to sleep until we wake up. Civilization is a tyrant..

When I woke up this morning, I actually didn't recognize myself. I was human. Such a condition deserves to be recorded in print. I bathe. I feel my muscles. They do not hurt. I look at my eyes. They are not red. I walk across the room. I do not hurry. I am calm . That's what happens when one sleeps until he wakes up . And I had to drive 125 miles to get it. How I hope Marcet will read this piece

and absorb my subtle propaganda. This whole argument has been di rected at her. She will get it. And she will be guided by my simple

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E. Haldeman -Julius and human philosophy.

And other Marcets will read it, and other

husbands will learn theluxury of sleeping until they wake up. In this

bri:

manner does the printed word reform and uplift mankind . How useful is the printed word ! Life is a battle. One has to be eternally vigilant. The little things conquer and rule. It is hardest to overthrow the tyranny of trifles.

-S, om

clean shirt on every morning, but here's the rub ; I have to unbutton six

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Take a little, commonplace thing like a man's shirt. I like to put a buttons before I can get into it. For years I patiently unbuttoned these little buttons, never realizing that the whole scheme was absurd and unreasonable. Then it came to me. I got hold of Mrs. Hughes, and we went into conference at once. I explained to her that after she irons the shirt, it would be better if she were simply to fold it over, leaving the buttons alone. I would then take the top shirt off the pile, and have

nothing to do but put it on my manly back. The woman looked at me in bewilderment. This was revolutionary. There had never been such a suggestion in all history. There is no record of a man having ever requested his shirt buttons to be delivered in an unbuttoned state. I became eloquent. I broke into poetry, after a fashion. I made wild and desperate gestures. I showed scientifically that it was possible

to take an ironed shirt and fold it without buttoning the buttons. After four or five carefully executed demonstrations, I saw a light break .

The idea landed. It worked. Now I go to my dresser and see a pile VOU

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of shirts ; I take the top one and it falls, open automatically. I am in it in ten seconds. Isn't that something to gloat over ? I pass this on to other husbands who may want to use my strategy. That's what I have

been doing all my life-finding little things - trifles — and ironing them out. It is more important to solve the problem of a row of six little but tons than to prove that there is no God. One can live without the knowl edge that there is a God, but one cannot live a full and complete life when he has to begin each day with the useless effort of unbuttoning six buttons on a single shirt.

Don't think I'm through . I haven't really started yet. Wait until you hear what comes next. It's getting better as I go deeper into my 017,

subject. After about a week of unbuttoned buttons I realized that I had

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only begun to reform my own little world . As you may know, I do not use cuff-links on my sleeves. Instead, I have simple, sensible but tons. Now here is the peculiar thing I learned about Mrs. Hughes :

11:

She never used to button the sleeve buttons, though she was always careful to button the buttons down the front.

So I went into another

conference. I explained, with a world of illustration, that it would be a vast improvement if she were to leave the front buttons unbuttoned but 1

button the sleeve buttons. This was another revolutionary proposal, but it worked. You get the point? Now , I am glad to say , the front but tons are unbuttoned and the sleeve buttons already buttoned. That means the shirt problem has been solved to the nth degree. I am at a loss to know what to do next. Perhaps the only ultimate solution

would be to go shirtless, but that is a reform I am not ready to pro pose.

These soft-collared, soft-cuffed, sensible shirts suit me, particular

ly since I get into them without unnecessary monkeying with buttons.

12

The Fun I Get Out of Life

What an improvement since the days when laundresses not only but toned up all the buttons but went through the crazy, wasteful, useless,

dangerous practice of poking pins into all odd places! We men have practically whipped the pin eyil; now let us all go the rest of the way and get our women to deliver shirts to us that are clean, whole and ready to go on our backs without wasted time and energy.

The reason I am going to all this trouble to explain these tremen doustrifles to my readersisbecause I am feeling good this glorious Sunday morning, here in my Kansas City hotel room . My heart is full of humanity and love. And it is all because I was amused last night by two Persian cats and slept until I woke up. It takes a particularly adjusted individual to go to the bother of agitating for civilizedaltera tions in the schedule of life. Crazy, worn, tired reformers usually take out their spite and venom with all sorts of freedom-killing prohibitions.

But a rested man, one whose aches and pains have been slept out of his bones, thinks in terms of a fuller and better life, not one that has been robbed of all joy and indiscretion .

I plead for only what I think is sensible. I ask for unbuttoned shirt fronts and buttoned sleeves because I believe they will make life better

and nobler, raising individuals to loftier peaks. I do not care to de prive any person — man or woman - of a single reasonable vice. I grant him all the virtues he can handle, provided he mans them reasonably and

intelligently and decently. If a man isn't offensive about his virtues, I am willing to let him gohis way in peace. But when he neglects all sorts of pretty vices, I feel a sense of wrong, a sinking in the heart, a regret for man's vanishing glories . I plead for reasonable, sensible, moderate vices, as I plead for less offensive, indecent and obscene virtues.

The work of the world will be done better and more intelligently if all men and women were to treasure and cherish their vices as well

as their virtues. Let me give you a concrete instance. Here is a man I know, who won the favors of a pretty and willing lassie. It happened that she worked in an office, where it was her job to report every morn ing at 8 o'clock. This girl met her man one evening and they spent all of that night by themselves, probably in an endless orgy of meditation and prayer . Just what happened is not for me to discuss. That is their business . But here is the moral of my story. They got up at about six in the morning. They had an early breakfast. At about seven -thirty he left her at the door of her office. She said : " I'm a

hialf hour early, Frank ; think of that. ” To which Frank — who was something of a philosopher - replied : “ You see what a wonderful thing vice is ? It gets you to work a half-hour early. " 9

This demonstrates to my cracked head that reasonable vice has its

industrial and economic advantages worthy of the best attentions of our captains of industry. If it can be shown that intelligent and moderate vice is superior to unreasonable and indecent virtue, that it means more production, larger dividends, better office management, reduced over head, we can expect the powers in Wall Street to line up with the powers of freedom. I merely throw out this suggestion in the hope that some professors of sociology will go further into the matter. I am generous that way. I have nothing in mind but the betterment of humanity and the triumph of reasonable vices and the elimination of the more useless

I

E. Haldeman - Julius

13

virtues. I give this free pearl of wisdom to all sour- faced prohibitionists

and Blue Sunday fanatics: Go to bed just once, sleep until you wake

7

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up, and then look yourself over.

You will realize, for once, what it

means to feel like a human being. Do it a few times within a single month and you will actually take a step towards becoming civilized . I know whereof I speak, for I have just gone through that experience and I want the whole world to know about it.

Now that I am in this good humor, let me slip into my next lecture.

It is going to get deeper now, more philosophical, with a deeper current of logic, science and psychology. I figured it out this morning while in the bath-room scratching the surplus stubble off my well- formed chin . Preliminary to the depilation process I had taken into my artistic

fingers a tube of Mennen's Shaving Cream, upon which I find a por trait of the moustached Mr. Mennen himself, may his bones rest in deserved peace. I notice that Mr. Mennen did not shave off his upper lip whiskers. I think his business has suffered as a consequence. The suggestion, given out by Mr. Mennen himself, is to let the hair on one's upper lip grow. I do not approve of that. I believe every hair, from one's ears down to one's Adam's apple, should be cut down every morn ing, using a Gillette razor in the operation.

$

Mr. Mennen prints this line on the back of his tube : " A splendid shampoo for the entire family.” That is a dangerous suggestion and I want to see it rebuked. I do not want my tube of shaving cream used by my entire family as a shampoo. I want them to let my shaving cream

alone. I did not purchase that shaving cream as a shampoo for the entire family. It is my own personal property, paid for in full, and I respectfully request Marcet, Alice, Henry and Josephine, including Cora, Mrs. Hughes and Harold , yes, and Mr. Miller, to refrain from using my shaving cream as a shampoo. But I am getting away from my subject.

This morning, let me begin again, I started to shave slowly, with a world of calm reserve and dignity. I was a study in poise and distinc tion. Nothing could hurry me. I was settled for the vast and incom

parable pleasure of a wholesome and personality -building shave.

It was

then that this idea came to me, out of the blue ether : Would men be

better off if nature were gradually to remove the hạirs from one's face,

making shaving unnecessary ? That's quite a question , isn't it ? A great deal could be written on both sides .

I am on the side of the hairs . I'll

tell you why. It seems to me that civilization would suffer an enormous setback if men were to evolve into a state of facial hairlessness .

If a

thing is properly used , only good can result. I will grant you that when men permitted their whiskers to grow they did vast injury to the race ,

but those days , thanks to Mr. Mennen and Mr. Gillette , are gone for ever, though I do insist that Mr. Mennen should chop off that moustache.

02

Each morning , in this year of 1926 , millions and millions of men go through four or five minutes of hair slashing , many of them grumblingly, but others, I am proud to say, with a song on their lips. I have made the discovery that all the world respects a man while -

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he is shaving himself. A woman - all women — will wake up her hus band to make him take his sleeping potion, will break into his thoughts while he is sitting at his library desk, but no woman, to my vast knowl

14

The Fun I Get Out of Life

edge, has ever so much as thought of interſupting a man in the act of shaving the whiskers off his chin. I believe there is not a single case on record . “ Daddy is shaving,” Marcet will say, in a hushed voice , and Henry and Alice and Josephine will retire to a distant room. That shows how shaving is a preserver of individuality. Take a man's shave away

from him and what has he left ? Almost nothing. It is his only escape from the tyranny of social life. So much for that. I am only getting into my argument.

Since man can get strict privacy only when he is shaving, what hap pens ? He thinks. Not all men, of course. Some do. I am one of them. I shave quickly, subconsciously. I go through the motions automatically.

I use about the same number of strokes each morning ; the same number of seconds ; the same quantity of Mennen's Shaving Cream . All is au

tomatic. This leaves me free to think creatively with my conscious mind. I believe that every important decision I have ever made was worked out while scratching the whiskersoff my face. When I say : "I'll think over your proposition tonight," I do not mean that literally. I go to sleep without giving the proposition any consideration ; nor do I wake up in the night to think it over ; nor do I work it out while

dressing. It is when I begin to shave that I let my mind pounce on that particular problem, and in a few seconds or minutes I have it all worked out.

Privacy — absolute privacy — and the complete

freedom of the conscious mind mean that shaving is an important aid

to creative men. That, it may be, is the reason for man's business and artistic superiority over women. If women would learn to shave they

might make greater forward strides. So I say, by all means; let us not hope for so woeful a calamity as men without hairs on their faces. It would mean the end of science, discovery, industry, invention, art, litera ture, poetry and finance. Let me close this little lesson with this : When

someone suggests a world of hairless men, do as I do ; take your stand

with the hairs. Abide by them . Have faith in man's whiskers. They are the mothers of progress. They are the makers of civilization. Long live the hairs on man's chin ! Women are the natural enemies of hair .

Outside of a little thatch

of hair on the knob they spend their lives and their substance fighting hairs. Instead of shaving them off their lips, when they happen to find a few stragglers, they rush to a beauty parlor to have them burned out by an electric needle. Poor, ignorant creatures. And look what they do to the hairs in their arm -pits. They used to let them alone, when I was a boy;; now all shave them off. I'm against that. Now , to my

regret, when one does look under, what does one see ? Nothing. Just skin . It's all wrong. In these days it takes more than skin to excite

a man's sensibilities - mine, at any rate. So I plead with the women of this age : You are making a serious mistake. I am speaking disin terestedly, as a friend of the sex.

Well, I've been working pretty steadily for about three hours; I'm hungry, so I shall knock off and go out for a steak. Stand by, as the radio announcers say . I'm not through yet. You can't tell what a good It may set me up for another seven pages of copy.

steak may do to me.

Going to bed and sleeping until I woke up put me in condition for the run of copy down to this paragraph ; wait and see what a big chunk

E. Haldeman -Julius

15

of beef does. I intend to have a broiled steak, hashed brown potatoes, horse-radish, a pint of coffee, some hard rolls, unsalted butter, and some strawberry ice cream. I'll see you later. .

Properly fed and physically adjusted for another spell at this little job of mine, I entered one of the Muehlebach elevators for the short, swift journey to my floor. It came to me that I had not been in an elevator for six months—not that it is important, but it does seem worth

mentioning. For a few seconds I dwelt mentally on these marvelous lift ing machines. Here, I said, is something worthy of one's complete ad

miration. It being my philosophy to apply my mind to this life, to this world, to the ground under this set of legs, I enjoy the endless pleasure of reflecting on everything connected with our daily round. I am one of those materialists who consider shaving brushes, razor blades, shirt but tons, Pebeco tooth-paste and such things most serious matters for thought

and meditation. It is my belief that we do not give enough thought to them. A happier race, a better civilization will come when we take our

minds out of the skies and turn to the things at hand. I believe I am right in this matter.

Let us take up again my little piece about shaving — the part that told about man's good fortune in stealing moment's of complete privacy while making his face hairs begin life all over again. I mentioned this fact to an unbeliever, and she said it was not true. To prove her position, she recalled a sensational piece of news about a man who, using one of the old - fashioned razors, was called suddenly by his wife, with the result that he cut off his own nose. This looked like a poor argument to me,

I told the infidel. It really proved my point. This woman's act was so unusual, so shocking, so extraordinary that the man, in sheer excite

ment, yes, even temporary insanity, mutilated himself by removing part of his nose. I ask any reasonable person this : How many men can one find in the world who have cut off their noses as a consequence of being interrupted while shaving ? Not a half-dozen in all recorded history. With that profound reflection I returned to my hotel. I believe my

position was well maintained and that my discussion was soundly based. As I got out of the elevator, I began thinking about Hamburger sandwiches. This didn't just happen. Hamburgers had been in the back of my mind for days and days; Hamburgers had been in my thoughts since that day, two or three weeks ago, when , stopping at our kitchen a moment, I asked Cora what had been decided for lunch . With

a lordly gesture, she pointed to the skillet. Sure enough - Hamburger meat, frying in a lot of juice ; on the table I saw round, ball- like rolls.

I frowned quickly. There is something about Hamburger meat that

pleases me, but yet the news did not appeal to me. Something was wrong. My subconscious mind was trying to push an argument in my conscious, and it was succeeding. Finally, it burst forth. “ I know what's the matter, Cora," I exclaimed , all excited . “ The meat is good,

the slice of onion is the essence of great art itself, but the rolls, Cora, the rolls !”

“ What's the matter with the rolls ?” Cora demanded. “ There aren't any better ones.”

" I'll grant you that, Cora. But they're dry - dry as hay. I have

The Fun I Get Out of Life

16

to chew them long and hard to get them soft and mealy. They dry up my salivary glands. Something should be done.”” Cora thought hard for a moment ; then came this : " Why not butter the rolls?”

" A fair suggestion, but not altogether creative. A little butter does hardly anything towards softening a dry roll. A great quantity of butter spoils thesandwich .” Then I became inspired, a seer, an inventor, a prophet, a discoverer. " Listen , Cora. An idea ! A first-rate, genuine, real 100 percent

idea. Take your rolls, cut them in half, then dip them into that juice in which you are frying that Hamburger meat and then toast them . What do you think of that ??" " It can be done. I've done that before, years ago, when I worked for some oil people in Wichita."

" You mean, Cora, that that idea is not my own ? However, I dis covered it for myself. You have been holding out on me.' Here I have been masticating these dry rolls until my jaws ached, my nerves frayed ,

and all along we could have dipped the rolls in Hamburger juice and toasted them ."

Words fail me when I try to describe those sandwiches. I leave them to my reader's imagination. If there is a heaven, there must be such sandwiches at every turn of the golden streets. There is a lesson

for my pagans who would learn something of the art of life. We are ignorant men, but we can at least try not to cultivate our ignorance. Let uis fight endlessly to broaden our victories, to win newer joys, to make

this life an endless adventure, a heart-quickening romance. And nothing can help one so much as rolls dipped in Hamburger gravy and toasted . Such trifling victories make life an endless pleasure .

Read your

Kant, your Schopenhauer, your Nietzsche, but do not, I beg of you, forget life's mighty trifles. A single life is nothing more than the func tioning of an endless number of trifles. Guard them ; study them1 ; learn something from them . But the best men find defeat. Life is an endless battle, with its

pains far in excess of its joys.

Try as we will, work as we may, apply

ourselves as our powers will permit, and some trifles will, in the end,

continue to mock us. Let me give you a case at hand. For years and years I have been devoting my best energies to the problem of the pieces of soggy toast that one finds under a poached egg. What can you do with that piece of damp toast ? I tried to eat one once, and failed. It simply would not go down. Did you ever know of any person in his full senses eating the toast that one finds under a poached egg ? I doubt it.

I appeal to my most enlightened readers to apply themselves to this

problem . If there is a solution, let me know at once, I beg of you . Civ ilization is a hoax, a hollow jest so long as we admit our defeat before

this overwhelming riddle. Let us see whether or not this matter can be remedied.

There should be a way out. As it is today, I eat the poached

egg and our dog eats the toast. It's ridiculous. And yet, this problem may be without its remedy, like the problem of trying to make a horse

fly. It can't be done, because the horse is too heavy. I am not a mechanical genius, but I know enough about life and nature's laws to dismiss this problem as one of our unsolvable mysteries. Do not waste

E. Haldeman -Julius

17

your time on this horse question ; just devote yourself to the soggy toast. When the blind man tries to take the drunken man home, neither gets

anywhere. I learned that when I was in short pants, long before the invention of B. V. D.'s, in days when I lived in the large, corrupt city of Philadelphia. Now I live on the Kansas desert, out in the wide, open spaces .

Well, I believe I shall proceed to pack up my little bag, get into my car and drive home. I believe this batch of copy isn't at all bad . I know I had some fun writing it. And now for another week of Little Blue Books, conferences, solicitations from salesmen and all the other hokum of business life.

I've decided that when I get back to my office early

tomorrow morning I shall try my best to become a little crankier, a little meaner, not because I am malicious but merely as a measure of self preservation. I have come to the conclusion that I have been too infer

nally polite. Last week , when harassed, I let myself break loose once, and it worked brilliantly. Now, after time and thought, I see that I did

the right thing. A good outburst is good for one's gizzard, particularly when one is treated so outlandishly by traveling salesmen . Let me give you an illustration. I should be saving this for next week's sermon,but I shall go ahead now and get it on paper, even though it will mean a later start home .

There's a young fellow who sells envelopes for a splendid concern in Kansas City. He is the most persistent, the most insistent, the most tiresome go-getter to swoop down on me. I usually feel faint after one of his assaults. My blood pressure rises to about 210. I see apoplexy around the corner. He is the kind of salesman who goes on the theory that I do not know what I want, or how much I want. If I want 50,000

envelopes of a certain make, size and color, he decides it should be at least 200,000 and then follows a long, tiresome argument. This has been going on for years .

The other day I saw him in the front office. With a fierce gesture I pointed to Pete. " Talk to him ," I bawled. “ Pete knows what I want." Pete politely placed in his hand an order for 100,000 No. 5 return

envelopes, that will be needed for some particular mail-order job in a few weeks. We shall need 100,000, no more, no less. The price is right

85 cents per thousand, printed. Everything is satisfactory. Go ahead and get out the envelopes. Ah , not with this fellow. Fifteen minutes

later I came through the office again and he was still there, arguing with poor Pete. Pete didn't see how he could raise the order to 500,000. We wanted only 100,000 . Then I heard him argue that he should be per

mitted to make up the 500,000 and he would hold them in Kansas City for our future needs. And all that sort of bunk. I saw red. Strange

figures danced before my eyes. My lower lip dropped about an inch, showing my back teeth , including the bridge work on the left side.

“ What the hell's the matter anyway ?" I inquired. " I want to show you why you will save money by ordering 500,000— "

“ But we have need for only a lousy 100,000. Why do you stand

there and argue for fifteen minutes when we know what we want?” " I'm trying to help you— " “ Help us like hell . Get out of here when you get your order. You're

18

The Fun I Get Out of Life

the worst pest we know . I hate you high-powered bores . Why don't you conduct yourself in an orderly, intelligent manner, and sell us what we want. We aren't a lot of lunkheads. We know we want 100,000 of these wretched envelopes, and not a half million. Now for Christ's sake beat it.”

I had never talked that way to anyone before. It all came out sud denly. The wretch withdrew in disorder and for another half hour I was kept busy trying to get myself back to my normal, quiet self. Anger

is stupid , wasteful, destructive, but in this case it worked. Pete, polite as a bond salesman, had withstood his assault for fifteen minutes; my anger had routed him in 15 seconds. It worked. Now I am going to do that again, and I have three or four fellows all lined up. The next time they poke their heads in my office I shall be all set for violent, profane conduct. A certain typewriter salesman , several paper salesmen, an ink

man and two or three peddlers of advertising will be given quick, sum mary treatment. That is one thing I have made up my mind to do, now that I have been in Kansas City long enough to rest and meditate.

Just one more word, and I shall finish. My readers know that I, a materialist, have great respect for facts and that one of my favorite words is accuracy. In writing this week's batch of copy I have been

away from my library, my reference books and my best authorities. Under such circumstances I like to be particularly careful. Whatever historical references I may have made, I have quoted from memory,

though my impression right now is that it will be impossible to check me on a single statement made in this week's piece. While down in the dining-room a while ago I almost missed my usually perfect fork -aim when the thought dashed through my mind that I was not altogether sure about one of my statements. I refer to the one that my shirts have six buttons down the front. Now that is not a trifle, by any means. It is quite possible that aa thousand years hence some stickler for facts

and accuracy might take a special trip to the Haldeman -Julius Museum , where a special department will be devoted to an exhibition of my shirts. He might count the buttons, and then what ? Suppose there were only five buttons! Where would I stand ? If a man can't be accurate about the number of buttons down the front of his shirt, what business has he

talking about anything under the sun ? I could feel myself turning pale, cold sweat forming on my forehead. I looked around ; I was not being watched. I slipped my hand up to my throat. I felt the first button under my tie. One. Then down a little, halfway between the collar and the top of my vest. Two . Then a finger went down, under my tie, for

the full distance it could travel. Three. Then I looked sheepish. How silly. Why not wait until I get back in my room ? But I couldn't enjoy

my meal .

The thing persisted . Then I poked under my vest and lost

all count. So I started over again, this time drawing a line over my

stomach, figuring that I would work down to it, then finish the job from the other end, working up . When I got through, I could account for only five ! But such a matter is too important for snap judgment.

I

would recheck the count later. So I ate on, making the mental note that if there were only five I would, as my contribution to truth , go through all of my copy and change it to the facts. One should always be accurate. In my room I took off coat and vest and stood before the mirror.

19

E. Haldeman - Julius

Slowly I counted . One, two, three, four, five - and, wow, a buttonhole and no button ! Had Mrs. Hughes done her full duty there would have

been six. So my copy stands. Truth is checked, rechecked and vindi cated . Such love for truth should not go unrewarded. I suggest that the trustees of the Haldeman - Julius Museum clip this part aboutmy pas sion for accuracy and frame it. It should hang in the shirt department. And now, dear hearts, I have shot my wad. My story is told. I hope I haven't been too intellectual for my more immature readers. Farewell . CARL SANDBURG

T was nice of Carl Sandburg to stop writing poetry long enough to send me a friendly note about Dust, anovel Marcet and I

wrote about five years ago. Here is Carl's piece, written on the letterhead of the Chicago Daily News, which he serves as cinema editor : I just thought I would write you today that I have on severat occasions heard

Oliver R. Barrett, who is a rare bird as a lawyer and a bookman, volunteer the remark that Dust is on his list of the few, the five or six, finest, surest and strongest books of fiction he has met in his life. And as I slanted through it again a few nights ago I said it would be slow finding its real audience and it will linger along a good while.

I used to work on the same newspaper with Carl in Milwaukee, about fifteen years ago. He covered the labor run, while I did police. In those hectic days Carl was still to arrive. He was writing poetry even

then, but little of it had been published. Then, with a rush,he came into

his own a few years later in Chicago. And since then he has been a world figure. Carl is one of my keenest admirations. He is as striking a personality as he is great in poetry. Here is an authentic voice, singing the beauties, the vigors, the greatness and the lustiness of American life. Carl and I , back in the old days, used to drink a lot of beer and

smoke atrocious stogies—long, skinny, shapeless stogies that burned like a Pittsburgh furnace and cost, if I remember, two for seven cents. The beer, made right at home in the brewery that made Milwaukee famous,

cost a nickel a bumper, with sandwiches and pretzels thrown in for good measure. Ach, Gott in himmel, those were the days. Now one has to pay ten cents for near beer that tastes like wet ashes. The country has

grown more prosperous, but less human. Think of the savage absurdity of passing a law against beer ! Why, if it hadn't been for beer back in those remote days when I was a busted youngster I would have starved to death, and there never would have been any Little Blue Books. Think that over, you Drys. We used to go into Schlitz's beer garden - a magnificent place

drink good beer, hear an enormous, rackety brass band and make goo -goo eyes at beer -guzzling damsels with broad hips and double chins. I hope some Milwaukean will tell me what has become of Schlitz's famous gar

den. Has it been turned into a movie palace ? A Child's restaurant ? A Woolworth store ? Give me all the details.

I am hardened for the

worst. The girls, I suppose, have all married and joined the Epworth League.

No wonder Carl became a poet. How could he help it ? There was

The Fun I Get Out of Life

20

beer in those days. Now he is dry, like the rest of us. What this coun

try needs is a barrel of beer for each grown man . Will we get it ? We will not. By the time Congress gets around to legalizing beer, little Henry will be an old man with whiskers on his chin and I will be away off in heaven playing a crazy harp and annoying all my angel neighbors. Here am I just hobbling into my thirty -seventh year - soured on the world , a pessimist, an agnostic, an evolutionist, a Darrowite, a Christ killer,

destructive critic — all the result of not being able to lay my

trembling hands on a bottle of beer . That's the whole trouble . I want beer, and can't get it.

The only people who are getting a real kick out of life are the kill joys and the pious brethren. They get happiness out of depriving us of anything that gives us pleasure. And asthey are going down the line with one censorship after another, life, to them , is a rosy, joyous thrill. Damn them all to hell, I say. Are you with me ?

Tobacco will go next. They've already outlawed cigarettes in Kan sas. The pipe and cigar will get hit in good time. Tonight I heard two yokels arguing about tobacco . One claimed he liked itbecause it was a stimulant. The other chirped in with : " Aw , hell, tobacco ain't no

stimulant ; it's just a habit.” This really has nothing to do with my argument. I am ringing it in only because I thoughtit was so funny. No wonder the papers are so full of crazy doings The world is cracked. Here is an item on the first page of the Kansas City Star. It tells of a meeting of about seventy-five business men in Pleasanton, Kans.

One of the Kiwanis members had just returned from Washington, where he had shaken hands with old Cal himself. This impressed the gathering

so tremendously that aa motion was passed to have the distinguished mem ber, at the close of the doings, station himself at the door so that each

member might shake the hand that had shaken the hand of the President. Isn't that perfect idiocy ? It takes the prize for class A boobery. Here's another news article. It tells about a speech made by a Pitts

burg, Kans., banker. He bewailed the fact that when anythingbad hap pened in his beloved city the newspaper correspondents sent out the news to the world.. This hurt the town. He proposed a Censorship Committee to pass on all reports wired by newspaper correspondents. Can you picture the committee of Rotariansholding forth at the Western Union office, passing on all newspaper dispatches ? Then he warmed up

and complained about Joplin, Mo., a pretty good town about thirty miles away.

Joplin keeps its theaters and movies open on Sunday, which

shows that Joplin has achieved a degree of civilization. Pittsburg shuts up everything on Sunday. The result is that hundreds of Pittsburgers get into their cars on Sunday and drive down to Joplin for some fun. Our Pittsburg banker declared, in heated language, that Joplin was con ducting itself unconstitutionally by benefiting from Pittsburg's blue Sun

days. One can get new ideas about Constitutional law by sticking around Pittsburg. And so it goes on.

Endless streams of bunk and hokum .

I can't

read ten lines of a newspaper without finding something to laugh about.

Here's a town down in Texas that passed an ordinance forbidding chickens to wander about the public streets. It goes on to say that any

chickens caught wandering around will be confiscated by the town mar

E. Haldeman - Julius

21

shal and turned over to the local preachers.

They don't get enough

chicken dinners from their victims. So the town marshal is to be put to work rounding up some stray ones for the pious graftețs. Isn't that a funny one ?

Here's another one. " A Kiwanis club put on a debate between two The subject was: “Resolved, That Good Cooking Keeps the Old Man at Home.” This was to be followed by a reading entitled

women.

“ Gone with a Handsomer Man . ” She probably was a good cook. Good sense is gone, seemingly for good. Not only good sense, but

common decency . Honor has been forgotten. Consider, I ask you, the amazing case of General Butler, erstwhile Police Commissioner in Phila delphia , now back at his old job with the marines. Recently he was the guest of honor at a dinner. His host, an army officer, is alleged to have had some hootch on the table.

Butler immediately preferred charges

Ch .

against his host, and the poor dub is now awaiting court martial. Think

W

how low a man can stoop when he can turn his host over to the military law. And what amazed me was that Butler's conduct was taken gener

vas

10

11.

ally as proper and right. No one seemed to feel that Butler was a cad and a cur. So goes the world. Honor ? Where is it ? Here's a magazine that quotes approvingly from an ass who said that God made the water in order to enable man to float his boats . Here's

IS

.ns. ere

ing

em

ach

ent.

another editor who says that when you leave the United States you feel immediately that you are in a foreign country . One can pick up reams of that sort of stuff every day. And yet, I get hot letters from readers bawling me out for calling attention to the world's bunk. I am told, again and again , that I should realize that what I call bunk has an important, even necessary, place in a nation's life. I am told, in so many words, that the average American business man finds, in sham ideals and sentimentality, just what I find

in intelligent books, in plays and music - an escape from the duller reali tts

nap

the

hip

nts: tern

710

ties of existence. It is argued that the dull boy should believe that by

keeping his eyes off the clock, by getting to work on time and by being a willing servant he will become a prosperous business man like his employer. I am told to remember that the dull boy's commonplace

dreams save him from realizing his utter impotency, the ineffectuality of the forty or fifty more years he is to spend above the ground. I am asked not to use the word " debunk " and to try to understand the value of the dreamy soothsayers, like Frank Crane, who put sugar on an otherwise

hich

tasteless outlook for millions of Americans. After all, it is argued, sugar

huss

is better than no flavor at all.

pers 102

I have yet to learn of a single yokel who has been deprived of his taffy by anything I have said or done. The fact of the matter

CO3

is, I reach no yokels. They are too busy attending the movies,

listening in on the radio and reading the Macfadden magazines, to pay the slightest attention to a grumbler like myself.

My publica

tions are not read by Frank Crane's customers.

can

DOM

I have a lot of fun listening to the yokel-baiters. They amuse me .

I like to repeat their absurdities.

am debunking the boobs. ITS

This does not mean that I That is impossible. My Little Blue Books

and my periodicals are not read by the slantheads. I reach only the merest minority of the American public. I talk to men and women who

22

The Fun I Get Out of Life

are at least partially debunked.

No one is entirely free of hokum .

We are all tainted . I do not believe that all men and women must have bunk.

There

are several hundred thousand young people who are able to read intelli gently and understandingly. I know I am reaching some of them through

my publications. There is my audience. I am not trying to catch boobs Rather am I reaching out for those who can use a full set of brains. They are ready for meat, not taffy.

I try to give them solid nourishment .

They seem to like it. Others do not, and they go to other pastures, with my blessings. My job is to expose the quacks and to give a hearing to those who have something genuine to say. Some little headway is being made. But it will not make over the world. Boobery is in the saddle. And that's all there is to it.

The mob is always ready for the pap ladled out by the quacks. Re ligious superstition, political hokum, ' idiotic thinking, sham education , fakes and hypocrisies are everywhere. But does this mean the minority

shall not be allowed to enjoy the circus, to have a good laugh ? Is the minority to be denied the right to spit on the shams and quackeries of the popular leaders? Is the minority to be deprived of the pleasure of exploring the realms of sound thinking, of science, of truth -seeking phi losophy ? I, for one, say No.

And so it goes. I started my little piece talking about Carl Sand burg, and here I am lecturing on boobery and quackery. It shows what

can happen when one is turned loose on a well-conditioned typewriter, with no one to interrupt him while he goes meandering on, talking about

anything that pops into his mind. I ask your forgiveness. WHY, INDEED ?

W

HY ?" is a curious little word . Who can ever answer it fully when it is fired at one, with the question mark sticking up at the end of it so impertinently and annoyingly . A simple little question, with that " Why ? " as its keynote, will often set one

wondering about something that ought, I suppose, to be fairly clear. For example, Mrs. J. S. ( San Angelo, Texas ) writes pointblank in what amounts to the form of a question : “ It is a pity that a man with your

brilliant mind, a man who can write so forcibly and is so well-informed, will waste his time writing the things you write. I wonder if you believe them all. ”

This gives me a feeling of sad futility. It shows me that, after all, there is a great deal of waste in my writing — so far as Mrs. J. S. and similar ones are concerned. Almost am I inclined to say with Samuel

Butler : " In that I write at all I am among the damned .” Certainly any one who writes is bound to be damned , so far as purely human objurga tion goes, to a considerable extent. Everybody who disagrees with the opinions he expresses in painfully wrought sentences and at such accom

modating length will wonder why he wastes his time in writing such stuff. For what this woman's little note amounts to is the question : Why do

you write so much that I do not believe in ? And logically, or I should say naturally, following this is the question : Do you believe in these

E. Haldeman - Julius

23

things yourself ? Most people are at a loss to imagine others really be lieving in ideas which they who read them do not believe in. Now if I wanted to answer Mrs. J. S. honestly and seriously I should say that of course I believe in everything that I write - to a certain ex tent, from a certain viewpoint, and at the certain time that I write it. But of course also my mind is always busy, more or less, and I am continu

ally seeing life from new angles. Again, whether I really believe in some thing that I write depends on how serious I am when I write it. Of that last Mrs. J. S. and all my readers will have to judge. Most solemnly, however, I do assure the lady that I believe - cross myheart and hope to die — in the basic, important, determining ideas that underlie my philosophy of life. On the whole I am not certain — not too certain. But I am pretty well convinced of my general attitude, and of the bunkishness of certain kinds of bunk' that exist in this world .

One

way that I can detect certain kinds of bunk, in fact, is by the certainty

of the bunk-shooter regarding questions that I know very well he is as ignorant of, in the last analysis, as I am. For instance, God and the future life-Mrs. J. S. wonders if I be lieve what I write about these subjects, and why I write about them. I

will content myself to say that I write about them because it interests me to do so, and because I am firmly - yes, most sincerely—convinced that the illusions concerning these ideas interrupt and corrupt the civilized business of thinking about life, of putting more joy and intelligence into our scheme of life. And do I believe that God and the future life are

bunk ? I certainly do believe that any theory about them which has thus

far been promulgated is bunk, and that the latest theory which will be announced the day after tomorrow ( and pretending, like the rest, to be the final complete truth about the whole mystery ) will be bunk no less.

Because nobody knows. They are not able to show how, by any manner of means, they could know about these things. And it is fair enough that I am willing to take potluck with the rest of them, and admit that neither do I know — that I too am an agnostic. The difference between the agnostic and others is that the one admits his ignorance about the

great mystery of life, while the others are not willing to admit it. But, after all, I don't entirely know why I wrote this particular article in reply to such a simple question. Simply my mind moved, the. hand followed, and the typewriter responded. A WORD TO THE BARBERS

ETTING into the barber's chair to have my hair clipped is like

getting into the dentist's chair to have a molar pulled. What I mean is simply this : I procrastinate, until I become an object of ridicule. I make a dozen beginnings. I even walk towards

the shop three or four times, but allow myself to be deflected on the way. I like barbers. They usually are pleasant_fellows, well up on the latest gossip. But I fight shy of them, because I am stingy with my time. The other day, a friend of mine brought me this message : " I was getting shaved today,” he told me, " and the barber mentioned

the important news that he had just cut your hair again. It created a

The Fun I Get Out of Life

24

sensation . He added the rather personal observation that he considered it strange that you shave yourself. He said : 'Funny, ain't it, how a man >

like uim , with all his money, shaving himself. ”

I know it would be useless for me to explain to the estimable gentle man that I do not count my quarters. If anything, I am generous with

them. I never would even so much as think of bewailing a two-bit piece passed into the palm of a worthy son of the scissors. I could argue myself blue and green in the face, and still be far from convincing him

that I have good reasons for preferring to shave myself each morning. I like to be shaved before breakfast, not after. I like to shave my self, because that is a good time to think. It takes me just about three minutes to scratch the surplus stubble off my chin. I do the job quickly, and well, if I may boast. So I shave myself, much to the alarm of my

good barber friends. But it is not done to save twenty- five cents .

I

would be willing to pay twice that sum each morning for the privilege of wielding my own razor in my own sweet way. If there were a huge

war-tax on self-shaving, I should be the first one to pay it, convinced I was getting a bargain .

It would take me five minutes to get to the barber and back, not

counting the ten or fifteen minutes needed for the operation, providing I were lucky enough to get into the chair immediately . The chances are I would have to await my turn . Besides, I don't like barber shaves. They

are too slow, too thorough, too conscientious. I like quick shaves, not thorough ones. If I depended on the barber, I am sure it would mean two or three shaves a week, instead of seven.

It would work out that

way, even though I might be determined to get daily service. Then , I can't think in a barber's chair. I can only wonder what the barber is thinking about , and that doesn't interest me in the slightest. I might

have to talk , and I do not like to talk while I am shaving. I like to go through the operation alone, in my own bathroom, away from the world . No, it is not economy. It is my character that forces me to do my own razor-work. That's the truth, though there's not a barber who will believe me .

Barbers all believe we shave ourselves in order to save

money. Poor fellows, they are blind to the truth, and I know not how to bring them to the light. So, I can only say : You can cut my hair when I get around to it, but you cannot cut off my whiskers. A GOOD, SIMPLE MURDER

VERY town ought to have a good, simple, honest murder about twice a year . You can't beat a murder to take the minds of

the gossips off a lot of harmless people who are managing to have a little fun out of life.

Yes, thank you, we are enjoying a very fine murder right here in Girard. The other day a woman is alleged to have shot and killed her old man - her sixth husband, by the way. Why she bothered herself

about such a messy job I don't quite understand, because she seems to have learned the secret and mystery of quick divorce . For about $50 she could have gotten rid of hubby No. 6. Now it will most likely cost

her at least $ 300 to get a jury to find her Not Guilty.

There's great

25

E. Haldeman -Julius

economic waste there, it seems to me. Won't people ever learn ? The woman , when questioned, said she just " wanted to forget all about it.” She didn't like the idea of the sheriff bringing up a lot of unpleasant memories.

All of the women are greatly interested in this case, as they are in anything having to do with the getting, keeping or getting rid of a husband . It's quite a study and one must be ready to pick up ideas here and there.

One Girardian disposed of the case very simply, in much the manner many of us use when we are disposing of other people's property : "He's better off dead, and she's better off in the pen ." >

One has to admit that that just about leaves nothing more to be

dene. Little Alicc , on the other hand, is worried about the jury , if there ever will be a jury. "What,” she asks, "will she do in case her other six husbands happen to get on the jury ? ” That's a question I can't answer. What will she do ? What will the jury do ? This major case has taken the town's mind off a lot of minor scan dal , and in that it is a good thing. Would there not be social saving

in having two murders a year instead of two hundred petty scandals ? By that I mean , we would have the two hundred little scandals, but

everybody would be too busy talking murder to bother about them, That's a little idea that is worth thinking about. 1

ALICE GETS DOWN TO CASES

E CAN learn a great deal from our children. They have a certain naive, realistic directness of thought at times that is

deadly to the pretensions of their elders. One of the worst mental habits is that of generalization. We cannot guard against it too carefully. Like everyone, I sometimes sin in this respect. The other day at table there was some discussion of animals, dogs and cats, from

a domestic point of view. Without any great concentration of mind on the question, and as it were casually, I remarked that I could live very well without animals.

Alice looked at me with genuinely thoughtful inquiry. Her mind

worked quickly. She didn't try to see this question, or to argue it, from an abstract point of view . She flew straight to the point of plain ,

downright, matter -of- fact example. "Live without animals ?” queried she. At once her imagination passed over seas and continents, and she said : “ Could you live in the Sahara Desert , ” A moment of suspense. The merest hesitation for a climax . And then : 66

—without a camel ?"

Utterly beaten was I.

At this one direct, telling, vital stroke I

collapsed and was conscience-stricken. Damply like a rag my generaliza tion fell as the bright banner of Alice's specific instance arose and waved its defiance at the airy, cocksure talkers.

Of course I explained to Alice that I could live in Girard without a camel . And, to recover my prestige, I amused the children by telling

The Fun I Get Out of Life

26

them I was going to buy an elephant, teach him to use roller skates and ride him to and from the plant.

But hereafter, for a week or so at least, I shall not make a remark

without immediately , specifically adding : “ Now , you understand, that doesn't apply to life in the Sahara Desert." MY IDLE ELECTRIC FAN

LL THIS summer I've had an electric fan in my study, but I've not used it in weeks. I find that if I go ahead and work or read I'll forget all about the heat, but if I turn on the fan the hum of it keeps the heat in my thoughts. Besides, I don't happen to like the kind of coolness that is the result of a fan. There's

A

something bunky about it, though I'm not expert enough to figure out just what it is. Swishing up the air, it seems to me, is the wrong way of going about it.

It would be on a par with making heat in the cold days and having some kind of a machine to “ spray” it around. The radiator is a much better heat machine. Now, if man would only make a “ cold machine,” enabling us to turn on the cold in the same way we turn on the heat ,

there would be some sense to it. Engineers ought to get to work on this problem .

It's a disgrace to reflect that man hasn't found a sensible way of keeping comfortably cool in the dog days. Of course, I mean in one's own home, not in a movie house that ices the air. I'm a customer the

first time someone puts a " cold machine” on the market - one that will work in one's home.

The thing isn't at all unreasonable. Look how we are putting in these new ice-box systems that make their own ice electrically . I under stand that these new companies are making enormous fortunes, and they haven't even begun to get their machines to the public. As I see it, the ice man is doomed. His days are numbered, and I

don't see any tears being shed. The ice man fits into a lot of jokes particularly about the ice man and the policeman's wife, though I can't remember the point of the snappy joke right now. There may be some

regrets on the part of those neglected wives who looked forward to the daily visits of the ice man. I have never been a witness to their doings, so I cannot say how serious this loss will be. The ice man's emotional life never interested me a whole lot.

The same electricity that makes the cold in aa frigidair system could send cold through pipes in all the rooms of one's home. That's what I

want to see invented , and I hope it is done soon. When that day comes I will take that silent electric fan which is now staring me in the face and haul it up to the garret, where I shall let it take on a thick coat of

dust. I hate those things. And yet by some crazy quirk, I bring one into my library every summer, even though I rarely turn on the juice.

27

E. Haldeman - Julius

I GO TO CHURCH

ERE I am — this beautiful, sunshiny, warm May Monday morn

FT

ing — back in my Muehlebach room in Kansas City, after a lively pair of days in which I had bought me a new Lincoln

coupe ( a classy , spiffy, rakish thing that took my fancy the moment I put eyes on it ), spent hours ( see following pages ) with Clar ence Darrow , Sinclair Lewis, Gilbert Frankau, the Rev. L. M. Birkhead,

and, among other excesses, went to divine services yesterday morning for meditation and prayer .

In a few hours I shall be leaving for home, God willing, but, before beginning the ride south, I want to jot down a few pieces for my readers, while I have the time and still remember what I want to say. I'm feeling good, with the carbon all removed, and, postponing the really deep stuff, I want to mention, casually of course, without boasting, that almost thirty minutes ago I tackled my first cantaloupe for this season, which in itself makes this a most important day for me and my petted grub -bag under my belt. Last week I had my first strawberries ; the week before, my first cucumbers ( oh, how I love them ) ; and this week starts right off

with a sweet, juicy, chilled cantaloupe. Oh, boy ! God is love! And there are more thrills to come — big slices of watermelon, luscious peaches

and cream, and — well, that's all I can think of at this glorious inoment..

And so, I went to church yesterday morning — to the Rev. L. M. Birkhead's pretty little place — All Soul's Unitarian Church — and heard a splendid talk on Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy— a sane, clear, sensible, civilized review of a clear-eyed, straight-thinking man who impresseś me as being just about ninety percent debunked, which is saying a lot. An hour spent in Birkhead's congregation convinces me that there is hope — even for the church . As I told the pastor, if Kansas

City were my home I should, most likely, be found passing the collection plate each Sunday morning at the Rev. Birkhead's place — Praise the Lord ! But I should tell the whole story while I am at it, in the service of truth. The fact is, my dear brethren , that this sermon followed a bit of singing by one of the best-dressed and most beautiful women this hard

ened sinner ever set eyes on. I tell you, she was a dream-almost as nifty as my new car - no, even superior in looks, streamline and com plexion. Looking on her, and listening to her charming singing, gave me —what shall I call it ? -spiritual kick ? Call it that, if the word " spiritual" means anything to you. Oh, she was beautiful ! A dream ! I don't know

the young singer's name, but her picture is stamped on my finely sensi tized memory so that I could pick her out of a crowd of a hundred thousand. I tell you, my brethren , it is worth going to church just for

the gigantic kick one can get from looking at her. And to have such a delicious, eye-fetching sight followed by Birkhead's intelligent, civilized sermon, means nothing more than this: Mankind is progressing. Take it from me. I know what I am talking about. The world hasn't gone to hell yet. We're headed there, I grant you, but there is hope, asDr. Munyon used to say twenty -five years ago. I could go on raving like this for ten pages, and still be holding fast to facts, for it is my

The Fun I Get Out of Life

28

humble opinion that I am a competent appreciator of fast cars and pretty singers. I might look into those churches too.

During the sermon, Birkhead dropped a line that went something like this : “As Mr. Haldeman -Julius, who happens to be in this audi ence this morning, said, etc., etc.” I could hear a buzz, buzz — the pun 66

ishment one endures for being a celebrity ( for I am such ) , and when the fine fellow ended his excellent talk, I was taken in hand by the pastor and introduced right and left, front and back , to dozens of men and women, many of them readers of my publications, thanks to the

Lord. In the rush and excitement of saying "delighted," " how do you >

do,” “ thank you," " how kind of you, " " you are too generous," " a splen did suggestion," " I should love to read the manuscript" -in this rush , I say, I lost sight of the beautiful singer and never saw her again . So

goes this cruel and disillusioning world. SINCLAIR LEWIS

AM writing this piece on hotel paper, using a stubby, unsharp ened pencil. I tried the pen, but it screeches and scratches too much. My Corona is down home, for it was not my intention to do any writing this trip.

It is a case of writing this batch of copy now

or never. If I get

home, it won't be done. So I shall stick around until I work my right

hand into a state of paralysis, for even now this lead pencil is begin ning to cramp my style. Why, I haven't even a sharpener. In despera tion, a few moments ago, I hurried into the bathroom and took out a

new razor blade, which I shall use to keep this pencil in writing condi tion, even though I get the carpet covered with slivers of wood and make the maids curse my memory and take my name in vain.

Enough of this chatter. Let us on to the more weighty matters. For there, my readers, stands the great and only Sinclair Lewis, the mighty debunker, the best fighter in our crowd. This was my first meeting with one of my greatest admirations, and I was properly impressed, let me tell you in all candor. This was an important day in my young life, and I had brains enough to know it. We liked each other from the first second. This is a plain fact, not bunk. I know I

liked him, and he said right off : “ I like you, you damned Bolshevik. How do you keep out of jail ? Have you been tarred and feathered yet ? Let's see whatthe hell will I call you ? I can't call you Haideman

Julius. Oh, yes, Manuel . Call me 'Red.' ” And I did . He is " Red "with red hair and red freckles, about

five feet and ten or eleven inches and weighs about 155 pounds, I should guess. He isn't what I should call a prize beauty, but, oh, how you love the rascal ! He captures one in a second - hearty, enthusiastic, appre ciative, colorful and profane. What a collection of heaven-sent vocables ! All the bad words that have only four letters are used with skill and abandon . It's great!

This was transpiring in his rooms in the Ambassador Hotel , on the eighth floor. He was in his temporary workroom, a small chamber,

scattered with books and papers, his secretary, Mrs. Birkhead, working on his letters. “ Red" Lewis was in his shirt -sleeves — a white shirt, with

E. Haldeman - Julius

29

soft collar attached, the kind I wear and boost so consistently that one might take me for a paid press agent for the shirt plutocrats. The fact is, I don't even get a free shirt for all the free advertising I throw their way. They're an ungrateful bunch .

Sinclair's — I mean Red's — shirt was tieless, and over his eyes he wore a green — what do you call those celluloid things ?-shades ? cur tains ? rain wipers ? You know what I mean.

“ Say, Manuel, the Monthly's great. You're doing a fine job . I'm for it. I wish I had time to write for it, but you understand — this

novel simply must be finished. I'm filled up to here with it . You'll like this novel I'm writing. It's just in line with what you are doing in the Monthly. These preachers are going to get a trimming.' “ What are you going to call it ? We all know what you're up to, Red. Have you decided on a title yet?” “ No, not yet. I've got a bunch of ideas " Why not call it ‘Bible Belt' ?"

"That won't do, Manuel. That's too flippant ; too Menckenese." .

"Call it anything. But get it done. We can hardly wait until it's finished .”

" I'm going to northern Minnesota tomorrow , to get a cabin and

settle down to work. I have all my material — filled up to here — and aching for the job." ( My fingers are getting sore handling this pencil . I've just wrapped a handkerchief around it, so I believe I'm all set for another mess of

copy .)

What a worker " Red " Lewis is ! How honest, thorough, conscien tious, meticulous ! I love and admire men who do their jobs in a work

manlike manner. I loathe and despise careless, slipshod stabs at a piece of work that should have been done wholeheartedly. Sinclair Lewis is a

serious, sincere artist. He is tireless. He throws everything into the scales. I know how he has gone about this preacher job, and I am ready to shout my acclaim . He has missed nothing. Not a phase of this great novel material has been treated superficially. Mark my words Lewis' novel about the pulpit pounders will be a masterpiece - greater

than Main Street and Babbitt rolled into one. That's saying a mouthful, for I admire both of those useful and creative novels. This job has

been waiting around for years, and here is the right artist for this tre mendous undertaking. We have had no end of mealy-mouthed novels about the church , the “ best ” of them nothing more than tracts for Mod ernism-a form of bunk that is worse than Fundamentalism, to my crack -brained way of looking at things. “ Red” Lewis has been in Kansas City for months getting his mate rial. He has gone about it with the thoroughness of a German economist. The homes of preachers have been invaded ; he has nosed around in their “ parlors,” their studies, their backyards and their bathrooms. He

knows everything that one can learn about our preacher guys. These rooms in the Ambassador have been used for weeks for what Sinclair Lewis calls his "Sunday School Class." Fifteen preachers have been coming here regularly, and " Red" has dug into their minds and their hearts. He has opened them up ; the wheels have been watched at their work - oh, he simply has his facts, and we know that with his

30

The Fun I Get Out of Life

facts in hand the writing will be done with the speed of the gifted and finished writer. We have no doubts about " Red " Lewis ' crafts

manship. Before long the world will be given a great book.

( Gee, I wish I had learned to write with my left hand. This right fist is about all in, and I haven't told half my story yet. Even this hand

kerchief that I am using as a cushion for my fingers is beginning to play out. But I'll stick it through — if only this pencil doesn't get worn down any shorter, because the top of it is almost even with my knuckles now. Ah, if that singer were here now, and if she were a crack stenogra pher - I'd make some headway ! ) " Red" and I walked into the next room, where we found eight or ten men and two women. I was introduced all around, for some of them were strangers to me- a mixed lot of preachers, communists, socialists, plutocrats, lawyers and an accountant. Also, an intelligent and delightful Negro, Mr. Love, I believe. And there was dear old

Darrow, grumpy and witty as ever, ready for his debate on the prohibi tion bunk scheduled that night in a church, where the Rev. Burris

Jenkins was to hold down the lid for the drys. Darrow was feeling especially chipper, because the old war -horse had just won a mighty battle in Detroit, where the Sweet defendant had been found not guilty. You may read about that in Marcet's Big Blue Book, Clarence Darrow's Two Great Trials. The fact is, Marcet didn't come with me to Kansas

City because she wanted to stick to her job of getting the Sweet story written. I tell you this is some literary family. If Henry and Alice ever get the literary bug old daddy will have to buy some new presses.

( Golly, I've decided to give up this handkerchief and go back to my sore, bare fingers on this hard ,unyielding wood . If I don't get my second wind soon they are likely to find a dead man in Room 829 , Hotel Muehlebach. ) GILBERT FRANKAU

HEN came the Englishman-Captain Gilbert Frankau - a nice chap , and all that, you know . Very English . Good fellow Pleasing personality .

London accent.

Gloves.

Stick.

Real

nifty guy . I liked him. ( Say, these short sentences are finer for a poor boob with sore fingers . It isn't a new art form—it's

plain cramps in my right hand. Well, I guess I'll light a fresh cigar ; maybe that will cheer me up. If that doesn't work I'll go down a little later and eat a steak. Steaks always work wonders with me. They're the greatest medicine in the world. )

Then came the singing. " Red " passed around the hymn books, and about a half dozen of us— " Red ," Birkhead , Frankau, Schoolcraft

and myself and somebody else-started in on “At the Cross, at the

Cross Where I First Saw the Light.” It was wonderful . I was in good voice. The others were a little off pitch, but this didn't seem to bother us any. Then came “ Onward, Christian Soldiers,” which we did per fectly. Then Brother “ Red ” led in prayer and with the Amen I said :

E. Haldeman - Julius

31

“ Let's all have another drink.” To which the others responded with, “ You bet your tootin '.”

" Red ,” Gilbert and I hit it together nicely from the start . I've heard a lot about Gilbert Frankau , but I confessed I had never read any of his books or articles . He assured me that I had missed a whole

lot, but I voiced my skepticism . “ I understand you are a best seller over there and that you are coming through fast over here, but to be honest with you I always put you alongside E. Phillips Oppenheim, Harold Bell Wright and Zane

Grey," I confessed, with disarming frankness. "You're quite wrong , ” replied Gilbert. " I really am an important writer."

" You know , " said " Red ," " I always hated Gilbert. I've never read

any of his books. He's the worst Tory in England .”. " I'm the only real Tory,” Gilbert broke in, his charming smile fetching us. He is a fine looking chap, in his early forties. I'm sure women must be crazy about him.

" I've always hated you ," said " Red." " I've always hated you," said Gilbert. “ But I like you now that I've met you , ” “ Red " went on . " And isn't it funny how we went out of our way to avoid each other in Eng land ? ”

" I had a horror that I might meet you some day. So I thought up

a lot of insulting things to say to you so that I might continue hating you .” " And I had a whole mouthful myself,” said " Red , ” with amusing earnestness.

“ And now I like you, though I've read only one Sinclair Lewis book . "

" You want to read all of his books,” I said, in a stage whisper. “ He's a better man than you are, though I like you . " “ And I like you .” " Oh , let's have another drink ."

Gilbert Frankau likes everything I hate, and hates everything I admire. I like H. G. Wells and Bernard Shaw . He detests them. I

loathe Mussolini. He worships that vile and murderous tyrant. He

believes in pure dictatorships. I dread and despise them. He admires the Prussian officers of 1914. I cannot even think of them without

cursing. He talks of the “ dirty Huns.” I love the German people. Frankau thinks the working class should be crushed with submission : and I'm for the workers , in my own way. He is a Tory of Tories. And I like him . I should love to hate him. Why should one meet one's intel lectual, social and cultural enemy, and like him a whole lot ? It's absurd . Yes, I shall buy one of his books.

A little later, while the visitors were leaving " Red ” took me by the shoulders in that warm -hearted, friendly way of his, and said : “Manuel , I'm giving a dinner at six this evening. Will you come ? Just four of us — you, Gilbert and Birkhead. Say you'll come.' >

2

“ Delighted. It will be a pleasure.'

I learned that Gilbert was stopping at my hotel — in room 831 , in

The Fun I Get Out of Life

32

fact ; almost a next-door neighbor, and as I had my car I offered to take him along with me, so we might insult each other some more. He

accepted. So we went out together - he to do some writing ; I to go to bed for a two-hour nap.

On our way up to the hotel Gilbert told me about the hanging of Gerald Chapman, which he had witnessed as a representative of the

Hearst press. He got on my nerves again, for Gilbert is wildly in favor of more and better hangings, while I, poor pacifist, believe in no capital punishment, not even for our Chapmans. "You're sentimental. Why waste pity for a dirty, little rat like

Chapman ?” he burst forth . “He earned his painless death. I was rather bored by the scene. I have seen too many fine men go to their deaths in the war to waste my sympathy over such rubbish. I wrote an aloof detached story about it - a new kind of a report for the readers of your sentimental newspapers. " " I don't see how excessive punishment will stop crime. You Eng lishmen are too hard-boiled about such things. You used to hang pick pockets. " " And we should do it again . There should be more capital punish ment. It is the only remedy." I then changed the subject. 9

" Tell me, " I asked, " what do you think about Joseph McCabe ?" “ McCabe ? McCabe ? Who is he?" “ You have never heard of McCabe?” " No."

I changed the subject again. “ What do you think of our Bible Belt ?” I asked him.

" In England religion means nothing. We never think about it. Over there it is all politics and labor. Here it is all religion . I do not understand it."

" Your people are more civilized,” I said , "thanks to your Joseph McCabes. We need his genius in these States. Religious fanaticism is sweeping onward. It is a great menace. It is not only powerful in mat ters of religion ; it is also a mighty political machine. It must be crushed.”

" We simply can't understand your country's religious fervor. Your Dayton monkey trial seems so utterly impossible to us. We are unable

to realize that it is a genuine performance and not a huge hoax . " " It is very real, and dangerous,” I said . " And perfectly bewildering. Isn't it true that fornication is the Republic's national sport?” “ Yes. Much more so in the rural and small-town sections than in

the very large cities. The people in the enormous cities have other ways of letting off steam. In the Bible Belt the people have only Fundamentalism and fornication ."

“ That's very well put. I've marked that with great interest, though I have been in the country only a short while. ”

Parking at the Muehlebach , Mr. Gilbert Frankau went to his writ ing ; I went to my little snooze.

E. Haldeman - Julius

33

A LITTLE DINNER GANG

INCLAIR LEWIS was in splendid spirits and kept us amused with numerous shafts of characterization, wit and sarcasm.

He's a rare bird, thoroughly debunked and free.

" I tell you, fellows,” he remarked once, after a thought ful pause , " we're sitting here talking about authors and great men, but we don't seem to remember that there is a great author, still living, who is above Thomas Hardy, Shaw, Wells, Conrad ( for one feels he is still alive ) -I refer to Rudyard Kipling . "

“ Righto ," came from the men. “Wells' things will be unread three years after his death ,” said 9

Frankau.

“ Except 'Tono Bungay,' " Sinclair corrected. “ And his early short stories,” I added, “ particularly his ' Country of the Blind and his tales of imaginative science." " Perhaps you are both right," Frankau agreed.

“ Kipling is great - master of fiction and a wonderful poet,” Lewis continued . “His works will be read and admired a thousand years from

now . And we seem to forget that he is still alive, still among the living and breathing men . I hate his ideas, I cannot accept what he stands for, but I can admire his art. He is a great artist.” We all nodded our heads.

“ Tell me,” said Sinclair Lewis to me, “what do you think of the Mercury ?"

" I like it tremendously," I answered quickly. " I read every word of it . But let me tell you I believe Mencken is allowing his magazine to become over-departmentized. It has brilliant flashes of life, but there's too much of the intellectual about it and not enough of American life on the American of this day and hour.” " I think you're right," said Lewis. " I don't think Mencken knows

a great deal about American life. He should get out of Baltimore and

New York and come out here for a trip." “ I believe,” I went on, “that America is the most interesting coun try in the world. I love this country — I have a passion for the United States — a hundred and sixteen million human beings fighting, hating. loving, wooing, building, creating, working, grasping, living, feeling, reaching, suffering, laughing - and foolish . What a scene ! What a show !"

" A bully show !” exclaimed Frankau. “ Yes, the greatest circus in the world ,” I almost shouted.

“ As an

editor I want that life reflected , reported. You are doing that in your novels, Red. You need not be told how your novels have influenced me in my work." “ I know it ; I can see it,” said Lewis.

" You have opened up the American scene for literary material. You in novels ; my job is to get a lot of talented, young newspapermen and students to do it in articles. Articles about the United States

about its

fakers and its bunk-shooters ; about its foolishness and its dreams ; about

its new things and its gestures and spasms—jim-jams, I might say. We

34

The Fun I Get Out of Life

want to know what is going on in this vast, great country of ours, the liveliest and most interesting country in the world. We want facts about Florida, the Kansas farmer, the little and big towns. Too much has been written about New York , "

I was becoming eloquent. As I read my words again I realize some of the sentences were unuttered ; they were on my tongue, but unsaid

because Lewis talked so fast and didn't give me my full chance. “ New York — too much has been written about New York , ” said Lewis .

" True," I agreed . " New York impresses me as a vast crazy - house -lunatics, but not stupid. Out here, we are not so crazy, but more stupid . ” " I want to write an article ," said Sinclair Lewis ; " it should be

done. I want to show how freedom of thinking and speaking has been menaced by what we call 'good taste.' Damn this talk about 'good taste.' That's the matter with liberal England — too much fear of bad taste.

You don't talk against the king or the Prince of Wales, or the Church, because it just ‘ isn't done , not 'good taste.'

And we have the same

nonsense over here. Do something, and you are abused for your 'bad taste,' your 'cheap notoriety, ' your hunger for ' free publicity.' I turned down the Pulitzer prize for honest, clearly stated reasons. I did it as a serious artist. What was the answer ? - 'bad taste,' 'publicity,' and that

sort of thing. I tell you one must learn not to be afraid of 'bad taste. ' ' " Be mean," I said . " Insult your readers freely. Damn this yowling about good taste.

I saw Mr. Frankau squirming, and knew that he was not entirely with us. But that was the Englishman in him. And so went the conversation . We kicked the ball around for

hours. It was good fun, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

" Listen, Gilbert," said Lewis to my fellow-guest, " what I am anxious to see above all things is good talk-conversation . It is the most important thing in life. There isn't enough of it. I am a reformer in the sense that I want to see a great deal more good conversation . ” EDWIN MARKHAM

ATER : It is now pretty late in the afternoon. I stopped writ ing a little after the noon hour , and went to join my friend, Mr. George M. Husser, of the Better Business Bureau, in the

Hotel Baltimore, where he took me into the dining room of the Ad Club to meet Edwin Markham. I spent about a half hour with that wonderful old man—74 years old , sound as a rock, clear-minded, healthy, witty , amusing The aged poet was very nice to me , and his burst of friendly feel

ing made me most happy. We held each other's hands during most of our talk and I felt surges of the deep affection I feel for this extraor dinary personality. " I want to come down to Girard,” said Mr. Markham .

" By all means, do ," I urged in full sincerity . " We should love to

E. Haldeman-Julius

35

have you. You have meant a great deal to me. We all love you — the

whole country loves you, you beautiful old man, you ." His eyes brightened . "

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Haldeman -Julius, " he said, in that fine clear voice of his. “ I think a great deal of the work you are doing. I want my poems to appear in your Blue Books. I think they are great books a wonderful library ."

I thanked him for this kindly expression and gave him a tight squeeze .

“ And you look so well,” I exclaimed. “ I heard you lecture years and years ago in New York . How I adored the picture you made- long, white hair, white beard (fuller than now ) -you were so beautiful I missed half your lecture . ”

Mr. Markham laughed , firmly, a happy catch in his throat. " And you are feeling well ?" I asked .

“Never better. Always on the go. I am still good for work .” “Good for twenty or twenty- five years,” I said. “ I don't doubt it. Watch for a new poem of mine in an early num ber of Mencken's magazine — "Congratulations ! I'm happy to see you reach the intellectuals. You have been reaching almost every element except the so-called intel ligentsia ” " It made me happy." “ Of course it did, and with good reason .” 6

>

Mr. Markham then went on to tell me that he is working on a collected edition of hiscomplete poetical and prose works, which will be issued by Doubleday, Page and Company. He was kind enough to add that he was anxious to have a Little Blue Book volume of selected

poems. I assured him nothing could make me happier than to be able to add his name to my list of Blue Book'authors. So we mixed a little

business talk with our pleasant exchanges, which added just that much more to my feeling of good will . A RECORD

RS. HUGHES washes my shirts and B. V. D.'s, and in numer ous other ways sets herself down as a person of downright usefulness. In addition, she is a keen judge of music and poetry . The other day she brought a record all wrapped up in a newspaper. And she put it on our Victrola for my personal bene fit and uplift. I listened to the song, and then I took down ' the words. It should be given the widest publicity. Listen, dear hearts, to

M

BRYAN'S LAST FIGHT

Listen, now, all you good people, And a story I will tell

About a man named Mr. Bryan, The man that we all loved so well.

He believed the Bible's teachings And he stood for what was right ;

The Fun I Get Out of Life

36

He was strong in his convictions And for them he'd always fight. When the good folks had their trouble Down inDayton far away, Mr. Bryan went to help them And he worked both night and day. There he fought for what was righteous And the battle it was won, Then the Lord called him to heaven , For his work on earth was done.

If you want to go to heaven When your work on earth is through, You must believe as Mr. Bryan ; You will fail unless you do. Now he's gone way up in heaven, Where he'll find an open door, But the lesson that he taught us It will live forever more.

Editor's Note : Today ( Sunday ) is my day of rest. To celebrate it I wrote thirty pages of copy.

A JOKE THAT DIDN'T GO VERY WELL . E were at breakfast-Henry, Alice and myself. Looking up

W

from a copy of Life, which had just arrived, I said : “ Here's a joke, Alice. Come over and look at it . " She left her bowl of Post Toasties, raisins and cream,

" Here it is. It is called 'Putting on a Lot of Dog . You see it ? It is an automobile, with six dogs standing on the hood, the fenders and the running boards . Do you see the joke ?” “ Of course I see it. It means the same as stepping on the gas.”

" No, no, my dear. Don't you know the meaning of the expression *Putting on the Dog ?' It is very modern slang . " “ I never heard it before," Alice insisted. I turned to my left and found little Henry looking over my shoul der.

" I see the joke,” said Henry. “ It means the people who own the car put a lot of dogs all around the car and all over it, and that's why they call it putting on a lot of dog." “ No, no, Henry. You are both wrong. This joke seems to be a little old for you . In fact, I feel this joke was too old the moment it was born. I think we'll just pass it up and proceed with our breakfast.

You'll be late for school if we hang around here arguing about this joke. Besides, it isn't a funny joke. It is stupid .” " I'm not stupid ," Henry announced. “ I didn't say you were, Henry. I said the joke was stupid .” “ But if I can't understand a stupid joke it means I am stupid .”

"It means nothing of the sort,” I went on. “ I didn't say you were stupid, nor did I even imply that you were stupid. You are not stupid. Only the joke is stupid .”

E. Haldeman -Julius

37

"Well, what I don't understand is, why do you call it a joke? ” Alice asked, soberly. She had been looking at that picture all through my

argument with Henry. “ All I can see about it is an automobile with a lot of dogs standing on it. There's nothing funny about that. We often have dogs on our car. And nobody laughs. People like dogs." “ So do I, Alice, within reason .”

“ Then why do you think a picture of a lot of nice dogs is a joke ? They're nothing to laugh about. '

“ Alice, I didn't laugh at any dogs. I didn't even laugh at this joke. I merely asked you a civil question — did you see the joke ? You didn't. Henry didn't. That's all I am interested in. I meant no personal affront."

I'm not going to get those kids started again. The next time I see a poor joke I intend to keep it to myself. EDGAR SALTUS AND HIS COLLAPSE

HE house is quiet ; the Kansas wind comes howling down from the North ; inside, it is warm, and I have finished a fat batch of copy — so I feel I have earned the right to rest back on my couch and enjoy this book which has just comeEdgar Saltus, written by his widow . I settle back for several hours of peek

ing into the life of a man who created one of the most colorful and bloodcurdling books ever written—his life of the Russian Czars, The

Imperial Orgy. I read only four paragraphs when, bang ! I come on a gigantic, mountainous structure of bunk, thus : When, later in life, he became interested in occultism, and the possibility of having an astrological chart was suggested, there was no one living who could tell him the exact hour. Trivial as it may seem, he would have given much to ascertain

it. The Libra qualities assigned to those born in October were all his. This fact made him keen to know how they would be modified or increased by that of the sign rising at the hour of his birth .

And so it goes on-Scorpio, the Sun in Taurus, and the rest of the occult twaddle . I shall continue my reading, of course, but here I am back at my machine for another little spell even after I had told myself that I was through for the next few hours and would relax with some pleasurable reading.. Here is the bunk-swatter's punishment. He can not enjoy himself, even when he tries his best. He feels he must brand hokum when he sees it, though it means the end of his earned rest.

Bunk - everywhere one sees bunk — it is ridiculous to hope to escape it even for an hour.

There is no denying the fact that I could

get a whole lot more fun out of life if these slips from sanity and realism did not bother me. But they do, and I cannot escape myreactions to these insults directed at my intelligence. Well , we shall call it a night ,

and, without further complaint and growling I shall return to this book, hoping that the rest will bebetter than the beginning. But, before quitting this bit of writing, let me add that I recall

something I read in one of Charles Darwin's letters. I go searching for it. Ah, I find it-I thumb the pages—I find it.

I read it again,

and smile. How true it is in this case of the brilliant and astonishing Saltus, who, as a young man, turned to Schopenhauer for his daily

38

The Fun I Get Out of Life

food, who considered " religions were superstitions for the ignorant and

credulous. They offered nothing. With Schopenhauer came Spinoza." Man's funny, wandering, wavering mind — what a treacherous machine it is ! Today an infidel and a skeptic — tomorrow a believer in horoscopes. and astrology ! But let us return to Darwin , whose sentence I want to quote : "With me the horrid doubt always arises te'hether the convictions of man's mind , which has been developed from

the mind of the lower animals, are of any value, or at all trustworthy.” Well, I did return to the book, and read it through without a halt 324 pages of Edgar Saltus' unhappy and suffering life. I have always admired some of Saltus' books, for here was a stylist of rare ability, a brilliant wit and a fertile coiner of sparkling epigrams. He was a hard, conscientious worker, a finished craftsman who turned out a great

volume of copy. Handsome, with gold in his pockets, a lady's man, Saltus traveled a road marked with numerous love affairs.

Wherever

he went, young girlswere warned against him, older ones threw them selves in his way. Two of his marriages were tragic failures. At the

height of his powers, when he was well into middle life, he met Marie, a slip of a girl, who turned his head, sent him into spasms of emotional torture and turned him into a helpless, whining kitten . He chased her

half around the globe; wooed her for years, and finally, when she had completely made him over, she married him — now an old man.

This book is the tragic story of a man, taken at his superb prime and broken slowly and mercilessly on the wheel of woman. The writer's story is a record of her almost ruthless annihilation of every thing in him that was individual and creative. She drove out his wit, his wisdom, his realistic ideas, and moulded a creature closer to her muddled notions — a mystic, Theosophist, an Occultist, a seeker of spooks and ghosts in numerous mediumistic studios, a talker of moon shine twaddle, a delver in the hokumistic tomes of Eastern rattlepates— in short, a damned fool.

And this transformation, to her way of looking, was a glorious A step up the ladder to a higher sphere ! What a tragic fall ! He deserted his own ego, his own personality, his own genius in order to take and hold this girl. He was willing to make any sacrifice ennoblement ! a divine transformation !

to get her, and she demanded, and got, her pound of flesh . The first effect was in his work . He was no longer the Edgar Saltus admired by Huneker, Wilde and others. He turned to pot boilers — many of them merely his old yarns rewritten to “ make them

better," which meant nothing more than taking fair potboilers and filling them with Theosophical moonshine.

Mrs. Saltus tells a frank ,, amazing story. She hides little. The whole sordid tragedy is there, written simply and well, despite some in consequential lapses. Her style is good, considering the purposes to which she put it. She makes Saltus and herself live—at times the book

reads like a novel. There were many moments when I thought I was reading something out of Dreiser.. The book is not entirely honest - no biography ever written has been entirely honest — but it tells more than I had been led to expect. There is little about their sex life, though one

gets the impression that there was little of it in their unhappy, stormy

1

E. Haldeman -Julius

39

lives. We do know that he was desperate over her - call that love, if that pleases you—and we do know that she was proud to be the mental and artistic keeper of her husband, but one cannot see the slightest signs of a genuine affection. She had a famous man for a husband, and she had something in her that enabled her to command him, and she used her

powers to the last. She took the sparkling, brilliant genius and made of him an unhappy, miserable, forlorn, helpless, defeated old man. What a collapse ! But there is nothing to lead one to believe that she was the least bit malicious about his life and talent. She thought she was helping him , freeing him from "materialism " and leading him to the “ higher

life" and all that sort of balderdash. Many a person has been " helped ” into a living hell, into á dismal and destructive defeat, by those who thought they were " improving " matters. That's the way the world is made, and one can do nothing about it.

Mrs. Saltus grows softly lyrical when she describes a scene late in their married life. He has been switched into spookland, and now he is searching its literature for " great truths.” Listen : All this time he was studying “ The Secret Doctrine,” going over each stanza slowly, thoughtfully, weighing each word and its meaning - searching for gold. He burst into my room one day without knocking - a thing he never omitted to

do. I realized that only an internal earthquake could have caused such forgetfulness . Throwing a book in my lap, he sank into a chair and exclaimed : " Blind - blind and conceited ass that I have been ! All my life I have been

searching for truth. Now I have found it. Life's problems are over.”

My skeptical mind does not leap with excitement over the prospect of having someone put in my hands aa book that will solve life's problems.

There simply is no such book. Life's problems can be solved by no book in all the world ; in fact, there is no book that can even state life's prob lems, let alone solve them. But let us return to Mrs. Saltus, who is still

holding the book that has “ solved all of life's'problems.” It turns out, from the sentences quoted a minute later, that the book is merely another masterpiece of super-bunk. His quotation is a mystical hodge-podge, an intellectual spasm. To return to Mrs. Saltus : Taking the book from my hand, he said :

" Listen to this. “Said the Flame to the spark, thou art myself —my image and my shadow. I have clothed myself in thee - and thou art my vahan, until the day be with us, when thou shalt re-become myself — and others thyself—and me. " He read the stanza three times very slowly, his emotion so intense that tears

stood in his eyes. At that moment he touched the highest pinnacle of his life. It

was his Mount of Transfiguration. As soon as he was sufficiently master of himself to speak, he said : “ Let me send your name and my own this very day to Adyar to join the Theosophical Society ?"

This moment of semi-lunacy was his "Mount of Transfiguration, whatever that idiotic phrase may mean . What a tragic, depressing pic

ture ! Edgar Saltus reading the purest drivel ever written , and his biographer saying that at this moment he touched the highest pinnacle of

his life ! What a bewildering mechanism the human mind is ! To me, he was at the lowest—to another he was at the very highest! And prob ably both of us are entirely wrong ! I come back to Darwin's sentence about the human mind, and I reflect how sensible it sounds.

.

The Fun I Get Out of Life

40

HE KNEW WHAT WAS THE MATTER

ONCE had an editorial assistant who did good work, but who

園

would go on unholy drinking sprees. He would give a week to drinking ; then, a week to sobering up, and then he would be good for another month, during which he was the best and most

useful chap I ever knew. But once he didn't stop at the end of a week he went on week after week, and, alas, month after month . I am not sure how long that bat lasted , but it seems to me he went at it for four

or five months. When I finally got a look at him, my heart sank. He was thin the skinniest fellow I ever set eyes on. His eyes were far back in their sockets. His manner was disheartening. His digestion was

shot to pieces. Now, it isn't my job to preach to people (we have too much preaching in this world ) but that meant nothing, for I started off like a Baptist evangelist.

For half an hour I held forth. I argued. I begged. I made emo tional and intellectual pleas. I drew on science, history, philosophy, poetry, biography and morality. I made a great case. My plea should have been taken down in shorthand. I couldn't repeat it, for I was in

spired when I got into action, and when it was all over I could not re vitalize my spent emotions. I warned him against the jim -jams. I told him he would end up in the booby-hatch . I said the hoosegow might get

him . I pointed out his complexion, his eyes, his blue lips, his trembling hands, his fleshless bones . I advised him to take the cure ; in my enthusi asm I offered to lend him the money. When I was through I felt there

was nothing more any person could say. Whatever was to be said, what ever could be said , I had said . When I finished, he looked up at me, a thin smile on his lips, and said : “ You don't understand what the matter is— ”

" I don't ? I'm telling you you're dying on your feet—” “ No, you're on the wrong track. You don't seem to get it." “ I don't ? Then tell me what the matter is. "

“ I'll tell you in a word. The whole trouble with me is I've been drinking too much ! " A PARTICULARLY OFFENSIVE SPECIES OF PEST

GET many readable, interesting letters from readers. help make my job worth the bother.

They

But let me say that it

isn't all pleasant, easy sailing. I seem to attract every nut in the country who has some partitular set of crank notions he seeks to exploit.

If they have some

elaborate scheme for saving the world, rest assured they will shoot it to me.

It is simply staggering how many men there are in this country ( the

women seem to be immune) who get up printed leaflets with headlines something like this : Plan for Solution of the World's Ills. That usually is enough for me. It is a waste of time to even read the junk . These

fellows who think they can solve all the world's ills by passing some kind

41

E. Haldeman -Julius

of a pet law, or organizing a fancy society, or establishing some change in the form of bank credits — these fellows, I say, are hopeless bores. I believe it was Mr. Bok and his peace plan that turned loose this vast army of sociological nuts. They got started on his peace plan and >

now they are going right down the line solving every ill that society suffers .

Usually, the plans take up one side of an 81/2x11 leaflet, printed at the author's expense as a matter of public service, and offered to the world as the cure for all its troubles.

Another kind of bore that is particularly offensive to me is the nut who writes religious leaflets that are loaded with scores of Biblical references . They are crammed with : See Timothy 4-11-44 ; See Hootchy Cootchie 44-11-4 ; See Rev. 1v4ch ; 33-44 :28 down to 86-64 :89 $2.98 C.O.D. It's terrible, and there seems to be no remedy. I get their leaf

lets and throw them into my wastebasket unread. They never show a grain of good sense. ANOTHER KIND OF BORE

HERE is one kind of out-of-town subscriber who gets my nanny.

Every now and then I am visited by some reader who has been following my stuff for years and drops in to see what sort

of an animal I look like. I always like to meet my readers except this particular type. He comes in quietly, gives me a low-voiced howdy-do and sits down

without another word. There is a long silence and then I realize that it is up to me to do all the talking.

If I ask him anything, he answers with a grunt; he just looks at me as much as to say : " You do all the talkin ’; I'm here to see the show . " I usually handle such fellows the same way : Where are you from ?

Did you come by train or auto ? If by auto, are the roads good ? If by train, were there

any accidents ?

Was the train on time ?

How's the crop out your way ? Have you had as much rain this year as two summers ago ? Do you think a Poland-China hog is better than a Duroc-Jersey ? And if so, will you give all facts, dates and references, in writing ? Do you think it is a good idea for a man to wear his B. V. D.'s all winter ?

What do the wheat growers and alfalfa haulers think of Madame LaRau's facial cream ?

Do you think it is right for a woman to wear a two-piece bathing suit, when a one-piece suit costs less and is easier to put on? I keep these questions up for ten or fifteen minutes, usually getting a nod or a shake for answers. When I play out of questions and know how many children he has, when Susie last had the croup, and how Johnny skipped the third grade, because he was so darned smart, I usu

ally pop out with : “ How would you like to see the plant?” There is a

The Fun I Get Out of Life

42

nod, the usual nod. I ring for Pete ; Pete gets the high sign ; the speech less visitor is escorted through the plant, and I am a free man once more. The trouble with this kind of reader is I don't know him after I've

met him any more than I knew him before he dropped in. I believe I should change my tactics with such fellows. As soon as I spot one, I should begin yowling out some kind of a set speech, like a phonograph ,

and one that will take about as long as a 75 -cent record - and when fin ished, say "I'm glad I met you : come again : Good-bye.” That might be better by far than my present policy of asking questions that are answered with short nods and still shorter shakes. ALICE'S LITERARY TASTE

ITTLE eight-year-old Alice has well- defined literary tastes, and in the main I agree with her likes and dislikes. At this writing

she is desperately excited over Jack London's The Call of the Wild and White Fang, two remarkable stories. She drops in

on me, all aflutter, every time White Fang learns something new. As a puppy, White Fang did many amusing and impressive things, and Alice followed them breathlessly. She tells me she doesn't care at all for Alice

in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass and I agree with her wholeheartedly, for these two " classics" have been grossly overvalued. I found them boresome, and second Alice in her curt rejection of them . She also cares not at all for Treasure Island , and I am with her in this

prejudice.. Stevenson's romance, to me, is a tiresome book , and Alice supports me in my position. Neither of us cares the least bit for Sand

burg's children's stories . In fact, Alice and I agree pretty generally, with the single exception of Black Beauty. I consider that book trashy, but Alice read it through three times, and wept copiously whenever Black Beauty was in distress . But then , Alice is crazy about horses, so that must explain her love for this story about a horse. KANSAS FLIES

HERE is one subject Kansas boosters never discuss — the pecu liar sturdiness and hardiness of Kansas flies. This may sound

incredible, I know, but be assured I am speaking the truth, the literal, accurate truth : I have to keep a fly -swatter within reach

right up to Christmas each year. Did you ever hear of such a thing ? A Kansas fly lives longer than the flies I've dealt with in any other State. They are the most insistent pests known to me. They seem to have everything their own way, for it is rare indeed to find a Kansan

using a fly-swatter. Kansans ignore flies, and I often wish I could get into that state of mind , but I simply can't. I have a horrible feeling of

unrest and discomfort when I know there are flies in my office or library. Kansas flies endure drought, blizzard and hailstorm. They have no fears over the vicissitudes of nature. They laugh at zero weather, until about Christmas, when they die of old age. I come into my office some cold, mournful December morning and

do not see a fly in sight. Ah, the season is over ! The cold has killed

E. Haldeman -Julius them off !

43

You can see them around the window-sill, on the sunny side

of the room , and they look totally and completely dead . If you pick one up, he feels lifeless. That's all bunk. He is sunning himself, waiting to be thawed out. At about nine o'clock he is his old self again — vigorous, ambitious , full of pep.

The Kansas flies are the go-getters of the species. However, the rate of fly mortality is very high around my office. But at what a price ! Think of the time lost, the energy wasted, the wear and tear on the swat ters, the loss of temper and good feeling, the depreciation of first-rate editorial ideas—ideas that sound good while I am on my way to my

office , but which go glimmering when I begin a fly -swatting crusade. I know it sounds crazy to be harping on this subject around the end of December, but I say, in all seriousness, that I have only just finished my yearly battle, with a few skirmishes still to be fought. Incidentally, I want to say that there is only one way to " get" a

Kansasfly. You can't do it with fly-poison. You can't poison a Kansas fly. This stuff you scatter around is all bunk. It will make human beings miserable, bring on fits of sneezing and make breathing almost impossible, but a Kansas fly goes lightly on his way, utterly indifferent to this childish stuff.

As for fly -paper - a real, dignified, self-reliant Kansas fly - and

they usually are that way — will pay no attention to fly-paper. Fly-paper is left to bother cats and dogs. There is only one weapon that works — and here I speak as an ex

pert, qualified after long years of experience. That weapon is an old fashioned swatter.

Long live the swatters ! Yet, even at that, the flies live long - too long, in Kansas. ONE OF THE INTELLIGENTSIA

OME readers have the notion that the employes in the Little Blue Book plant are all candidates for Rhodes scholarships.

The idea prevails in some quarters that the girls read Aeschylus and Euripides cluring lunch hour, devour Shake speare and Emerson on their way home, and spend their evenings and part of their nights absorbing the wisdom of Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche .

Alas, the facts do not permit such an impression to go out. The girls read Snappy Stories, True Love Story Magazine, and the various Con fession magazines, with some movie periodicals thrown in for variety. Comic sections are all too popular.

Here is something that happened only the other day. A lassie whose job it is to fill out the copyright blanks that are forwarded to the Regis

ter of Copyrights, found herself stumped when she came upon “4,000 Most Essential English Words, " a little volume that has this sub-caption ; " A Basic Literacy Test." There are lines on the copyright application for the author's name and land of birth .

When she came to the author,

she calmly wrote down his name as : Mr. A. Basic Literacy Test. And then she came in to find out whether or not Mr. A. Basic Literacy Tcst

is an American citizen . When she was told that " A Basic Literacy Test"

The Fun I Get Out of Life

44

is not a man's name but the book's sub-title, she shook her bobbed head and exclaimed : " How'm I to know without askin '? " What puzzles me

is how she came to put a period after the “ A.” I suppose she felt some thing or other was missing and decided to " fix it up.' A CHRISTMAS CARD

HAVE been flooded with Christmas cards. You know the kind I mean. Like: As scurrying snow and sighing winds / Announce the Christmas night, May your home be a cheery place In the flood of the yule log's light.

But here is one that is different. And it is from Charles W. Wood ,

who now calls himself " Executive Secretary of The Xmas Boosters. " His card has a line of figures marching across the page, carrying printed banners, as follows : We Want a Business Religion Down with Radicalism Down with Youth

All for Christ and Military Training Bigger and Bloodier Christmases Down with the Peace- Makers,

And then comes this little gem : PROCLAMATION

Whereas, in the name of God , Amen ,

We're doing our Christmas wheezes, It behooves us now and behooves us more,

Perhaps, than it ever behooved us before, Since the days 'way back before the war, To get the right dope on Jesus.

He wasn't no meek and lowly guy, And it's time we all knew better.

He was full of ginger and full of go For Old Bruce Barton has told us so :

And Old Bruce Barton , he ought to know : A Regular He Go -Getter.

For God so loved the world, it seems, And He knew so well what ails man

He so understood our lack of pep, And our hopeless state and our dwindling rep, Unless some hustler would put us hep, That He sent us his Supersalesman. He sent us his Advertising Star Who moved the load we were carryin '. Never once whimpering, “ What's the use ?" He jumped in the seat and he stepped on the juice ;

As a matter of fact (according to Bruce) Christ was our First Rotarian .

E. Haldeman - Julius

45

Which clears the way, you can easily see, For a Christmas truly delectable.

For it only confirms what we always knew , And have wanted to tell the damned Pacifist crew ,

That Jesus, he wasn't no sawed-off Jew But was really very respectable. Glory to God in the Highest Key ! And on earth let's crow like roosters. We can lick the world if it comes to the worst :

So we'll whoop it up till our whoopers burst

For God and Country - America First !

That's a funny piece of writing, even though it is not written from the freethinker's viewpoint. Wood, unfortunately, is something of a Christian Socialist, butknowing him as I do I find it easy to forgive him. Charles W. Wood was a delightful bum, when I knew him back in 1914 . A free-lance writer who could do a funny article now and then and make

some kind of a living at the work, he knew how to forget the responsi bilities of authorship and enjoy life. I remember vividly how New York woke up one morning and found itself in the clutches of a serious beer shortage. The saloons from Four teenth Street and Seventh Avenue down to Park Row were dry — and prohibition had not yet been clapped down on us. It was a terrible morn

ing, and no one seemed to know the cause—no one, except little me and Charlie. We had started bright and early the morning before, and we had visited something like eighty -two saloons, where he drank up all the beer in sight. We kept at this job from about 8 a. m. until long after

midnight. Our decision to quit came only after we realized that our territory had been mopped dry, and we were not able to wander uptown on account of the unsteady condition of our legs. So we called it a day.

They still talk about that drought south of Fourteenth Street. Poor people ! It was a dirty trick. I remember how amused Charlie Wood was over something I said .

We got to talking about prostitutes, as men will after they have been together over five minutes, and he asked me what I thought about them. I gave my own personal opinion in this way : " I do not like them because one can never find them off duty.” He repeated that all over New York, and I believe they are still talking about it, though I believe my remark has much more philosophy in it than humor.

I also remember how we had to make aa decision. We were expected to try to walk uptown, and the question arose: Should we walk up Sixth Avenue, where the elevated roars, or up Fifth Avenue, where the nice

buses run. Wood decided it this way : " Let's walk up Fifth Avenue. If we walk up Sixth we'll save only a nickel, but if we walk up Fifth Ave nue we'll save a dime.” That wasn't so bad. I remember I even laughed at the time, which showed I got the joke even in the condition I was in. New Yorkers see the joke of course but you outsiders should be in

formed that a ride on the elevated costs only a nickel, while a ride on a bus costs a dime. Now you can laugh .

46

The Fun I Get Out of Life IRISH STEW

F

ERE'S a peculiar thing that has been bothering me. I have been trying to " place" Irish Stew in the great family of foods, and I persist in classifying Irish Stew as a second cousin to

Hash. It happens that I loathe, hate and despise Hash, as my readers know. I am always ready to go out of my way to heap insult and contempt on Hash. But Irish Stew - oh, there we are in sacred realms.

Gentlemen, I simply worship, adore, admire and love Irish Stew. The very thought of Irish Stew makes my mouth water. I can taste the soft, delicious meat, the cooked potatoes and the other vegetables - yes, let me confess it, I can even smack my lips over the bread dipped in the stew juice.

And it happens that I am the only person on the Haldeman - Julius Farm who loves, worships and admires Irish Stew. Marcet, Alice, Henry, Josephine, Cora, Harold, Mr. Miller-all look contemptuously on Irish

Stew. I have to beg, whine and wheedle, before I can get a plate of good Irish Stew — and , let me say here, in all sincerity, that Cora can make the best Irish Stew I ever tasted.

When I finally get my Irish Stew requisition O. K.'d, and the dish is scheduled for formal production, a shudder seems to pass over our household. The result is, I have my Irish Stew brought up to my library

--brought up on a tray, so that the rest of the family may eat what it pleases down below. I claim that Irish Stew is one of the most creative culinary master pieces in the long list of good things to eat. But I do not recall odes written to Irish Stew, nor lyrics, nor sonnets. No symphonies have been

composed to Irish Stew. No great paintings . No monuments have been erected to the great and noble inventor of the Irish Stew. And , coming to think of it, I recall none of my friends who ever went into raptures over a steaming plate of Irish Stew. Can it be that I stand alone in my admiration for Irish Stew ? I knocked Hash a few weeks ago, and thought that target would have no defenders, only to learn that Hash

stands high in the public's regard. But Irish Stew stands high with me. Once a week, oh, friends - once a week, I pray you, bring me Irish Stew ! I INVEST IN A NEW CORONA

HAVE just given myself a new model Corona and am now writing my first piece on it. It feels good-much better than the old one — and I expect to get a great deal of satisfaction out of it. The old one did hard, steady service for about seven or

eight years, and last night it seemed to go to pieces all at once. Parts broke and got jammed , and I found two or three pretty good editorial ideas slipping away from me for lack of a machine. I puttered around trying to fix the poor old invalid, but I gave it up as a hopeless job and went to bed .

up

This morning I brought it down to the office and told Peter to call the Corona man at Pittsburg and make a trade for me. It was amus

4

E. Haldeman - Julius

47

ing to see and hear Peter go about it. He was determined to get me a good trade, and I can now state that he certainly did. He would make an excellent horse -trader. He got me a fifteen-dollar allowance on that old piece of machinery, which was about five dollars more than I ex

pected. He tried real hard to get me $20, but went down to defeat. The typewriter man assured him that after he gets it fixed up and in good

running order he will be glad to accept $7.50 for it. But this is like trad ing an old car - one can worry himself to death trying to guess what the dealer is going to get for the old thing. And I refuse to worry. The American Magazine in its issue of July, 1923, said it is fatal to one's success to worry. So I shall not worry. This new machine is writing like a charm . I am getting to like it better at each line. The touch is light-almost as light as an L. C. Smith . The improvements are numerous, and all of them good. I am particu

larly pleased with the ribbon, which reverses automatically, a vast im provement on the old way of unscrewing one side and tightening the other. The whole little contraption is useful and I welcome it to my library desk, where I hope to use it often, wearing it out in the work of

pounding sense into the morons and trying to debunk this bunk-laden, superstitious world. If you notice any kind of an improvement in my journalistic efforts, credit is to my new Corona. " ASK YOUR BANKER "

IN buying this new little Corona I found it necessary to write a mean, little check for $45 ( you remember, I hope, that I had

a $ 15 allowance for the old one ), and this set me thinking about banks and bankers . Then I remembered an editorial I had read

in Collier's a few weeks ago, entitled “ Ask Your Banker," which im pressed me as a fine piece of bunk. The editorial told about the dear American public losing something like a billion and a half each year through the purchase of worthless and fraudulent stocks, which is not far from $ 13 each for every man, woman and child in the nation. Then came this pearl of wisdom , this clear-cut solution : " Much of this could have been saved had we consulted our bankers. We, as a nation , use our

banks. Why not also use our bankers ! ”

I do not pose as a financial wizard. I have never taken on the thankless job of telling people what to do with their money. I have :

enough trouble taking care of my own funds without bothering other people about their affairs. I am just a hard -working publisher, who minds his own business and tries to make a living without taking prop erty that does not belong to him . But I have kept my eyes and ears open a little, and I believe I know a little about banks and bankers. It is my observation that á banker is the last person in the world to ask bout

investments. Every bad enterprise that is selling off worthless securities

has a crew of bankers behind it, either trying to make a big haul or trying to " get out from under."

I have seen many a shady enterprise endorsed by bankers who held notes that were not of much account but which might be met if the almost

The Fun I Get Out of Life

· 48

defaulting concern were given help in disposing of its practically worth less securities .

Here is an individual who was a poor business man. I know him

well. I shall not identify him, for that would not help my argument. He was a mess as a business, and the banker held about $ 20,000 of his paper, on which he had small hopes of collecting. This banker had that individual incorporate, had him sell the stock ( with the banker's full endorsement), the notes were met out of the first money taken in — and the public was left to hold the sack. Had anyone dropped in on that banker for financial advice, would he not have advised the purchase of

stock in that doomed company he was sponsoring ? Bankers like to tell you to buy " conservative" investments — don't try to get more than six percent for your money, and all that sort of thing. I know a good many bankers, and if they make less than twelve or fifteen percent on their money they begin to talk about the decay of religion and the menace of bolshevism . Bankers like to see you buy the investments that bring small returns,

so they may get their share of the transaction. The average bank divi dend in this country, whether State or National banks, is about twelve percent . There is nothing “ conservative” about that. Bankers sell great

quantities of securities, they underwrite practically all of the great bond issues, whether for American industries, or foreign governments. Are they satisfied with a mere six percent? Yes, if it is intended for you. They, on their end of the bargain, take in much more.

There is no such thing as an absolutely safe bond. Any kind of a bond issue may default. The fact that you are earning six percent on

your bonds does not mean that those securities are the least bit safer than an industrial or foreign issue that pays.eight, nine and even ten percent. But, by arguing " safety ," you are propagandized into believing you should get only six percent, which leaves a handsome margin for the bankers and distributors of securities .

This does not mean our bankers are dishonest. They are entirely within the law. They merely get you into a state of mind that will make

you want to give them a share of your profits. So much for knocking. You ask for constructive suggestions. I can almost hear that deathless bromide : “ Anybody can tear down ; but can you build up ? We all like constructive criticism !" I've heard that a million times and notice that it is always said with a grand air of discovery, with an impressiveness that leaves one speechless. So, I shall try to be constructive ! My suggestion is, if you have only a tiny sum put aside, not to invest it at all, but keep it available . If you have a modest sum , buy Liberty Bonds. If you have plenty of money to invest, then study the financial page of a good newspaper and buy only such securi ties as are listed on the New York Stock Exchange and the Curb. When

you buy listed securities you are buying marketability, which is an im portant factor. Also , you can get the entire financial record of every listed issue. You can then use your head . This information is available

to the public. Your banker will, most likely, try to steer you away from listed securities and try to talk you into buying something that has only local significance and which may never have ready marketability.

E. Haldeman - Julius

49

When a new issue is announced, use your head . Ask yourself whether or not this new concern is producing something that is wanted. Is the commodity useful and necessary ? Will the public want it ? Is it

better than the products of its competitors ? Are those at the head of this proposed enterprise capable and efficient and honest ? Your bank er's head is no better than your own. Use it. THOUGHTS ON A NEW KEY -RING

BUSINESS concern has just sent me a little gift - a new de vice for keys. It is a leather affair, which closes somewhat like

a small-sized wallet.

Inside, one finds a row of six metal

"hooks" which will take care of as many keys. It is a nice looking thing, and, I believe, something of an improvement on the old

fashioned metal key -ring I have been using for over a dozen years. In just what manner it is better I do not know , for I have not given it much thought, though I do confess I feel vaguely that it is a step forward in

the science of holding keys. I imagine the improvement lies in the fact that the keys are enfolded in a leather covering, thereby keeping the points of the keys from cutting holes in one's pocket, though I might add that I do not recall having suffered such a calamity. Again, the keys

are kept in something that resembles order, enabling one to get to the right key with a minimum of effort. Or, maybe it is just a new toy, thought out by a clever inventor. I notice that the contraption has this stamped on it: “ Pat. Pending.” However, it didn't cost me anything, and, besides, my name is stamped on it — in gold, though Inotice the donor failed to insert the hyphen and slipped in an extra " n " for good measure. But we shall let that pass. A gift is a gift, and one should not be too critical, especially when it gives one a subject for a piece of copy.

Now that I have finished my dissertations on the key-holder, let me begin ruminating over the keys. I am reminded by something in the back of my mind ( my subconscious ? ) that for many years I have been

wanting to take inventory of the keys on my old key-ring. I recall hav ing suggested a survey ofthe keys - many suggestions, in truth—without results, for some little quirk in the back of my head did not go click, so

the keys remained on the ring, even though I knew that some were never used.

As I have already said, this new key -holder has hooks for only six keys. This meant a decision at once. The old ring had many more than six keys, so I began taking off the essential ones first. The first was the key to the company's mail box. That is about the most important key I have. It is my key to the entire world . When I

use that key I open a box that contains hundreds, and even thousands, of letters from the entire world. This key shows signs of wear ; its let tering is beginning to disappear. It is a precious key—it means life,

friendship, orders, money, manuscripts, information, criticism, abuse, commendation, warnings, threats, magazines, newspapers, books, clip

pings, subscriptions for my publications and a thousand and one other intimate contacts with the great, wide world. This little key makes Girard as big as the universe. It brings the world to me. Without this

The Fun I Get Out of Life

50

key, life in Girard would be impossible. Without this key, life would be aimless, senseless, pointless, uninteresting, unstimulating, joyless, imper sonal . When this key opens a half-empty box, it means distress at the

plant — the threat of bad business. When the box is full, overflowing, it means new life and enthusiasm. It means new orders for thousands and thousands of Little Blue Books.

It means more circulation for the

Monthly. It means comment on the parade of life. It means life, laugh ter, activity, conflict, humor, tragedy. Yes, that key is important. It is given the first hook, so that I can get it without fumbling, as I have had to do these many years when I had it on the old ring. Perhaps that is one of the improvements the inventor had in mind when he announced " Pat. Pending ."

My next key is the one for my personal mail box . I ask myself: Why do I carry this key? I get all my mail through the company's box .

There really is no such thing as a " personal letter ”to me, now that I get

so many thousands of letters.. The most personal letter in the world would have to go through the front office, where it would be opened by the girls, read by two or three persons and then turned over to my secretary, who will read it again before passing it on to me, if he does decide to let me see it. And yet, I have this " personal” box ; I have been carrying its key for years; I have been paying a regular rental for it. I make a quick and sensible decision . I shall take this key back and get for it my 20-cent deposit. I shall abandon that personal box which I

never use.. I wonder if the inventor had that economy in mind ? No, I am sure he never thought

of it. That is my own invention - one for

which I cannot take out a patent.

The third key is the one to the front door at the house. But I have still another key for the side door, and it is the side door I usually use. Why have two keys ? Why not simplify my key -life ? Yes, there is another sensible decision . I shall dispose of that front-door key—since

I never use it—and hang it up on a nail in my desk — and forget about it. Then comes the next key. It is important, and goes into my new key-holder without a moment's hesitation.

It is the master-key to the

plant. It lets me in after working hours, when I want to go through the darkened plant. I like to wander through the plant when no one is work ing. It gives me a better idea of the jobs that are being done. I can visualize tomorrow's work better. I even think up some schemes while I wander to and fro. Besides, this important key lets me in on Sunday. Yes, it is a useful and necessary key - it goes on . The next key opens the warehouse across the street. I never have occasion to use it. When I want to see what is called Warehouse No. 2 ,

I usually go during working hours, when it is wide open . I have been carrying this key for years—and never using it. I shall hang it up on the nail in my desk - and forget about it. But there are other keys left on the old ring. I try to figure out what they are for, but I cannot. Here is one that has “ Stude” stamped

on it. By Satan, that is a key that belonged to a car I had six or seven years ago. I've been carrying it all these years. Here is another one ihat was used for a car I traded in three or four years ago. I bite my

lips. This is too absurd. Here is a key that fits a trunk . I do not travel with trunks any longer. I used to do that years ago . Now I just carry

E. Haldeman - Julius

51

a suitcase or two. That key will be carried up into the garret and be put into the trunk lock, where it belongs. I have been carrying it ten years !

And here are three other keys that defy me. I cannot place them after the most intense efforts at arousing my memory. They look very

impressive - Yale keys — but I know not what they were for. I smile. They may have been the key to furnished rooms when I was living in

New York fifteen years ago ! What doors could they open ? What doors did they open ? I ask myself these questions—I wait — but there is no answer. They aremysterious, homeless keys to vague, unknown doors doors that I shut forever.

I look over my new key -holder again , for I want to make sure I am putting in only the keys I shall want. I check them over again - and yet again and am finally satisfied. Yes, they open real doors - necessary doors. I put the holder in my pocket. It feels like a small wallet. It seems to be a pound lighter in weight. I heave a sigh. I look at my orphaned keys — my friendless waifs_keys that know not their locks and I throw them away . Then my thoughts go to the business concern that sent me this little gift. I am grateful - deeply thankful . But I can not get out of my mind the fact that I , usually careful about unnecessary

baggage, have been carrying useless keys for three, six, eight, ten and even fifteen years. How we hate to discard the useless and the wornout and the obsolescent ! How we like to hold on to our keys that know no

locks ! How we hate to let go of the meaningless ! How we love to clutter up our lives, as we weigh down our key -rings! But I have fought my little battle - years too late, I confess - and I have won ! YOUNG VANDERBILT IS SHOCKED

EORG BRANDES' The Jesus Myth has created quite a little discussion. The book does not need me as a defender, for Brandes has drawn on his brilliant and deep scholarship to

make this work practically immune to attack.

However, at

tacks have appeared, as numerous clippings show. Here is one from the Los Angeles Illustrated Daily News, a tabloid paper for morons. The editor and publisher of this lowbrow paper, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., writes a signed editorial in which he bemoans the Danish critic's essays. I do not intend to get into a discussion with this crude and almost illiter ate youngster who is playing at publishing. But I do not want to pass up without notice two words that Vanderbilt uses.

They are : “Poor

Brandes !” Imagine the spectacle! This intellectual child in arms stand ing before the towering figure of the great Brandes and sighing : Poor 1

Brandes ! Poor Vanderbilt ! ANOTHER GO -GETTER IN ACTION

FEW days ago I was visited by a typical Babbitt, who repre

A

sented the advertising department of a large, 15-cent magazine.

It is not my intention to relate what happened, except to men

tion that the question came up whether or not I had read a certain article in the last issue of his magazine. As I had not had the pleasure, he promptly, with an air of pompousness, promised to mail it

The Fun I Get Out of Life

52

to me. I demurred, saying that I would pick up a copy the next time I visited the magazine stand at the corner drug store. But he would have none of this. No ; I must accept his copy, with his compliments !

The idea ! Wanting to buy it at the stands! No, he would see to it that a copy went out as soon as he got back to his office in Chicago. I didn't want to get into a long argument about so trivial a matter, so I let it slide. Sure enough, he kept his word. This morning the copy arrived by mail, but the boob had mailed it in a sealed envelope, making it first

class. And as he had put only a ten -cent stamp on it, I had to pay a Postage Due charge of 34 cents ! If he had let me alone, I could have bought a copy for 15 cents ! And back in Chicago is a pompous ass who blows hot-air about Service and Co-operation and Personal Attention and

the other fine slogans of the Babbitts, little knowing that at this end his victim is nursing his bruises, however slight they may be. Why didn't that fellow let me alone ? And since he insisted on mailing it to me why didn't he know that a magazine cannot be mailed third class when it is sealed ?

But what is the use ?'

1

THE COMPLEAT ANGLER

ELL , it was a hard, stubborn fight, but the battle is over and I have come forth the victor, though I admit I am somewhat

爆

winded. At times my cause looked hopeless. There were mo ments when stark failure faced my efforts. But I battled on

and won .

It all began with my decision to publish that famous classic — The Compleat Angler, Izaak Walton's masterpiece. I scheduled the volume,

and thought I could go about my other duties without further bother, but here I was wrong, as I soon learned to my sorrow.

After I put through a book for publication my own duties are prac tically at an end, for an elaborate, and efficient, system has been worked out for handling the numerous processes. The copy is edited, the type

is set, the proof is read, the matter is paged, the editorial department reads the proof several times after the composing room thinks it is through with it, the plates are made, the book is scheduled for publica tion, the presswork is arranged, the covers are handled in another de partment, the sheets are folded, stitched, trimmed and the finished books are put into stock . Meanwhile, the book is advertised . I could go on

like this for about a page and still cover not over half the processes. It is complicated, and when anything slips there are numerous head aches. Big Blue Book No. B - 11 was not destined for easy sailing. The trouble began in the composing room . No, the thing was all

wrong — who ever heard of the word complete being spelled compleat ? So, the " error" was " caught.”

Wherever the word appeared, it was

changed. Then the folios were set - 118 of them , which makes quite a job, and here again the " error " was " caught." Then the proofreader changed it and had the whole business reset, much to the disgust of the

typesetters. Then the editorial department got the composing room's O. K. proofs, and decided a serious error had been made in spelling complete. The proof was marked back to complete, but the typesetters

E. Haldeman - Julius

53

and the composing room proofreaders argued they had “followed copy” ; copy was produced and the editorial assistant had to pull in his horns. But he wasn't through. He hurried to Lloyd E. Smith, the assistant

editor of the Haldeman -Julius publications, and argued whether we wanted to let this gross error stand. He was assured that compleat is correct. It looked like a victory for accuracy. Then came the cover. It had to be set. Of course, it was set com

plete. Then the argument started all over again, with another victory for accuracy and efficiency.

At last, the plates were made and delivered to the pressroom . Here the errors were caught again. The foreman of the pressroom knew it was wrong. The pressmen knew it was wrong. The feeders knew it was wrong. Even the apprentices knew it was wrong. Everybody knew it was wrong. So it started again . This time Smith became firm .

Run the plate " as is," he commanded, and I stood behind him, ready to die on the barricades.

The enemy retreated sullenly. They hurried back to the book depart ment and fished out a copy of the dictionary. They came back with justification and vindication written over their countenances .

They

held the huge book open at the page-" See ? there it is ! Complete ! Not Compleat!” Smith argued ; I stood ground with him, though it seemed hopeless. At last, we won the battle. The order went forth to start printing the book , The Compleat Angler. Suddenly there appeared the boy in charge of the job of printing the covers. He had to be won over, albeit

reluctantly. Then the bindery caught the error. And the stitchers caught it. And the boy who carried the finished books into the warehouse caught the error. But we saw the book go into stock at last, and it had for its caption , The Compleat Angler. The battle was won.

DOING ONE'S JOB IN A WORKMANLIKE MANNER DON'T try to be hardboiled with those who work with me, but about one thing I am adamant. I expect a job to be done in a workmanlike manner.

Excuses, apologies, alibis, passing the buck — all mean nothing. There is the job and it wasn't done in a workmanlike manner

--there, to my way of looking, is an unforgivable sin. Publishing tens of millions of books, issuing a Weekly and a Monthly and a Quarterly, preparing scores of circulars and broadsides each week - all these jobs can be ruined through carelessness, inaccuracy, sloth, laziness, indif-' ference .

My hardest job is fighting errors. I try to get a person to take pridein the job, to make it as perfect as is humanly possible. When I pick up a book and find a typographical error, I see red . If an author is careless with his facts, dates and names — he is given the air. As soon as I spot inaccuracy, I wash my hands of him, for such an author cannot be made over. Once careless, always so. It is an expres

sion of a man's character, and character is a hard thing to change. Take pride in your craft - do a workmanlike job don't try to get

54

The Fun I Get Out of Life

by with bad work - your errors will find you out. This sounds preachy, but I am not ashamed to moralize on such a theme. Be eternally watch

ful ; take nothing for granted ; be ever on the lookout for the little errors—they are the most annoying ; try always to do a clean job, and do it as quickly as possible. A new employe - a very young chap — joined my staff. This youngster, who was only nineteen, asked, rather timidly, if the desider

atum in proofreading in this office was speed at the price of accuracy, or accuracy at the price of speed. I answered that I wanted speed and accuracy .

Get a lot done, and do it better than the other fellow-there is my

test of the good worker, the man who wants to do his job in a workman like manner .

THE PERSONAL TOUCH

HAVE just received a lettet from the sales manager of a large paper company. He seems to be one of the graduates of the new school of business letter-writing. He insists on the very " personal touch . ” Here is his letter : Well, what do you say ? I say paper. Will you say, "What have you got, and how much do you want ?”

Say that and I will turn loose with the dandiest bunch

of samples and quotations you ever “ seen in youh bawn day,” as the darky said. What do you say to a telegram ( send it collect ) asking me to drop in on you

in your office , where I will give you the friendliest set of figures you ever heard of and I'll make it so attractive you will be wiring for me every time you think about paper .

Think of me every time you think about paper. We like to see the whites of the eyes of the man who uses our paper. That's why I want to see you - you per sonally, not somebody else who can't give out an order without somebody else's O. K.

I want to see the fellow that does the 0. K.ing around your office, for I've got some dandy propositions he will want to 0. K., if only he gives me half an ear. Will you wire me - collect? What do you say ? Say it at my expense, and you will save money on your telegrams and later on your paper.

I do not know just who is responsible for these letters that are

supposed to be all “ punch .” The personal touch, to my way of looking, is getting stupidly familiar. At any rate, here is my reply, which may help other targets of writers of personal go-getting letters: Dearest Beloved :

You don't know how happy your letter made me.

It came at a time when I

was lonesome - lonesome for just a kind, breezy word, a happy, healthy laugh. And here comes your heart-lifting letter. There is much to be said, and I do not know how to begin. Do you believe that Coolidge will be re-elected ? Please tell me confidentially what you think about this question. I won't breathe it to a soul . Is it true that

Coolidge has freckles on his nose ? You, with your homey, friendly way, have the knack of finding things out. So please, dearest and best friend in all the world, do not keep me in suspense. How I ache for your warm handclasp.

How I pine for your cheery voice.

Write me a long letter, won't you ? Send it special delivery, precious one. Or, if you want to, wire it as a night letter, prepaid .

Do you believe there is any future for these oil-burning heaters ? Tell me frankly what is on your mind and what is in your heart, dearest one. I need your help , and you need mine. The next time you think about me, Little Boy Blue, won't you try to think of someone else ? And if you decide to come down to see the whites of my eyes, won't you try not to ? I blow you a dozen kisses.

i

55

E. Haldeman -Julius

A WORD ON BORES

NE compensation for living in the country is that I do not say a hurried hello and good -bye to people I like. We have enough time to talk a good thing out. Besides, I find it easier to avoid bores in the country than in the city, probably because fewer are available.

New York's bores hedge one in on all sides. There is really no escape. The last time I was in New York I decided to jot down the boresome questions asked me by very boresome people . I am sorry I forgot to do this, for it would have made good reading, I believe.

The most persistent question was this one : How did you get the idea for the Little Blue Books ? Another steady one was : How do you

get the copyrights to such works as Shakespeare's plays ? Another : Can you really make it pay at five cents ? And, of course, let me not forget this one : What in the world made you pick out Girard, Kansas ? I heard those questions so often that I thought at one time I might be driven to a second drink ,

There really is no remedy for a first-class bore. If God made a bore — if he put all of his genius into the job of making of that bore there isn't a thing you or I can do about it. The thing is done — beyond education, culture, wealth, prestige, position. A bore never outgrows his

boredom . Once a bore, always a bore. Am I right ? The best thing to do is to avoid them ; not to attempt the futile task of trying to reform them . There is no alchemy that will change a God-appointed bore into a stimulating, tonic conversationalist. I have

great faith in the powers of education, but my optimism never carries me that far.

I have learned that if I expose myself to six million bores ( I esti mate there are that many in New York ) , the chances are that I will be bored six million times, if I stick around long enough. How much better is it to live outside a community that contains less than three thousand. The chances for being bored are reduced mathematically,

though I admit I am not familiar enough with the science of statistics to know to what extent. I just have a feeling on the subject. Living in the country has its compensations. And not the least is the one that there are fewer bores around. I notice that all local bores.

who have bored me in the past are letting me alone, for even a bore gets tired of boring just one person. A good bore likes to change victims around somewhat, though in a pinch he will be found readyto bore a bored person all over again. The worst bore I know begins each third sentence with : “ Now ,

here's the proposition .” I have heard that word proposition so often that I am ready to scream when I even see it in print, and picking it off on my typewriter almost sends me into hysterics. Proposition ! What a favorite word with the bores !

I ask only one thing of a bore : That he shall let me alone. I don't even want him to subscribe for one of my publications.

The Fun I Get Out of Life

56

" INCREDIBLE ! "

HERE are many bright little things one can do, if only one has the time for them . I find I am not a firebrand socially. I do the simple, or rather, the obvious things, because they save me time and effort. That is why I repeat “ How do you do ?” a nice piece of bunk that saves one the trouble of doing or saying some -

thing original. We cannot all be geniuses. Nor can we all be creators in the art of social life.

The conventional thing is stupid, but it is

economical when one deals with a stupid world.

Which reminds me of one bright and clever fellow who is always thinking up the smart and clever thing — I refer to Harold Ross, the editor of The New Yorker, on whom Marcet and I called when we were in New York recently.

He appeared at the door, broke into a grin, extended both hands and exclaimed : " Incredible ! ”

That was all . But it was enough. It had charm and it fetched us. How superior that was to my trite and stereotyped " Hello ," "How are you ." "Jane well?" E. W. Howe is another man who does the smart and winning

thing, rather than the merely proper thing. I mailed him a copy of my Weekly containly my rather long piece about his visit to our home.* The very next mail brought me his acknowledgment. It was just this : “I am overwhelmed ! ”

How pointed those three words were ; how they got over the right thing ! I know I shall never be able to figure out such a brief and

ringing little note. Mine would go on to say that it was a pleasure to hear from him, that it was good to know he thought so well of me, that I am glad to be worthy of so much praise and that I hope he will

come again. It might have covered a half page, but it never could have got the kick that Howe put into “ I am overwhelmed.” One has to have a great deal of time and an inordinate measure of genius to think up such clever and brief responses and greetings.

The trite and the prosaic are the defensive shields of the unimagina tive ; they express their commonplaceness in conventional phrases and

expressions. The unconventional fellow who says " Incredible !” when I say " Hello" leaves me ashamed of myself. But then , my defense is that I have sold a hundred million good books, that I have written several miles of copy that made me a lot of enemies, and a few friends,

that I live quietly and simply, without grand hurrahs, excitement or strain . I know where I can function and where I am a flivver.

I do not try to excel at the things I know I cannot do well. I sim

ply avoid them. I concentrate on a few jobs and try to do them a little better than anybody else. A few conquests satisfy me; I leave versatility to cleverer and wittier men. It is a good thing for men to learn what they cannot do, and then try not to do them . One can give his time and energy better to the things for which he has something of an aptitude. When I was a boy I used to play the piano fairly well . I realized

one day that I should never be a first -rate pianist, so I quit. I also *Now in Persons and Personalities, Big Blue Book No. B - 19.

E. Haldeman - Julius

57

played the violin , even in good orchestras. But I realized that I could never excel ; there were too many who had a ten-mile start on me ; so,

to my credit, I put the fiddle in hock and then forgot to take it out.

I once took a spasm at lecturing ; I learned quickly that lecturing is a game, a trade that one must study carefully ;that the winners were those who had mastered a bagful of tricks and knew how to put on a

show. I knew I could do it in time, but that it wasn't worth the effort. I could do better work by talking to hundreds of thousands through the

printed word than by chattering glibly to a few hundred. So I got off the platform and left it for those who know, and like, the game. " Incredible !" I lift my topper to that bird . He uttered one word, which gave me the push to sit down at my little machine and write a

a page or so about it. So, in the end, I got even more out of that single word than did Ross. One should study what kind of stuff he can strut - and then strut it. WHY I AM UNPLEASANT AND INSULTING

MAKE no apologies for my unpleasant and often insulting way of writing. It is not my job to soothe and comfort my readers. I write as I think, and any person who does any thinking at all is bound to be unpleasant.

I tread on new toes every week and jump on toes already stamped upon. It is not for me to saysweet nothings. I am writing about actual things that come to my attention, and I write about them in order to get my readers to think. A person who tries to get his readers to think must be honest in his attempt to interpret the life he is living, and one who tries to do that must be unpleasant.

I am not trying to make friends. I do not need any. I want only such persons to read me who want me to be honest with myself and with them .

I have no shady causes to defend, no fancy " isms” to propagate, no " ologies” to exploit. I complain and growl a great deal, because there is a great deal to growl about.

Intellectual freedom means something to me. It is not a pretty phrase, a meaningless toy. It means something to me when I see the

very spirit of liberty crushed in the dust of the road. It means some thing to me when I see all sorts of crazy and ignorant institutions sell ing a whole raft of superstitions and imbecilities. A

I do not invite the friendship of persons who promote these bunk movements. I want them to know that I am their enemy, always ready

to write about their infamy and to make my comments direct and uncom promising

Quacks in the churches, in the universities, the government, the courts, the press, and in the professions can always depend on hearing my honest opinion about them . They have many friends, and they get angry with me, which does not influence me in the least.

When friends of quacks and fakers write me insulting letters tell ing me to stop their subscriptions, I carry out their instructions without batting an eye. I am not writing for them and do not care whether they follow my writings or not.

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The Fun I Get Out of Life

If there were any chance of my putting any decency into them I would be disappointedover their cancelations,but I know that is a hope less task. They cannot be reached by arguments, abuse or humor ; they are making money and reputation out of their quackeries, so we must expect them to go where they have easy pastures.

My job is to talk to those who have brains enough to appreciate

the viewpoint of one who is doing everything within his powers to expose shams and frauds. ANOTHER CANCELED SUBSCRIPTION

READER cancels his subscription to the Haldeman - Julius

A

Weekly with the remark that I exasperate him because I make

writing appear so easy that one itches to try it, to his grief. Surely, my friend, you should not hold this against me. It is a compliment. You are saying, in just so many words, that I write with so little self-consciousness and effort that it is easy for the reader to travel along with me. The reason my readers follow me so easily is

because they know subconsciously that they are listening to me as I sit on my library couch and chatter about every sort of subject that might pop into one's head .

I do not get into a white heat when I sit down to write. Nor do I get the notion that I am making a speech or delivering a funeral oration .

Nor do I pose as one who is sitting down to the mighty task of writing deathless literature. I converse in print - easily, quietly, with many an excursion into side lanes, usually with a smile and a friendly manner .

It takes one quite a while before he can write in a manner that is easy to read. If many of my friends are sent to their typewriters to imitate me, they should not get mad and cancel their subscriptions because the result is stilted and self -conscious. Practice a while - perhaps for twenty years—and you may get the light and easy touch. If the first attempts are not successful do not blame me. If you have created a

hash , blame not me. Let us remember the undying wisdom of the Irishman> who refused hash with the remark : " Let the mon that chewed it ate it ."

MAINLY ABOUT MY FAVORITE SUBJECT-MYSELF LETTER from the editorial department of The Stratford Com pany, of Boston, tells me there is in preparation for early pub lication a book to be known as A History of Contemporary

American Literature, to which many leading American authors are contributing, among others the following: Edith Wharton , Ernest Poole, Edward Bok, Conrad Aiken, Eunice Tietjens, Edward Lucas

White, Hamlin Garland, George Jean Nathan and Zona Gale. The letter tells me that the editors of the book want me to be represented in this History, “ as the History can hardly be complete without an article dealing with your work ."

At first I thought these articles were to be written about the authors to be dealt with in this new History, but I now learn that they are to be

E. Haldeman-Julius

59

written by the authors themselves. The editors take the position that I should tell my own story of my literary development, together with a candid estimate of my own work. “ The reason why we have tried to depart from the general custom of preparing a literary history by an outsider is that nobody can be so well aware of an author's aims, achieve ments and failures, as the author himself," writes the editor.

I am a busy author - one who works hard at the craft, leaving others to do the lecturing and the posing before literary circles. I write a great deal each week, over twenty newspaper columns in my Weekly alone, not counting my special articles for my Monthly and Quarterly, my ad

vertising writing, my editing and all the other chores that a jack-of-all literary -trades must or should do. I write everything but poetry. I write so much because this is one way of making a living and at the same time satisfying one's conceit. We all have delusions of gran deur, and mine is the simple one of writing reams of copy for people who seem to enjoy the show I put on. Writing with me is primarily

showmanship. It is a refined form of exhibitionism . I am telling the truth , and it doesn't hurt me to tell it.

Writing has been my job for twenty years, and as I am thirty-six years old this means I began when I was sixteen , which wasn't too soon. I have written millions and millions of words — mostly ordinary jour nalism , some of it good journalism , and a little of it fair literature. I know when I have written something that is good ; I have been at the

job long enough to know. I know that it is not important that a writer always write literature. If it is his job to talk about the world, about life, about people and things, about the big things and the trifling things

of this absurd process called living, he should be permitted to chatter and patter when he feels like it, leaving the more solid tasks for those rare moments when he is hit by a first-rate inspiration. It is so long since I have felt inspired that I do not seem to remember what it feels like.

When I was a kid , writing made me solemn, sincere and serious; now writing makes melight, sincere and honest. I think this means I have stepped up a little. I have quit trying to save the world, as I did when I was a boy ; now I look at the world — and laugh . I am a spe cialist in human folly - I study man in his most absurd gestures. I prefer the silly gestures to the wise ones. I seek endlessly for new mani

festations of imbecility. I study man's superstitions and try to under stand them , though if I were to live a thousand years I could never get over my sense of bewilderment. I enjoy watching nuts, quacks, char latans, mountebanks, freaks, fakers and bunk-shooters. Man is a funny animal --that is the most important thing I ever learned. Man is a brutal and cruel animal — that is another important fact I put into my tool-kit. Man is a crude little animal who has just

learned that he has a set of brains that might be made to think in some strange, still undiscovered, manner. So, I love to see man, who is not

yet even the beginning of a thinking animal, trying to think. Naturally, he is making a muddle of it, but it is fun watching and listening to him. His notions are amusing. That is why I consider myself a debunker a specialist in foolishness; a specialist who knows that he himself is not without bunk .

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The Fun I Get Out of Life

Being a student of foolishness, I naturally give particular attention to religion, for here is one of the choicest pieces of folly in the museum of man's stupidities. By religion I do not mean some sect that is " off " ;

I mean all of them. I do not mean the false religion ; I mean all reli- . gions, for I consider them all false. So I write a great deal about reli gion - hundreds of columns of my own chosen notions, which I later

collect in book form and send out as a further proof of my exhibitionism . I consider it much more fun to be a knocker than a booster. I am not constructive; I am destructive. That is an act in my show, and I

find it “ goes over.” I do not like constructive people ; they tire me. Boosters are usually liars. They amuse me. As practically all ideas are

notions, and all ideals are nonsense, it is easier and safer to be a destruc tive thinker. One gets more fun out of the job. Besides, all the world pretends it loves the constructive thinker, but it really pays no attention to him because he never puts on a good show. They scold the knocker , but they read him. I am a knocker, and I have many readers. The business of writing does not interest me very much these years. When I was much younger, I used to worry about English, Style, Grammar and all the other tools of the craft. They do not bother me in the least these days. I never think about them. If I am not sure about

the spelling of some word, I do not bother to look it up ; I quickly hit on some other word that I happen to know how to handle. Laws of Grammar do not trouble me. I have forgotten how to parse even a three word sentence. I do not know the difference between an adjective and an adverb, though I used to be somewhat of a stickler about these mat

ters. Writing, to me, means printed talk. I write because I have aa large audience which is always ready to listen to me ; I give them my notions

in conversational English , without the slightest pose about style. Style is important, but it can come better through simplicity and clearness . Conversation is much clearer than perfectly formed sentences, when the conversation is made by one who has something to say, and I believe I have something to say.

I believe it is because I have a lot to say that I have long forgotten

to worry about how to say it. When I was young and callow , I crawled along carefully ; now I know it was because I didn't have a lot in my head. So I fretted and got nervous over my tenses and the other things

that purists turn gray over. When I got to the point where I realizedI had a whole lot to say, I went ahead and talked my little say without

regard to the finer rules of the game. I am a journalist in this, and I do not want to be considered anything else. Better twenty columns of talk about life that reflects the viewpoint

of a man who is trying to think, than one paragraph of perfect English that says nothing. The writer's job is to write ; my job is to put down on paper the thousands of notions that come through this peculiar mech anism we call a brain. I like to see it trying to work outsomething, but I smile at myself when I think I am doing anything besides ridding myself of aa lot of patter.

I am a man of thought, a man of feeling and a man of action. No wonder I fill twenty columns of space in each Weekly. I am the only

and original Three- In -One. Let me talk a moment about the Man of Action. I publish millions of Little Blue Books, and I have an enormous

E. Haldeman -Julius

61

plant that prints them by the hundred thousand each day. This takes

action, organization, management. I enjoy the job. I like every task

connected with it — from buying a carload of paper to reading agalley of proof. I love to write advertisements and circulars, because I like to see them move people into action - making them send me their money, for which I send them very good books - a good trade, the world says.

A circular is a piece of journalism , which is judged by the number of remittances it brings in . I have written thousands of circulars, many of them failures ; but here and there, about one in ten, I hit the reader

in the right place , and that means more customers. That is one form of journalism , and I advise my literary friends not to despise it. A circular is an intruder - no one asked him in - an outcast, a beggar who wants money. Or, a circular is one's game of poker, and I like games of chance. I send my uninvited guests into the world, seeking dollars and dimes, and some come back with the pot. It is

a great game, and it is an honest expression of journalism . I give a little more thought to a circular than I do to an article. This is because I pay for my circulars, while my readers pay for my articles. Some of my circulars amuse me a great deal, so I look on this job as a literary one. My circulars bring me money ; my articles bring me letters, some friendly, others not so friendly. I like both the money and the letters.

This is one sport of the Man of Action . It is a part of my journalism , and I enjoy it. The Man of Action in me makes me enjoy a literary fight. I go out of my way to seek a lively battle. Controversy appeals to me. I like

quarrelsome words, hitting right and left. The American people, I know, are fond of controversy, but American authors, strange to say, have not learned this yet. They like the safe and sane subjects to write about ; they like to satisfy everybody, which means they please no one in a genuine sense. I like an argument - in print ; I like it as much in

print as I hate it in my private life. If a man comes into my library seeking an argument, I scheme out the best way of getting rid of him ; but when he writes me an argumentative letter, I hug it to my bosom. France, England and Germany have had their great controversialistsVoltaire, the greatest of all ; America has gone on a more placid intel lectual journey. The American people do not realize what they have niissed that is to say, consciously, but they know subconsciously that there is a good sport that has been denied them . They like a glorious, hot-spirited argument, and I predict that the future will bring forth

many a controversialist. He will find aa ready audience, if he has some thing to say, is not afraid to say it, and does not bawl when he gets a bloody nose. This country could support a dozen lively controversialists.

I hope this hint will reach some two or three dozen seventeen -year-old is only another way of saying one will make a specialty of human folly

boys, who will decide here and now to become controversialists, which

and write about it freely and honestly. There was a time when words were my toys ; I played with them . Later, words were my children ; I loved them . Today, words are clubs,

with which I fight. Literature is for the artists, and I am not an artist ; journalism is for the fighter, and I am a fighter. I carry many a scar, and I have given a few in return. My face is lined with the saber cuts

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The Fun I Get Out of Life

landed by worthy intellectual foes. Besides, it has been a good show . Being a hard-boiled materialist in this life and an agnostic regard ing the next; being a nihilist in intellectual matters and an atheist in spiritual things, I have reduced my intellectual processes to a few sim ple notions. I respect facts. I like honest thinking. I hate deceivers, hypocrites, apologists, rabble -rousers, vote - getters, bunk -shooters. I like to expose shams. I like to dig into things and extract the hokum , which I wave aloft with shouts of unholy glee. I enjoy fishing out tricks of trades and professions, and then squealing on them . We all have our bag of tricks.

If I were not a man of action I should be writing novels, like the one my wife and I did together, Dust. I have fifty novels in my head at this moment, but I doubt that one will ever be written, because I cannot

separate myself from machinery, journalism, articles, advertisements , controversies, publicity, production problems, and editorial direction of

about thirty men and women whoare writing books for me. I may cut myself loose some day and return to my first love-fiction. As it is, my ,

articles get much of the material that should be going into my novels. Instead of writing 500 words a day on a novel, I hurry through 5,000

words a day - journalistic pieces that I rarely read after they leave my typewriter. " I have a private linotyper who has little to do besides set ting my own writings, which I never read after they get embalmed in type. I am too busy writing new pieces. It is my way. I do not ask the world to reform. I merely ask a part of it to listen to me. I didn't make the world, and I have no desire to usurp God's place in the universe. "If I were God , I believe I might be able to bring about a few improvements, for it seems to me that He bun

gled seriously in many ways. Being apparently inexperienced, He did 11ot tend towards simplicity. Take, for example, the awful mess He

made of the job of reproduction. I could improve on it in a thousand different ways. It is bunglesome, circuitous, wasteful and painful. The

whole apparatus of reproduction is a wild absurdity, an experiment that shows a most inexperienced hand. But I cannot change things, so I take them as they are. And yet, one is a reformer in spite of himself, if

one writes as I do about everything and has notions on every subject tliat ever came up . Without sermonizing, I suggest that this would be a happier world if its extraverts were to control themselves and its introverts were not to try to play the role of the extravert. I tell people of the dangers of standardization, of suppression of speech and thought. I warn them not to take their ballots too seriously and not to look for

improvement through mass action . The reverse of my argument has it that the hope of the world lies in the improvement of each individual --self-improvement, in its best sense, self- education, self -discipline, self

reliance. While there is no way in which the mass can be improved as such, the betterment of each individual will , in the end, result in a civil ized world. That is why I pound on the thought that culture is the hope of the world . In this way, I am a reformer in spite of myself. And I >

can see its effects every day, particularly among the younger people. I usually act on the theory that it is easy for the average person to

learn all of the world's wisdom in a single lifetime — because there is such a small amount of wisdom. This is a world of millions of facts, but

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E. Haldeman -Julius

only a few score really important ideas. I argue that if one were to go to the right sources, one could become familiar with the best and finest

thoughts of all the ages through reading a comparatively small number of books, probably not over a thousand or two. Specialists may garner facts ; I deal in ideas, or perhaps notions. I am culture's bass drummer. I blow a horn and beat a drum to attract attention, and then I lead lots

of people — many of them young - into the world of Shakespeare, Goethe, Voltaire, Emerson, the ancients, the heretics mainly, for I have a con sistent dislike for the orthodox, I am a Freethinker myself, and think

I am right, and so I indirectly suggest that others shall let themselves think as I do. I never put it in so many words, but it works out that way in the end.

I always preach the gospel of this world. I say that this is the most important place in the universe, so far as we go, and our stay here

should be as pleasant as we know how to make it. I never advise any one to seek little in this life, hoping to get his reward of fullness and happiness in the next one. I know nothing about the next, but I do know that there are many ways in which beauty, culture, literature

and material things can help make this life a right pleasant one. So I preach a simple materialism, hinting that it is absurd to make a virtue >

of privation , and suffering, and disappointment, and self-sacrifice. I take the thoroughly anti-Christian stand here, and it usually goes over because mine is the natural feeling of every normal person. Even the Christians hold this doctrine, though they may argue piously to the contrary.

One life at a time. So live this life beautifully, with as little suf fering and pain as one can command. I believe in beautiful homes, magnificent libraries, gorgeous furniture. expensive cars, ease and plenty, and if you cannot get them it means simply that you are out of luck . Do not say they are unimportant, that one should build his

mansions in heaven - we know nothing about heaven or hell — but build your mansions in this world, of bricks and cement. They will crumble into dust, of course, but bricks that have crumbled into dust may be replaced with new ones. We ourselves shall crumble into dust ? True,

and that is aa sad tale which I do not know how to give a different ending. I have no patience with the people who say they do not want much from this life. I want the most I can possibly get. I do not envy Henry

Ford his job, his cars, his mind, his culture, his theory of life. I only envy him his money. Give me Henry Ford's money and I could develop a hundred thousand men full of the wisdom and genius of Voltaire, Paine, Mencken, Havelock Ellis and Goethe rolled into one. I could do

it with the ease of a Wrigley making a hundred million people chew his gum . The same technic and skill that makes people chew Spearmint could be used to make this world a vast Athens, with at least ahundred thousand Platos and Socrates probing life and its engimas. All I lack,

in order to do this job, is Henry Ford's money. I already have the know how. But it is all in vain. Ford's money will go to Edsel, and Edsel's mind is set on having the people do in the air what his father has already made them do on the ground. So I return to my job, which is to think my little thoughts and spread them out on paper, live my life and bid you all a friendly farewell,

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64

TOO SERIOUS ?

NE of my readers writes me that I have been getting to be too serious of late. Perhaps so ; but no one, I am sure, will charge me with having done too much deep thinking this week. Read

today's Weekly and you will admit that I have not been any too serious in writing my pieces. There isn't aa fat article in the entire paper ; I have chattered my way through, and with very little seriousness. I do not want to become serious. One can be sincere without becoming seri ous and solemn. Sometimes I am tempted to get mad, but usually I manage to hold myself back . I don't want to be serious ; and I don't

want to get mad. I want merely to live my own life, write about things as I see them, laugh at the world's absurdities — and have a good time as I go along. I ask little of this world . No riches — except a few cars , a nice home, plenty of comforts, and a sound bed ; the best clothes, the most palatable dishes, plenty of money, and pleasant people around me ;

pretty women, wise men and happy children . No worries, I beg of you ; no ills, no deprivations, no suffering, for I am quite without that Chris tian notion that we should suffer through this life in order to better

appreciate the life to come. I prefer to live generously in this life and take my chances on the next. Give me a lot of good books, a pipeful of tobacco and a box of cigars ; give me good talk and merry laughs; give me health, wealth and understanding, and I care not who is Pope or President. No, save me from seriousness, I beg of you . Let me wrong

no man ; let me take nothing I have not earned ; let me say nothing I do not believe ; let me be honest, not only with the world , but with myself. Let me have my say, dream my dream , laugh and love-today, in this

world—for tomorrow we may go to heaven, where all things are pure and serious .

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS

ISS ANNA KRASHUS of Spring Grove, Minn., sends in the

following list of superstitions :

M

1. Two teaspoons accidentally placed in the same cup or saucer mean that a wedding will soon occur in the family.

2. Getting up on the wrong side of the bed means an unlucky day. 3. If a candle burns blue a ghost is in the house. 4. If you comb your hair in the dark a disappointment is in store for you. 5. A dog baying at night portends sickness or death.

6. If you have a good dream while sleeping in a strange house, it will come true if you tell it before breakfast.

7. If a coffin -shaped piece of coal flies out of a fire toward you, your death is near ; but if the coal is purse -shaped, you will be rich. 8. To see your true love on St. Valentine's Day, you must keep your eyes closed till he comes, for if another man should cross your vision your true love is lost.

9.

A crust'of bread carried in the pocket signifies prosperity.

10. The tip of a calf's tongue also signifies wealth, if carried in the pocket.

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E. Haldeman - Julius

65

11. A baby smiling in its sleep is talking with angels. 12. To yawn while saying your prayers is bad luck - start again.

13. A singing tea -kettle means contentment in the home. 14. A youngman and a girl on a ladder together will surely be married. 15. When a housewife's keys become rusty , someone is saving money for her. 16. Shaking hands across a table means bad luck.

17. Owl's eggs placed in the cup of a drunkard will cure him of the liquor habit.

18. A garden planted on Good Friday always grows well. 19. If a dark -haired man crosses your threshold first on New Year's day, he will bring more luck than a blond ; and a bachelor will bring more luck than a married man .

20. If you drop a dishcloth , company is coming. 21. Money in the pocket at a new moon means none when the moon is full. 22. When you break a shoestring, your sweetheart is thinking of you. 23. A bridesmaid who stumbles on the way to the altar will die before she is married.

24. A storm during a wedding ceremony means a stormy wedded life. 25. To be married in orange is good luck ; to be married in green is bad luck . 26. A cat sneezing on a wedding eve means good luck and happiness.

No. 12 is especially interesting because it contains a superstition within a superstition, prayer being in itself a form of high -toned bunk. Whether all of Miss Krashus' list is representative of the general

run of people I cannot say. Some of them are new to me. They may be used in limited sections ; others may have wider appeal. I do not mean to imply that I believe her compilation of superstitions does not

find ready acceptance in many quarters. Nothing surprises me about the human mind. I have come to the conclusion that it is capable of

believing anything. Some take to certain forms of superstition; others wander around for something else—but all fall for one kind or another.

Only the other day I came upon a piece of superstition in action. Marcet told me about it, and I know her facts are accurate. The cook,

an intelligent Negress, had been having wonderful luck with a number of tough roosters — barnyard nightingales that had been getting hard as nails. I remarked on how soft and tender and juicy they were, and

expressed great surprise when I was told that they were the toughest roosters on the place — roosters that had been passed up as hopeless by former kitchen duchesses. Our new cook was just that much superior, knowing her job well enough to cook a tough rooster into a state of rare tenderness. Such things are important and deserve serious considera tion. An investigation of the facts brought out the innate modesty

and superstition - of the cook. She did not take personal credit for her achievement. Instead, she said , mysteriously : “ There's a secret about it all—there's a secret." Marcet pressed her for her secret, which the cook finally gave up, this way : " I find out how old the rooster is, and then I get a nail for each year, and put them in the pot with the rooster. The rooster gets made tender by cooking with the nails. It always works.”

So there you are. Don't tell me that superstitions are dying out. They are here - thousands and thousands of bunk ideas. In fact, I know not of a single superstition in all history that ever died. It may

change its form slightly, but it persists.

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66

THE INCIDENT OF THE LOVE-SICK MICE AND THE HANGING FLY- SWATTER 1

JAM rather persnickety about my library , in more ways than one. Not only do I pick my books carefully, but I select its furnishings with the care of a dog hunting out some particu larly active flea. My desk had to be just so. Also my couch. My lamps were taken in only after long conferences with effeminate and meticulous sales persons in high-toned stores. I went in for three days of fasting and prayer before I hit on the rug that suited my unwavering eye. The window curtains almost caused three arrests,two murders and seven lynchings, before I got what I wanted. Two building contractors, four cabinet makers and seven members of the carpenters' union held long debates in my library before we figured out what I wanted my built-in bookshelves to look like. The result is that I have everything as I want it, in this room at least. Which is something to be thankful

for in this world ,of disappointments and frustrations. Harold's job is to keep my library in spick and span order. And, discounting several mishaps, he does fairly well. Outside of breaking off the head of a piece of statuary, scratching the white mantel and smashing a lamp shade, he succeeds in keeping the room looking decent.

I might add that he is one of the most capable fly -chasers in this county. Being rather tall, he can give his swatter a back-hand swing and settle for all time the existence of a fly on the ceiling. He can even chase a

lone fly under the couch and there fight him to a decision.

This is

splendid, considering that I have a deep and relentless hatred for flies. I do not like the looks of flies ; I despise their habits, their impudence, their forwardness and their maliciousness. Many a piece of fine copy has been spoiled by a fly. I feel sure that flies have caused me more

mental distress than Bryan, Straton, Billy Sunday, Dr. Crane, Coolidge and Mrs. Eddy rolled into one. Many a sweet thought has been turned into sour skepticism and pessimism through the impertinences of a winged intruder. That is why Harold is important. He swats like a veteran. He is the Babe Ruth of the Haldeman - Julius library. His hits are numerous and well timed, and I bow to his skill with deep and abid ing admiration - except. Ah , , there is an exception. Nothing can be perfect in this most imperfect of worlds.

Harold has a way about him . When he is through with the swatter

he hangs it on one of the bronze handles on the book cases. For days on end I come into my library, and the first thing that hits my eye is that hanging fly swatter. I always grab it quickly and tuck it behind

the couch pillow , or behind a pile of magazines on one of my open shelves. Anywhere, so long as I get the thing out of sight. I have a way of enduring an annoyance a long time, thinking there really is no remedy. I remember how, for months, I tolerated a mouse who kept house under ny oyerstuffed couch . The little rascal had con

structed passageways through my couch, and when I lay on the couch I could hear him scurrying around doing his housework and getting ready for his night's rest. For months I would swat the sides of my couch,

1

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E. Haldeman - Julius

which was my way of telling the unwelcome intruder to be quiet while I read my book. I noticed that a few bangs on the couch would settle the mouse down for a half hour, when he would begin his racket again. Thereupon I banged again. Silence again. This kept up for months, as

I said. And it would have gone on for years, had not the mouse grown to full maturity and decided to go forth to seek him a wife. He brought his bride to the bottom of my couch and introduced her into this newly appointed love-nest.

I could hear the pair of them, which doubled my petulance and

forced me to bang twice as much . This was too much . I set to think ing, but no creative idea popped into my head. The little demons were happy. They had plenty to eat, for Marcet sends up my lunch on a tray,

from which juicy and nourishing morsels and muscle-building crumbs would fall to the rug, only to be grabbed up by Mr. Mouse and his new bride .

Then came the children. Just how many I know not. But there was a nest of them and I pictured what would happen when they grew up into mature and ambitious mice and decided to look around for more wives and raise more families. My habit of banging the side of .

the couch became a mere formality. It really was a mockery. They paid no attention to me, going on with their loving, their roaming and their fighting — until a real , creative idea struck me. Harold went down town and bought two little traps, which he baited with the best cheese

the market could afford . I am sorry I had to break up their new happy home. I hated to deceive them into nibbling that cheese. It was rank betrayal. But it had to be done . Now I lie on my couch and hear

no noises from small and ill-behaved mice. The moral of this is plain. It should serve as a warning and a lesson to the growing generation.

Here is concrete proof that man does not have to suffer all the evils that befall him. There is a remedy somewhere. It may be a little, ten-cent trap. Or it may be a ten-cent swatter. There is relief for all kinds of

suffering, if only we will use Reason , Intelligence, Creativeness. Man's brain , crude and immature in numerous ways, can bring peace and

comfort if only we will learn to use it. It's wonderful what reading and culture will do for a man .

But, there was the fly -swatter hanging from that bronze knob . It stared me in the face. It yelled at me. It taunted my pretended intelli gence. It made a hollow sham of my claims to civilized existence. But, had I not remedied the evil of the mice ? Had I not brought peace and

quiet through a simple investment in a couple of traps ? Surely there must be some way out. I thought, and thought. I concentrated. At last !

Another creative idea ! I rang the bell, and Harold came in. Controlling myself, pitching my voice in its middle register, with a slight tremolo, calmly, equably, almost graciously, I pointed to the hanging swatter and pronounced these immortal words :

“Harold, I ask you to gaze upon this fly swatter. Observe it care fully. It hangs here at this moment in open view of the populace. Mark you, Harold . I do not belittle this low and humble implement. It is really a blessing to humanity. It serves a most useful purpose. One could not well go through life without it. I respect it, from the depths of my heart. But gaze upon it, my lad. It lacks the beauty of yon piece

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68

of Italian statuary. It is void of color and form. It cannot boast of its

design and symmetry, as can this Persian rug. It pales into insignificance when one places it alongside that etching over there. The ivory pieces on my desk are a joy to the eye, but this swatter, with all its usefulness,

cannot be said to serve any esthetic purpose. It is utilitarian , and all your will power and determination cannot change its nature. I ask you, my dear lad, to recognize these plain facts and hereafter place this imple ment of destruction in obscure and unfrequented places." To which Harold nodded his head slowly and solemnly. It seemed

that my words were sinking home. Somewhere, somehow , my revolu tionary and iconoclastic ideas were taking root. Harold was beginning to see the light. His face brightened, and he explained : " I always put it there because it was so handy when I wanted it. But I'll see to it that it goes behind the pillows, as you ask . ”

And the problem was solved. Thus, my children, have we further evidence that it is folly to imagine that man was born to suffer. There is a remedy for all our troubles, if only we will learn to use our intel lectual faculties. Having delivered my messageof hope and inspiration to a humanity that hungers for light and uplift, I now turn to other things. MISCELLANEOUS MEANDERINGS ON A VERY HOT SUMMER DAY

IROM the living room comes the tinkling of a piano, and it has

small regard for the rather thick walls of my philosopher's studio, which is my fancy way of speaking about my library

here on the second floor of our farm home. Who the pianist is I know not ; it sounds like a girl.

Both artist and instrument are

poor ---very much so. The piano is an old, old Steinway grand - majes tic looking, but with worn and rickety insides. It once belonged to Mar

cet's father --many years ago — and he was a good musician, I am told again and again. This concert instrument looks good and sounds awful.

I wonder whether it would have got on Schopenhauer's nerves, as did the butcher's cart rattling in the stony street. ( I am not sure if it was a butcher's cart, or a load of fertilizer, or what, but I know it was

not a Ford, although the latter would sufficiently have explained the old philosopher's outburst.) Somehow the sound of this piano turns on the throttle of my mental engine, and, to vary the metaphor as freely

as Shakespeare worked the same trick, it starts the wheels going round inside my head . My thoughts may travel in a circle, ending where they began , but it will be a zigzag circle, a lawless circle, a perfectly

astounding circle. ( And do I have to prove that Shakespeare mixed hiš metaphors? Happily, a good example occurs to me at once. It is from Hamlet's well known and affecting soliloquy.

To reduce the

blank verse arrangement to apparently artless prose, it runs thus : “ To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms

against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them .” ) As I said , my thoughts will wind up at the point where they were first wound up.

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That is to say, I shall certainly end with some remark about the hot weather. It is a hot day, as everyone I have met today has remarked to me with a tone of conviction, with a positive and profound air, worthy of аa. better cause. That I recognize the heat in this frank manner shows that I am an honest philosopher, a philosopher of plain life, without any humbug of high detachment. Some philosophers would pretend to

ignore the heat, and to count it of absolutely no importance, affecting to be lost in the consideration of whether ideas have their source in the infinite or the infinitesimal. Let me digress, and say that I prefer the latter theory. Ideas arise in the infinitesimal, for they are generally

so imperceptible, and even more generally so inconsequential. How is that for hard -and - fast reasoning on a hot day ?

But as for me, I recognize that the little things of life have a great determining influence on my philosophy. They determine my state

of bodily comfort or discomfort, which in turn decides my mood, which in turn shunts my mind off in a certain direction , which in turn colors

for the moment my entire outlook on life. No man can think the same of the universe on a day when he has to strip to his underclothes and sit in a circle of electric fans, as he thinks on a day when the tempera ture is below freezing. Trifles, seemingly small incidents, casual cir

cumstances, the ordinary details of living — all these should go into the pot of philosophy if a man wants to think to some purpose, The chief business of the philosopher is to study the ways of this queer animal

called man, and how can he stick properly to his business if his head is Himalaya-like in the clouds or he is meditating opaquely on Nirvana in a dark room ? In my view of the importance of trifles, I have the best minds with me. From Socrates, through Schopenhauer, down to Samuel Butler, and George Jean Nathan , and Will Rogers, the most vital thinkers have hit the homely trails of thought right from their

own doorsteps and have sought the matter of philosophy in the life around them . Socrates didn't content himself with the abstract inquiry of whether ethical ideas are innate or acquired . He asked whether

it was ever a man's patriotic duty to lie abed late. And Schopenhauer, eyeing the kitchen wench who served him , and getting his ear full of the gossip in the neighborhood, and investigating the circumstances of the seduction of the chambermaid by the hired man , wrote about women . Samuel Butler, looking very thoughtfully at the drawers and things on a neighbor's clothesline, had whimsical and searching biological thoughts. And so it goes—from little to big, and back to little .... making little ones out of big ones, and vice versa.

Reverting to the piano, and even more curiously to the pianist, I think of how all things have their extremes. It seems to me ( agnostic that I am, I am getting cautious ) that there is a wide difference between a piece by Beethoven and such a lunch-counter lyric as " A Cup of Coffee, a Sandwich and You ." ( This is a base and vulgar plagiarism of "

good old Omar. How much better is a jug of wine than a cup of coffee -yes, more to be preferred practically, and more poetic, too. A loaf of bread is at once more simple, more finely symbolic and more sacredly associated with the long past of mankind , than a sandwich, whether ham, cheese, or salad .

And contentment in the wilderness is a much better

image than satisfaction in an automat during the lunch hour. This

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The Fun I Gei Out of Life

descent from the leisurely poétic banquet of old Omar to a bite hastily snatched between kisses only goes to show the ruinous effect of Prohibi tion upon art. Obviously, a cup of coffee can inspire nothing better than itself . )

This ends the music lesson, without the discovery of a new musical

theory. But I am still interested in the pianist. Is she ( I take the gender for granted ) uplifted spiritually, and tickled into fine flights of the imagination, by this rattley, thumpy thing she is playing ? Does the coffee- sandwich stuff reach to the depth of her soul , as a sonnet by

Keats or an aria from “ Carmen ” would reach to the depths of some other soul, and does it represent fully and profoundly to her all the wonder of love ? Perhaps one mind is stirred , by the thing that corre sponds to its taste, as deeply as another mind by something more subtle

or splendid. Or suppose we say that every mind is stirred to its depths by whatever appeals to it, only some minds are deeper than others. That will do. This girl at the piano has a very shallow mind, and the hashhouse ditty hits the bottom with her.. Speaking of sandwiches, George Jean Nathan , in a recent number of the American Mercury edifies us with a long list of sandwiches of every known variety, odor, color and price. Has Nathan eaten a sample

of each sandwich in the list ? But that is not the question. If this list is intended to serve as a guide to the sandwich- eater, and to clear up

the maze of sandwiches in modern life, I believe it fails in its purpose. Rather it confuses the issue.

One is bewildered, and the hitherto com

paratively simple task of selecting a sandwich becomes a chore of chal

lenging and staggering size. In the past, I have had little trouble choos ing between a ham anda cheese sandwich, occasionally varied by a more ambitious club sandwich, or that deceptive creation known as a western

sandwich ( ground ham and eggs ) , probably because it was invented by Kit Carson . But now what shall I do when in the rush of a spell

of wild city life I pause just long enough to gobble a sandwich ? It will be simpler to order an elaborate meal, with a lot of esoterically named foreign dishes, at the swellest hotel in town. I fear that Nathan has taken the joy out of sandwiches for me. I don't wish to be misunderstood about coffee.

It is a delicious

exhilarating drink, and there is nothing better to swing the cosmos

around into the right place in the sleepily solenın hour of breakfast. But coffee, for all its attractiveness and even its dignity, has never at

tained the poetic significance that is attached to wine. Maybe it is the dignity of coffee that puts it lower than the lyric and abandoned glory of wine. Or maybe it is that the coffee bean is not so lovely as the grape — that the humble origin of coffee follows it to the last, while

wine, coming from the beautiful purple grapes that grow on the rich lovely vines that cover the scenic hillsides and valleys, is born to beauty and a charm that's deathless. Perhaps, again , wine has such a longer, indeed immemorial hold on the fancy of mankind that coffee simply

cannot compete at this late day. Before setting down the coffee pot, however, I would like to inquire why tea is considered to be at once more polite and more poetic than coffee. Tea actually vies with wine as a poetic image : a little lower, to be sure, more in the region of belles lettres and vers de socicté than of high poetry. But why does the tea

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71

pot look down on the coffee pot ? There is a question that will supply my readers with food ( or drink ) for thought during the next half hour that is, during the next half hour after they have finished reading this piece.

Food for thought .... The phrase is an odd and yet a suggestive Here we are back again to the notion that thought is a very homely business. The mind is a sort of sublimated stomach, churning ideas in one .

the juices of reflection. And the thinker, or the writer, who caters to

a certain point of view or to certain prejudices is indeed a “ caterer.” This suggests, by the way, some new descriptive matter about the great thinkers. For example, what would we call Schopenhauer's thoughts but a fare of highly spiced food, which is very stimulating but some times disagrees with the digestion : food for strong stomachs only . Lord Bacon would be ham and eggs — a very solid and satisfying old philoso pher. Socrates would suggest a city market, with a truly bewildering variety of food - anything you want , and sometimes a little difficulty in finding your way about. Fellows like Kant and Spinoza would call to mind something a bit thick, like mush-hard, solid mush that has

been left over from the night before : something, too, that symbolizes a philosophic abstracted state of mind that is indifferent to the esoteric demands of appetite. A quiet and refreshingly meditative gentleman like. Montaigne would remind us of a garden of fresh vegetables, so simple, so appetizing, and so various. Some of the Philosophers who have built Systemsmight be labeled “ canned goods.” Pascal would be very thin soup. Rousseau would be nutloaves, peanut butter sand wiches and fruit juices—a regular " Nature- cure” diet. Voltaire would be everything from soup to nuts, stimulating every tastebud of the in .

tellectual palate.

Samuel Butler, who had such a mixture of ideas

and all of a strange consistency of flavor, would be chop suey. Remy de Gourmont would be caviar, artichokes and alligator pears. Samuel

Johnson would be roast beef well-covered with the ghostly-white gravy of superstition. Swedenborg would be three-day-old hash. Windy, tortuous and pasty -minded Mother Eddy would be noodles. The long list of divines would be, some of them dill pickles, some of them sand wiches made solely out of stockyards atmosphere.

No man, however strong-minded and however eagerly he may be in pursuitof an interesting train of thought, can tempt himself too far. With all this talk of food, even on such a high remote plane of analogy, what must I do but stop right in the middle of this lucubration and eat

lunch ? It was a pretty full lunch too, I tell you, and it has taught me something more on this day of wide-awake, many-sided learning. Or perhaps I should say it has reminded me of a truth that has for long been known to me, and undoubtedly will not come as a surprise to my readers. This truth, or just plain ordinary fact, is that the mind doesn't work very brilliantly on a full stomach. Immediately after a man has taken in a liberal quantity of cold ham, cogitation is a sluggish and un satisfactory - well, a distressing — business. Iced tea, with too much

sugar, clogs up and congeals the flow of thought. It is very simple : the blood goesto the stomach to digest the food, and there is not enough of that bright energetic fluid in the head to take care of the thought processes. Of course, if you push yourself too far, you can think a

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little but not very well, and the consequence will be a nice dark -brown case of indigestion. One must choose between digestion and reflec tion. A practical philosopher will not hesitate.

However, if a man cannot think on a full stomach , he can feel

quite expansively and satisfactorily . His feelings will not, of course, be such as are the stuff of great poetry and music. They will be com fortable, complacent, egotistic feelings. A man at such times pats him self on the back and takes off his hat to the world — the world is not

such a bad place and he is not such a bad fellow , as worlds and fellows go, by and large and around and short. So, reduced to a state of >

thoughtlessness by the necessities of my animal nature, I surrender

myself to the simplest emotions. I even doubt whether they should be dignified by the term emotions. After all, I am merely in a state of swinish, selfish well-being. Anyway, I do say that, with the light breeze that has just sprung

up to mitigate the erstwhile monotonous heat, this is a pretty good world. It is not a very big world, to be sure, when you compare it

with other worlds ; but perhaps there are advantages in this—being smaller, it is less conspicuous and probably with all our calamities and complaints, we do not attract nearly so big a share of the divine wrath as the more considerable and cockier planets . Not only is this a good world, in a general way, but Nature is not so bad. The old dame has some clever tricks up her sleeve. She has struggled along persistently and resourcefully for millions and millions of years . Nature has had a big job - yes, a million big jobs — and she has managed to do them all , if not in the best fashion, at least in possible fashion. Why complain about something that works ? Nature works.

Nature is working in me

at this moment, and that's why I feel this way about it. Did Nature make the fool ? Well, she also made the wise man to laugh at the fool .

But no, I am wrong ! ( This is the first time I have been wrong in all this long winding trail of thought, and we have turned some treacherous Wise men do not laugh at fools. They pity or ignore them.

They think perhaps that they are foolish too. But I am getting thoughtful, and I feel the gastric juices slowing down. As Don Quixote said , this will never do. What was I thinking --no, feeling - about? Oh , about this world.

And about myself, for

I am a little world all to myself. Ask Emerson. I am glad that I am alive and healthy and debunked . I am glad that I can feel good, just as I feel good now, without going beyond the sound realities of life

and ingurgitating a lot of bunk . I am glad that the color and stir of life can arouse my enthusiasm without upsetting my intellect.

I am

glad that I can see the humor of life and that, with enough motive power of egotism, still I do not take myself nor anyone else nor life as a whole too seriously. I am glad that little things do not annoy me too much, and that big things do not perplex me too much . I am glad that I can swear at life and still enjoy it, that I can abuse man and his works and still admire them as compared with the lizard and his achievements, that I can realize the doubtful and incomplete nature of

all thought and still enjoy the pleasure of sound, careful, and albeit lively thinking. I am glad — but I am beginning to sound like Polly

I

E. Haldeman -Julius

73

anna, the Glad Girl. I am ashamed of myself. I ate too much for lunch . That extra slice of ham ! It reduced me to maudlin gibbering. Well, I meant - or mean - most of it. But this is a rotten world, even so . And why ? Because it is such a hot day. There : I told you I would end where I started. ON DIFFICULTIES OF WRITING

FIND it is hard for me to write this morning. Why ? It is easy to say that my mind refuses to function. But that does not explain, and it is such a simple, albeit specious, reason that,

if I let the matter drop here, I should have nothing to write about and the difficulty, even if we grant it to have been explained, would have been all the more confirmed and unremoved .

There may

be some help in thinking about ( or, I should say, in glancing at ) one or two things about which I could write if I were more profoundly and extensively interested in them at the moment . The fact is that my mind

is certainly not lazy just now - certainly it is not blank or inactive — but it will not stop at any particular place for long and dig in like a good worker.

There is a fly buzzing most insultingly in front of my nose. It occurs to me what an enemy of man is the fly, but I do not feel like going into the question of insect life as a menace to human life . I could no doubt produce some very meditative and irreligious stuff about it

( at another time ) , although I could not break any scientific records. I will take occasion to say here that yesterday was the first time I ever had the slightest respect for a fly.

Happening to observe a fly of

seemingly very modest parts and dimensions carrying along my window sill an ant full- grown and larger than himself, I thought what a powerful thing that little fly was. I respect power, even in an enemy. From Nietzschean rather than Christian considerations, I refrained from

killing that particular fly. ( Not only is my mind working jumpily, and making it hard for me to write, but it is working most erroneously, and in revenge for being thus pushed and put upon, is making me write the wrong thing. It made me write that the fly was conveying the ant to its lair, when being at least a quasi- or amateur scientist and having

a good memory, I should have written that the fly was prisoner of the ant. Ants, of course, have always been worthy of some respect. They

are rather foolishly busy, though, and for what purpose ? The scientist can tell us immediately, but the preacher cannot tell us ultimately. They have a mechanical civilization, have ants. Ants are Babbitts.) But alas, my mind will not stay on flies. It buzzes insect-wise. But

it does keep going, thank old Jupiter, and as I look at the shelves of books in front of me I am reminded that Sinclair Lewis is of the opinion

that writers perform best when in the smallest possible shut-off space with nothing in front of them but aa blank wall. What that opinion signi fies, of course, is that Lewis writes better under such conditions.

Now

I don't believe I am the least bit dependent, as a writer, upon my im mediate surroundings. Take this within reason, however : admittedly

I could not write very well in a glue factory nor a slaughter pen nor, to jump at another extreme, set unnaturally between two rowsof flowers

The Fun I Get Out of Lif

74

in a hothouse. It seems to me, nevertheless, that books in front of me would aid rather than hinder my literary efforts. Literature draws a good deal from literature as well as from life. One is inspired by the

example of others - indeed, let us say that one is shamed. "If all those writers could write those hefty, high-minded books, why cannot Imanage the writing of a comparatively short article, editorial, essay, thesis or

whatever you wish to call it ? To be sure, Lewis was speaking of the writing of novels, and it is reasonable to suppose that the novelist

can write best when there is nothing to intrude upon his vision of the story .

Happily, speaking of books reminds me that the other morning I awoke at five o'clock, not because I had turned in immorally early nor because I had dreamed in a complicated Freudian manner about the

dish that I broke when I was three years old — but simply because I had slept enough. If that is not a scientific explanation, you will have to let your curiosity do its worst. The point is that I reached, in a lazy early morning gesture for a book from a nearby shelf, and the book

happened to be Untimely Papers, by Randolph Bourne. “Twilight of Idols” was the essay at which I accidentally opened the book, and I read the essay through without a pause or fatigue. What better praise can be given a writer than to say that he can be read at five o'clock in the morning ?

This is the essay in which Bourne punctured the pretenses of the

pragmatists — John Dewey and company-and showed that this philos ophy had been inflated beyond its natural, true limits. He gently but

effectually hit the pragmatic liberals right between the eyes, showing that the weak point in their philosophy was that it tended to become mechanical and opportunistic and to take on too much the color of the current policies and principles. Those philosophers ( especially in that confused wartime of which Bourne wrote ) fatuously thought that they

could liberalize and intellectualize the war-mad world by accepting its madness. They lost sight of ends in the consideration of means. They dropped such values as they had, or pretended to have had, and then began to talk nonsense aboutthe pragmatic search for values. Finely, and logically too, Bourne stressed the importance of values. He discovered that pragmatism — the so -called philosophy of practical thinking - veered too much toward the American -Rotarian view of life ; and that a prag

matist might well turn out to be one who believed in letting well enough alone, swimming with the current, and making ( as he would say ) the best of the dominant values of the leading citizens, warmakers, politi cians and editorial writers. Assuming to be a realistic mode of thinking, accepting as true " in so far forth" whatever works, pragmatism over looked the vital question of what a situation or an idea works toward. The war worked - it was terribly efficient from the viewpoint of war but it worked toward hell and madness and the destruction of good, civilized values.

A fine, thorough job Bourne did in debunking pragmatism , which is really a gospel of optimism and mechanical efficiency. I think that

when my mind is in better functioning shape, and I have got past this present difficulty of writing, I shall write a good long essay on Randolph Bourne. He represented soundly and yet splendidly the newer, intelli

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E. Haldeman - Julius

gent, free-minded, creative American. Randolph Bourne was a first - rate

writer. What an admirable, clear and solid style he had ! I wonder if writing ever seemed a hard job to him ? Probably it did. The easiest style often means the very hardest writing. A clearly thought essay did not, you may believe, spring with beauty spontaneity and perfec tion into the writer's mind .

Do my readers appreciate what a difficult job writing is ? One is too much inclined to regard the other fellow's job as a sinecure. One is something like the workingman's wife in a cartoon by Art Young. The old man has just dragged himself in from his day's work, and is impatient that supper is not ready. And the wife exclaims: " Here I've

been standing over a hot stove all day, while you've been working in a nice cool" sewer !" Yes, that's the way of it. hard . We work under difficulties. The other sewer job. As for myself, I'd like to go to the where east of Suez as a sailor man, or have the

We sweat. We work fellow has the pleasant harvest, ship for some soft job of a brakeman

who has little to do but walk over the tops of the cars. Anything would be grateful in comparison with that hardest of jobs, putting one little word after another. And it being a hard job, why not quit ? So I shall. PAPER CLIPS AND PIPE CLEANERS

ERE comes another young hobo — Martin Sothern, 21 years old, who attends the State University at Knoxville, Tenn. He sends

in the usual form , which Pete hands out so grandly at the door, and under the words “ Nature of call ” he writes in a good

hand “ ( 1) Repay the visit you gave my State last July to conditions at the University of Tennessee.

( 2 ) In regard

I think I can give you

some interesting information . I am a student, vagabond, philosopher, and writer of sorts."

"Very good. I'll be glad to see him .” And inhe came - good- sized, husky, intelligent fellow, with a heavy army pack on his shoulders, corduroy knickers, long woolen stockings, blanket and the other trappings of our growing legion of " hitch hikers.'

It always gives me pleasure to see my readers, especially the young students .

I have never refused to see one thus far .

These students

please me. They always give me plenty to think about, and time spen with them is never wasted. Besides , they never try to sell me anything.

I hate, loathe and despise salesmen. I consider their visits nothing more than gross intrusions, thefts of my time. I take the position that if I feel I need to make purchases of some sort, I have sense enough to go shopping at the right time. I do not want my shopping brought to my home or office.

I resent their impudence and make it a point to turn

them down consistently. Pete, in truth, does a great deal for me in keeping these pests away. But these students—ah, there is something altogether different, and Pete knows, as does everyone else in the office or at home, that I am always ready for a confab, no matter how op

pressed I may be with editorial jobs. But I did not intend to get into an argument about salesmanship

when I sat down to write this piece. Nor do I mean to relate what we talked about, though it was most interesting. He told me much that

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The Fun I Get Out of Life

amused me - particularly about the faculty of his university. What I wanted to tell about was this : I was in my new office, at my desk,

with Martin in a chair close by. I was smoking my pipe, and so was Martin smoking - a big wooden pipe that held a lot of tobacco . He looked toward the top of my desk and noticed something that made his face light up and break into a huge smile. “ I see you have the same trick I have,” he laughed. " And what may that be ?" I asked, somewhat puzzled. " There ," and he pointed a sun-browned finger at a paper clip that

had been opened out so that it became a thing of wire of about five inches in length. “You use paper clips for pipe cleaners, the way ΙI do. I carry them around with me, for they are useful . See," and he showed me one that he had taken from his shirt pocket.

My face brightened, until my grin was almost as broad as Martin's. I laughed , and he laughed.

“So you're another one who uses paper clips as pipe cleaners,” he repeated . “What do you think of that ?” Here we had been talking about Tennessee's educational rolling mill, about professional stupidity , about writing, journalism , philosophy,

poetry , agnosticism. We both talked a language we understood, and I appreciated the experience, but nothing, so far, had happened to bring

us close together - nothing, until he discovered my paper clips that served as pipe cleaners.

" By the way,” said I, changing the subject. “ You will be able to stay for lunch, won't you ?"

He wanted to, but seemed reluctant, because of his timidity and his fear that he might be aa bother. But I insisted, and, as I had some pieces to write, I sent him trudging down the street, out to the farm . He

stayed for lunch, told us about his bumming experiences — he goes on the road every vacation, and this is his fourth year at it — and he let us into many of his hobo secrets. Later in the afternoon I saw him and

Josephine, both mounted on horses, passing by my office window. They waved at me. He stayed for dinner. He occupied a room off my library

that night. He joined us at breakfast the next morning. And left some hours later .

The paper clips didn't do all of it, of course. He was the right sort to begin with. But the clips helped a whole lot.

Philosophers must stop to clean their pipes. And it is important to know how we go about the job. Anyone can go to a store and buy a bundle of fuzzy cleaners, at five cents a bunch. But it isn't everyone who uses paper clips. And when two philosophers use the same kind of cleaners, they are drawn closer, despite the fact that one is a hobo

of the great world, while the other is a slave of authorship, editing and publishing. PICTURES AND FABLES

RDINARILY one would say that pictures are proof to the average man. We have been told that this is the reason for the large circulation of the tabloid picture papers. People reached the point of doubting what they read, but if they could see

photographs of events, belief would be natural and easy. Perhaps many are impressed with the truthfulness to life of movies that would

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not so impress them as printed romances. And this may be true of illustrated Bibles as an aid to faith .

When the reader gazes upon an

actual picture of Jesus, floating up to heaven, how can he hesitate to believe ? He may not assure himself in so many words that this is a photograph of the miraculous ascension, but it does have something of

that convincing effect upon him. A picture of the celebrated conver sation of Adam and Eve and the serpent probably lends, to Bible readers, an air of realism to the Garden of Eden myth. A well-done likeness of God talking to Moses on Mount Sinai would perhaps stagger any but a pretty strong incredulity . But this idea does not work out so simply in all cases. Illustrations may unsettle faith . Now I know that this is true, since I have read, in

Herman Melville's Moby Dick, of the sailor who was made a skeptic regarding the yarn of Jonah and the whale. He had an illustrated Bible, which contained a clear picture of the whale that gulped down the hap less Jonah. I don't know whether it showed the big fish in the act of swallowing the old prophet of calamity, or whether it showed an X -ray

of Jonah reposing in the animal's belly. However, the old sailor lost his faith in the story the minute he took a squint at the picture. It was not the right kind of a whale ; but was one of a rare species that had a

throat of mean capacity, so that the sailor men had a saying that " a but ton would choke him . ” The sailor knew that kind of whale couldn't

possibly have begun to swallow Jonah, but would have gagged on his little finger. And here was his Bible trying to make him believe that such a whale, and no other, was protagonist in that very ancient sea tale. Then and there he became an infidel on that specific point. He had it easier than many infidels, for it was no struggle to rid himself

of that story. Yet if the old sailor had never seen the picture, had never gone beyond reading the story, he would doubtless have believed it all his life .

The moral of this is that when you want to lie, beware of being too specific. One wonders, though, what the sailor would have thought had he got hold of a different Bible, illustrated with another kind of whale . He may have said , “ Now , that's more like it ! That's a whale of a different color.

That whale I believe." MORALS , ART AND GOD

WESTERN paper complains against the spread in America of liberal literature : and seemingly the very classics are suspected,

as being not quite moral. The offender is nameless, but I believe I can identify him in the first person singular. It is I who am guilty of what is called " a political effort along this literary and publication line. . . . to break down society .”

Isn't this logic

wonderful ? I am trying to "break down society ” because I am getting America to read and think and cultivate a hospitality for viewpoints.

Weak minds always think society will go smash when their own opinions are challenged. Other crimes are laid at my door.

Thus : “ In certain quarters it

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has become fashionable to scoff at American morality and its classics in art which are based on the older American standards.”

Is that clear ?

Not quite. What is American morality ? Is it the morality of yester

day ? or the morality of today ? or, perhaps, the morality of tomorrow ? Where is American morality ? It has seemed to me that one can find. currently practiced in these States, almost every kind and degree of morality. What a ridiculous phrase! As if Americans,, one and all ,,

should hold certain moral notions and practice certain moral atttitudes. They will go on , I believe, varying a good deal in their morality as they vary in thought, temperament and temptation. It is a serious accusation - yes, one that makes me blush or blanch

(either will do ) —that I have been among those who scoffed at American “ classics in art which are based on the older American standards.” What

were " the older American standards" ? They were standards borrowed from the literature of England : from the tame, polite, innocuous litera

ture of England, not from its lustier literature. The brilliant exceptions were those who were in some sort radical or artistically alien figures Emerson, Thoreau Whitman, Poe. The Bryants, the Lowells, the Long fellows, the Irvings were imitators, to be sure. I must say in my own behalf that I have been fair enough to include American classics among the Little Blue Books.

Yet I admit, shamelessly, that I am just mean

enough to think that Shelley was a better poet than Longfellow , Hazlitt

a better critic than Lowell , and Montaigne a better essayist than Irving. More are my sins. At the head of the list is my character as an ag nostic. The daringly conventional and trite thinker who now stands within the range of my editorial guns, corrugates his classic brow and

bravely says: " Agnosticism is youth's disease, like measles and whoop ing-cough . It must be allowed to run its course, perhaps under care ful surveillance or guidance. At times it may be needful to quarantine it for its contagiousness." Yes, it is true that there are youths who

somehow will question the heavy, opaque assumptions of those who claim to know what was in the beginning ( if there was a beginning ) and what will be in the end ( if there is to be an end ) of the world and life. This is to say that youths sometimes do think for themselves.

Occasionally they will sneak away from parents and preachers and teachers and do a little thinking on their own account. Sometimes this thinking takes a turn different from what is regarded as the typical arrogance of youth , and the young man admits that he does not know the unknowable. Youth is unfortunate — blamed when it pretends to

knowledge, and blamed when it refrains from too great an expression of all-knowingness.

Agnosticism is not, of course, a " youthful disease," but it is a pretty good sign that one has not a petrified and stratified mind.

The

'surveillance" and " quarantine” of agnosticism , which would no doubt be vigorously practiced by my critic, shows how very generous he is. He would guard us from learning to know less about the infinite mys teries than he knows .

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79

THEODORE DREISER

Y children, we cannot solve the problems of this world - really

M

we cannot, we must not try - and so let us stroll through a

world which is imaginary but in which all the scenery and the situations and the characters are completely open to our view.

Regarding all this, the moving finger has writ, and there's an end on't. We have a somewhat similar advantage to that which supposedly be longs to the Recording Angel, in that we can see every deed — every

emotion, every motive. Fortunately, too, we can be very free in our choice. We can enter the world of imagination at any gate. There is

a big splendid gate marked " Shakespeare," and many are the travelers who have passed that way, but we do not have to enter' it. And the “ Dickens ” gate we can pass by, and no man will denounce us. Names and names there are-Hugo, Scott, Balzac, Fielding, Turgenev - but, attractive as they are, we for the nonce, and appreciatively, ignore them. We stop instead at a lately built gate — the “ Dreiser” gate.

In one way of looking at it, there is nothing more to be said about Dreiser. Mencken has said it all, in his Book of Prefaces. There we have Dreiser hymned, summarized and analyzed, the man and his books made a-b-c to us — or rather, with all the clearness of that consummate essay, we are made to understand that Dreiser is not an abecedarian. Yet there is always an excuse for individual testimony. And no body can stop me from printing this, and nobody can stop you from

reading it. In my own behalf I can say that I write from genuine interest and appreciation, and that, in itself, will perhaps, in most cases, raise an attitude finely to compare.

It has been some years since I read the Dreiser novels. I do not refer to An American Tragedy, at which so far I have only glanced.

That glance seems to place it as typically and fascinatingly in the well known style of Dreiser. Now do not catch me up on that word " style. ” I have read before, many and many the time, that the trouble with Mr.

Dreiser is that he has no style. This I will say — if I want style, I can easily get it. I can go to Hazlitt, to DeQuincey, to Macaulay, to Stevenson, to Flaubert - and I can revel in style , and in very good reading matter too. · Being so well served in the way of style, I can afford to forego it when I come to Dreiser. And, anyway, I fear

I could not help myself, for the minute I get half a dozen pages into a Dreiser novel I find myself completely oblivious of style, with a mind charmed by the deep reality of character. The story's the thing, and if 'tis a great and moving story, one thinks little of the terms in which it is told - of the terms of language, that is, for of course the terms of analysis and viewpoint are everything. They make —- these terms - a

good part'of the strength of Dreiser. He not only feels a character, but he understands it, sympathizes with it, sees it almost one might say as it sees itself, and abjures all facile labels of " hero " and " villain .”

So Šo far

as mere words, the Dreiser method is the next thing to perfect. The story is developed naturally ; every circumstance convinces ; there is a perfectly just weighing of character ; there is no false or strained con

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struction, and no prejudiced misuse of a single character ; everything fairly in proportion.

Cast your eye, for example, upon the older brother of Lester Kane in Jennie Gerhardt. There is aa colorless, proper, bookkeeping individual, a man who is virtually without emotions, and who, one would say, has about as much personality as a cash register. Nowhere in the story does

he perform any great, significant, or exciting action. He is simply there, that is all, and it is the genius of Dreiser that he is all there, We are made to realize the heart and very self of this man ; although he is the kind of man that in real life we should not like, we are never

theless persuaded to sympathize with him ; we see the kind of man he

is, understand that he could not act in any other way, and actually are brought to view affairs from his point of view as well as from that of the more gay, cultured and irresponsible Lester. Now this I take to be

proof of particular achievement — that a novelist can wave his wand

over a dull, unspecial character and make it live and win our sympathy, our comprehension, our insight into this tame mediocre point of view . What a book alive in characters ! Truly there is no character that has any considerable part in the story but what lives and moves and

has his or her being most convincingly. There is old man Gerhardt what a real, rough-hewn, profoundly comprehended and completely revealed character is he. This old man is as true as Nature . He is like

some natural object in the landscape. His sickly Catholicism , his com plaints of life and yet in the long run his pathetic resignation, his intol erance toward ķis daughter Jennie , and finally his enforced helpless toleration of her conduct, his pottering around in his old age, his love ( in spite of his religious morality ) for Jennie's illegitimate girl-all this is made as real to us, far more deeply seen and felt, as the man next door. Pa Gerhardt is a man who lived, no doubt of it. And he will live for long in this Dreiser novel . Turn to the main characters, and you see something tremendous, on the scale of Balzac, on the scale of acknowledged masters. Jennie is the very apotheosis of the weak-strong character who makes life serve

her by yielding to it. Her very heartbeats animate the pages. The story of her love-life with Lester Kane is one of the greatest ever written,

because of its rare profound sympathy, its fidelity to Nature, its entire absence of ordinary morality and pointing of the admonitory or explana tory finger, its complete realization of an individual life that, no matter what, did live. Her feelings at Lester's death - the death of that joyful liver himself —make one of the mighty scenes of literature, tragic in a quiet compelling way and yet sublimely compensated in almost a Greek mood of universal fatalism. Observe, too, that Jennie Gerhardt, by yielding as the world would call sinfully, gains strength of character and realizes a kind of happiness that is reserved for rare souls. Even as

Sister Carrie, her immortality has its spiritual justification. She is not " ruined,” she is realized , through her illicit but immanent love. We

understand at once that Jennie is not a “ loose” girl . She does not seek nor enjoy the experience of sex in a wanton way. She is, in a sense, a victim — a self-sacrificing object of desire — and yet, through her submission to the man, she reveals her profound and powerful person -

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81

ality. After all, we feel — and it is true — that the triumphant character in the story is Jennie. Charming is the word for Lester Kane, that bohemian and semi

cultured and not type-moulded representative of the idle rich . Almost idle, for Lester does maintain a pretense of a business life, but all the

while we know that his main interest is in living, in savoring all the tempting dishes of life. The philosophy of Epicurus has never been more ideally and attractively embodied than in this same Lester Kane. He did indeed believe that the enjoyment of life is the first duty of man .

And what isthe result, in theman's character, of this quite immoral but

gaily beckoning philosophy ? Why, it is that Lester Kane passes us as a delightful, joyous, tolerant and sympathetic character. before He is

infinitely more appealing than his elder brother, who is the very type of timid decorum. All the moral laws, we feel, may be violated by Lester and yet we shall embrace him for his humanity. And as a philosophy, who can improve upon the viewpoint of Lester Kane ? Those fail in life who do not see that the supreme purpose of life is enjoyment, in the

fullest and finest sense of the word . This enjoyment includes all things ; it includes both physical and mental tastes; it includes the highest self development ; it includes subtlety and sensuality; it includes the moth and the star. We pity the man who goes through life full of perturbation about his duty, always on the edge of his nerves for a cause, terribly worried about the future of humanity a thousand years from now . It is true that we may look upon this as a peculiar kind of enjoyment. The messianic meliorist and the martyr, we know, derive aa deep satisfaction

from their activities, sad and self-sacrificing as they seem . Yet we feel that this is the kind of pleasure in pain that is denial of life's pleasant purpose. ( Or let us say, not life's purpose for that is falsely teleologi cal — but life's possibilities. ) Dreiser himself, in Jennie Gerhardt, has

given us a little prose poem on the beauty of the passing moment—the evanescence, too, of life's joy and charm-and the strong human impulse to reach out for this loveliness and livingness. Was Lester Kane's life a failure ? Only as everyone's life is a failure - only as each one of us has dreams beyond the power of mortal effort to realize, and as we see always the greener fields beyond that we never reach. In a practical, possible sense, Lester lived a successful life. He lived a happy life. He was not as good a business man as his brother, and he was perhaps not as downright useful in the world, and it is a certainty that he had not

such a conforming and hypocritical conscience. Yet, of the two lives, we would instantly choose Lester's.

One book of Dreiser's has held us a considerable while, yet not too

long. It will repay youto spend a few hours with it and read it through. Only one other of his books, and only half of it, is worthy to compare with Jennie Gerhardt. That other book is Sister Carrie, Dreiser's first novel, in which , at the very outset, he revealed his characteristic attitude

and his power. As to this book , I agree with Frank Harris that it should have been called " Brother George," for undoubtedly George

Hurstwood is the character that moves us and that we remember. Sister Carrie is to me a very pale and remote figure. This indeed is an uneven Dreiser novel, in that a single character is all that stands out, in clear

and startling relief against the sky of our imagination. And in all this

imaginary world of fiction, I can think of no character more real than

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Hurstwood. It is a perfect tragedy of the disintegration of character. There is in it, too, an implicit and true thought. Take a man out of his environment, out of his accustomed and right milicu, and the chance is that you destroy the man and rob him of all his poise and purpose of

character. So, certainly, it was with George Hurstwood. As the man ager of the rich, racy saloon in Chicago, Hurstwood is incomparable. He is truly in his element, a very lord of this hail-fellow life. With real majesty, and yet with the bonhomie that is demanded by the scene, he

presides over this headquarters of high joy and jazz. He has perfect aplomb, is a full and replete character, appears with tact and elegance and suavity as the king of his glittering world. Here he is supreme but what happens to the man when he leaves it all, runs away with

Sister Carrie, and attempts the crude unornamental struggle of life on his own in New York City ? He goes from bad to worse. He is not

the struggling, determined kind of man. We see a man who depends upon success to be successful, upon solid fine assurance to be assured ,

upon a background to make any kind of figure in the foreground. Hurstwood, we feel, is a kind of ornamental person, to whom any kind of stress or uncertainty does violence. Like the beautiful mahogany bar, which would not look well in the alley, Hurstwood is a fixture that is

removed only to the very great damage of its appearance. There is the inevitability of perfect tragedy in the way that Hurstwood goes down in life, until the very end when he turns on the gas. In Sister Carrie, too, Dreiser confounds the moralists. Carrie Mee

ber has one of thoseessentially strong and inviolable characters that are strengthened, experienced, enriched by all the contacts of life. Always she is greater than her lovers, gets indeed from them strength that they have not, and in the end is successful, rich, joyous and at heart pure . She is a little sad, to be sure, but not in the way of repentance or regret

-only as the view of life that anyone must have who has lived at all. Come to The Genius, and you will be staggered at first by the Brobdingnagian bulk of the book . We may agree that half of it could be thrown away-- and still you would have a book with greatness in it.

Here—to me at least—what attracts is a single intriguing character, that of Eugene Witla the artist. We have in this story, in a most poetic and profound way, the study of the struggle in man between his lower and his higher self. And, paradoxically, we see the man's higher self seduc ing his lower self. What is it that leads Witla into his surrenders to the

mere flesh ? Nothing else than his love of beauty, the artist in him, his extraordinary and acute responsiveness to every lovely vision that greets his eye. No dull clod would have the experiences of Witla , for he would not have the appreciations and the temptations. We behold in Witla a strong man, whose very strength, leaning temperamentally too far in certain directions, ends in weakness. The swinishness and stupidity of the censors has never been so despicably and disgustingly demonstrated

as in their attack upon The Genius. What ignorance to damn this as a novel in praise of mere sexual appetite! If there is anything to be got from the book at all, it is that Witla is repeatedly led astray and hindered

as an artist by his sensuality and his too susceptible materialsm , which is half spirit — the spirit always pulling the flesh. Rob him of all physical desires and delights, and of course you would have a dull dead Witla.

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E. Haldeman - Julius

Out of the common earth always springs the lovely flower, which you may see as genius or beauty or character.

Of The Financier and The Titan, I will say little. Somehow neither book has impressed me in any comparable acute way with the ones I have mentioned. The figure of Cowperwood is, undoubtedly, a great and magnificent figure. Dreiser here had a difficult character, some thing far out of the common, and he handled it almost perfectly. It is

well to say, that in Cowperwood one observes, what the censors over looked, the immemorial struggle, let us say, between the flesh and the spirit. Cowperwood is continually mistaking the one for the otheror

rather not establishing the right harmony between them.

Theodore Dreiser — to say a slight word about the man behind the novels—has been a pioneer of realism in American literature. He has had a career which has shown him all phases of life. Born and raised in the simple American scene of Indiana, he drifted to Chicago and St. Louis and Cleveland and Buffalo, and at last New York ; worked as a

newspaper man and lived laborious, uninspired days of pen-pushing ; and at length established himself, not luxuriously but in a measure suc cessfully, as a writer of fiction. His brother was Paul Dresser ( a

changed name ) who wrote that very popular song, On the Banks of the Wabash. The chorus, by the way, was written by Theodore. One of his most affecting works is his sketch My Brother Paul. Too robust to ever be appreciated by the general public, still Dreiser, with his An American Tragedy, has touched a popularity that must be strange to him. Even Stuart P. Sherman, who once lambasted Dreiser as an " ani

malist,” hymned his latest novel as something in the way of a masterpiece. One thing, I believe, is certain — critics of the future will have a great deal more to say about Dreiser than present-day critics, save Mencken. HOW TO GET RICH

I

AM in receipt of a complimentary, autographed copy of a pam phlet issued by the Mitchell Letter Service , Alton , N. H., which

tells in plain language what many people would rather know than the combined wisdom of the ages --how to get rich . I have read this little treatise most carefully, with the most unselfish aim . All I wanted was to pass on this goldeninformation to my friends and

readers. Well , now I have this information, and I can tell you about it, but a great new light will not burst upon you. In the first place, you must want to make money. Very simple, is it not ? It is a fact beyond contradiction. It might be called a general truth, that to want anything is the first requisite to going after it and

getting it. So, my dear readers, if you have a desire for money you have taken the first step toward a fortune.

The other steps are almost equally simple. Enumerating them, I feel like a kindergarten instructor . Next to wanting money, the most important thing isto have some money. If you haven't any money, then you must get some before you can get more. With a simplicity that is truly admirable, you are told that you can get money by working for it ; and you can keep it by saving it ; and you can increase it by using it to get other people's money away from them, or to get other people on

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the job working for you. One great truth is impressed upon you : You cannot make a greatdeal of money by working for it — notoriously ( or rather I should say according to this new revelation) this is impossible by working with your hands. Hard labor, as the term is commonly used , and easy money simply do not agree.

Next ? Well, really, this is about the simplest thing of all as far as it goes. Think of an idea that will make a lot of money for

you , or

that will set others in motion making it for you . Just a bright little idea —will you let the lack of an idea separate you from untold wealth ? Of course , this lesson would be incomplete unless it were explained that ,

once you have the idea , you must act upon it. You must put your idea to work .

An interesting and quite original feature of this pamphlet is that it tells how other men have got rich by similar methods. There are given a half dozen cheerful, hopeful examples of men who have started with a

few dollars and have , by wanting money and thinking how to get it and getting it, become sinfully rich. Such examples as Munsey and Woolworth and Wrigley are held before you, to show that you can do likewise. All you have to do is do it. The name of Woolworth leads us to one of the most beautifully

inspiring statements in the pamhplet: " With ordinary sense, a thimble ful of brains and a real Desire for money, a man could be stood up in any place in the United States divested of every material substance, and alone, unaided by friends, could gain money enough to buy the Wool

worth Building if it were for sale.”. First find out what the Woolworth Building is worth ; then take a railway time-table, shut your eyes and place your finger on the page, and buy a ticket for the town thus blindly hit upon. ( Make sure first that you have money enough to buy the ticket.) Too many people should not rush to one particular place for this purpose. Probábly, after all, you will have to make use of some material

substance in the process; and a few friends—say, friendly strangers willing to part with their money — will come in handy. There are one or two other things to bear in mind . Do not give your scheme away to somebody who may beat you to it. Keep your

Concentrate your mind on the desire to make money. Be shrewd . Have self-confidence. It might be a good

mind on your own interests .

idea to announce that you are going somewhere else, and thus throw other would -be money -makers off the track. Practice the deep Machi

avellian subtlety of the " big realty operator," who is quoted as saying : “ When I have an importantmatter to look after in Chicago I cause it to be thought that I am in Boston . The less known about my plans before I put them in gear the better are my chances for success. One thing that can be said for this pamphlet is that it is refresh

ingly and rarely candid. It does not represent money-making as a noble, highly honorable, altruistic, world-serving business. You are frankly told that you must be sharp, tricky, always with an eye to the main

chance, and with no foolishness about conscience. Follow, in your own

way and as best you can , the example of the biblical Jacob, that holy man. Read, my good Christian friends, and straightway emulate : Laban and Jacob made a bargain. Jacob was to care for Laban's flocks and receive therefor " all the speckled and spotted cattle, and all the brown cattle among

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the sheep, and the spotted and speckled among the goats.” This was satisfactory to both parties. But what did Jacob do ? “ And Jacob took him rods of green poplar, and of hazel and chestnut tree ; and pilled white streaks in them , and made the white appear which was in the rods. And he set the rods which he had pilled before the

flocks in the gutters in the watering troughs when the flocks came to drink, that they should conceive when they came to drink. And the flocks conceived before the

rods, and brought forth cattle ringstreaked, speckled and spotted.” These were Jacob's as per agreement. “ And Jacob did separate the lambs,and set the faces of the flock toward the ringstreaked, and all the brown in the flock of Laban ; and he put his own flocks by themselves, and he put them not unto Laban's cattle. And

it came to pass, whenever the stronger cattle did conceive, that Jacob laid the rods before the eyes of the cattle in the gutters, that they might conceive among the rods . But when the cattle were feeble, he put them not in : so the feebler were Laban's,

and the stronger were Jacob's. And the man increased exceedingly, and had much cattle, and maid servants, and men servants, and camels, and asses.'

This is not a scientific yarn, to be sure, but the idea is there. Scorn no tricks that will bring in the money. And — this we add of our own

accord - make others believe that your tricks are inspired by a high ideal of Service . 2

Yes, making money is easy, provided aa handful of " ifs" are thrown in. If you can't get rich after all this bright, simple information, there are one or a dozen reasons why.

There is, however, one little point of significance. There should not be too many people who have this desire to get rich and who will follow these instructions. They must be, in the nature of the case, compara tively few in number. For one man to make a fortune, there must be

thousands to work for him and let him obtain their money. There are two angles from which to look at this formula of success . One is that

you must save as a means of gettingon your way to fortune ; the other is that most people should spend. “ The rule of today is to spend, spend , spend." That is the rule of success for whoever, in the simple manner that has been outlined, can get what is spent. “ Money makes the world go round .” But the money must go round. EGGS, REVOLUTION AND OTHER THINGS

T ALL started at the breakfast table, said the Talker. Oliver Wendell Holmes would understand. Exactly what began it ?

The eggs. They were poached . They led us to some con sideration of the Social Revolution and a better world . At

first glance, you may not see the association of ideas between eggs and

revolution. It was nothing so general as the remark that the new society is germinating in the shell of the old. It was not a reminiscence

of the days when Socialists were egged, whereas Socialists are now back numbers and almost reactionary, according to the Communists,

who now carry on the flaming torch of revolution. No, all that was said was that it seemed a shame everybody in the world could not have

poached eggs for breakfast. Well, it was straightway remarked that when Marxian economics were applied in a collectivist system of society, everybody would have poached eggs. If there were not enough eggs to go round, then their equivalent would be supplied, and happily tastes are different, revolution or no revolution. A man might have a million

dollars and still enjoy a meal of mush and milk. But, it was asked,

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would it be worth while to have aa revolution simply that everyone might have poached eggs, or something just as good, for breakfast ? That wasn't the point. Poached eggs implied, so to speak, a general poached egg standard of living. They symbolized prosperity, security and the

material basis of happiness. They brought a vision , momentarily con vincing, however vague and impressionistic, of a society as smooth and jolly and well-behaved as an expertly poached egg, strictly fresh . One spoke up to say that the worst of it is not that everybody can't be rich, and have a Lincoln car, and a dozen suits of clothing, and all that; but what is shameful is the haunting insecurity of life. Consider that in our age of machinery with its vast production, great numbers of people are worried about the practical aspects of the future, immedi ate or indefinite ; a job, a home, money, something to eat and wear, a .

measure of independence — such things weigh a good deal too much on

the minds of people. Today cannot be enjoyed fully, as it should be, for concern about tomorrow , and borrowing trouble, and preparing for a possibly harder time. Surely the uncertainties that Nature makes in

life are enough , without having added to them the uncertainties of get ting a living. It seems ridiculous in a civilized rich society for anyone to go in fear of being without a job, being short of rations, having poor and insufficient clothing, or not being able to pay the rent. Now this worry does not necessarily indicate any bad or miserable condition . It does mean living close to the poverty line. But men who are well-off

today will worry more or less about what the future holds for them , and are never quite sure that ill fortunes will not overtake them ; and

one may go quite comfortably through a whole life, yet always be a little doubtful whether they will be able to do so. They are told to save ; and many of them do so, laying up reserves for the rainy day ; the rainy day may come and quickly sweep away their savings, or they may die and their savings will be enjoyed by somebody else. This saving, and this concern and care for the future, robs men of the complete satisfac tion of living from day to day. People should be able to enjoy life as

they go along, secure in the knowledge that they will always be permit ted to labor and receive at least the comforts of life in exchange. The happiness of life would be increased a hundredfold could such a certainty

be given to all men tomorrow . The physical needs of life are not the most important things. They are, however, the things of first impor tance. It is only when we have them , and are sure of having them in the

future, that we can really live a cultured, mental and happy, life. .. It was agreed that this was a bad condition, and it was theoretically remedied on the spot ; there was even a certain expansiveness in the theoretical discussion — no immediate action required—because every body had eaten his poached eggs. Hungry people, it was suggested without dissent, would not be so philosophic. Someone then asked, as calmly as if requesting a second cup of coffee, whether it was not

possible that in the next fifty years civilization would be swept away by war and all our speculations and dreams be in vain. There was not any doubt that a next war would come, and that it would be unimagina bly more destructive and horrible than the late war that ended war ( for the time being ) . Optimists held, of course, that mankind was inevitably going ahead to some fine destiny that would work itself out in spite of

E. Haldeman-julius

87

all dangers, terrors and obstacles whatsoever. Yet war—the very real possibility if not certainty of it, the preparations that are going on to make it as deadly as can be—seems rather a blow to this kind of optim ism. Assuming that humanity might survive another war, how could the curse of war be removed so as to enable the human race to improve its affairs in peace ? It was said by aa Communist, with what might have been taken as exaggerated and undue conviction, that the workers of the

world would unite and the capitalistic system would go to smash before the next war could happen. Then the question was raised whether eco nomic causes alone were wholly and under all conceivable circumstances

explanatory of war ; whether, for example, war would be unthinkable under a Communist regime. Suppose that all the countries in Europe were to become Socialist or Communist states, would that relieve Europe

from the danger of war ? Not, perhaps, unless there was a United States of Europe. A nationalistic Europe, divided into many countries, would be heir to the evils of nationalism . And when one considers differences

of language, custom and tradition , a United States of Europe in spirit as well as name is not immediately clear. This matter of the economic cause of war may be looked at from two points of view - on the one hand, as it regards the few who rule and have large interests at stake

and have had economic objects in promoting and leading war, and on the other hand , as it regards the masses of the people who have fought wars. It must be recognized that the economic causes of war are under stood only by the few , and that the many are and have always been

moved by uneconomic emotions, passions and prejudices. If the eco nomic cause of war could be takenout of the reckoning, would there not still be very human fears, hates, jealousies, narrow -minded prejudices that might lead to war ? It might be said that there would not be the

interests to promote war as now ; that the passions which excite the masses in war are deliberately aroused by a few leaders, and that, left alone, the people would not think of fighting. Still, the leaders under

any system of society would be human, even if they did not have the private economic interests that play such a large role in war today. The Socialist leaders of Germany and France might disagree personally or

politically, something that happened in one country or the other might arouse public feeling, and there might be a war not economic but merely human in its origin. All this was, of course, speculation and not to be taken too seriously.

No doubt economic interests in a comp

ive

society are largely the cause of war. And yet we cannot be sure that the

emotions, ideas and prejudices of race, religion,nationality, that divide people might not bring them into conflict regardless of the purely eco nomic organization of society. Anyway, no one can conceive of any immediate alteration of the interests of society and nations from compe

tition to complete harmony. Under any regime there would be conflict ing interests still ; the process of harmonizing them, if it is possible, will be a long one. It is a mistake, too, said the man who belongs to no party, if we regard the betterment of humanity as simply and entirely an economic .

problem . Ignorance is the great enemy of man's progress. Can anyone imagine a perfectly sound and safe and sensible world as long as human stupidities and prejudices exist and get in their insidious, deadly work ?

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After all, a peaceful and happy and well-ordered world must depend upon the development of intelligence. The illusions, the false notions, the mistaken and uncontrolled feelings, the ill-informed mental processes

of men cannot be viewed otherwise than as a source of danger. We must come back to the idea that intelligence — that culture — is the great

desideratum in any scheme for a better world. The deadening influence of a mechanical civilization would be the same under a collectivist as

under a competitive social organization, unless the genial influence of culture spreads through the lives of men. An intelligent man is safer

and more pleasant to live by than an ignorant man ; and, even so, an intelligent world would be safer and more pleasant to live in than an ignorant world. ...

And so in a pretty good degree , said the Talker, anyone who is

living an intelligent life and expressing himself culturally in contact with others is helping to make the world better ; although, truth to tell, that may not be his object and he may see all things individually in the light of his own self-development and self-expression. He owns to not being of the stuff of martyrs. Martyrs is too strenuous and un pleasant a thing for him, and furthermore he sees it as very uncertain : the possibility of error is so great that in giving one's life away for an ideal one is chancing it. He believes in getting the most out of life today, and not trading a real interest in present life for shares 'in 1

a

problematical future. He is very sensitive to the reflection , the realiza tion, that all things pass away, and that his own life is short . One of the breakfast party, a very earnest woman , says that if it were possible ( if she did not have individual responsibilities, as — there's the rub , who has not ? ) — she would like nothing better than to give her whole

time, thought and energy to advancing the social revolution along the particular road of Communism . Now that, to the Talker, is an impos sible absorption in one thing and a narrowing of life that he couldn't achieve for himself, no matter if it were the greatest duty in the world and neglect of it would imperil his immortal soul. He has not a one track mind, but a mind that branches off in many directions, and that eagerly reaches out for all of life's interests. He has some interest in social and political theory, but he also has a great deal of interest in art and literature, in general reflections about life, in the surprises and curi

osities and problems of personality ( and, let it be said, particularly in his own personality which is of considerable interest and importance to him ) , in tasting the flavors and enjoying the spectacle of this moving shadow show called life. And if he would tell the truth, so help him any god that wants to stand back of the matter, the Talker lives a good deal in a mental and imaginative and introspective world of his own. He might paraphrase Thomas Paine and say that his mind is , not his church , but his world. And, emphatically, it would be impossible for any single idea, cause, movement, theory, system of belief or program of action to

command all his mind and energy. He is not built that way ; not so do his hormones function. He is glad enough that others are different. For one thing, they give variety to the spectacle of life. The existence

of too many of his kind would probably not be for the world's good. ...

L. Haldeman - Julius

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GOLF BALLS

HE golf ball is a small, hard , and not beautiful object, with nothing about it to stimulate the imagination. An expert, no

doubt, could write a considerable article on golf balls, but it would be very dull reading unless he wandered a good deal

away from his subject. He might start with golf balls, and inmediately go into a description of the beauties of Nature; but these beauties have no necessary connection with golf balls, and I am sure that such a poet and student of Nature as Thoreau would not regard golf in any of its features as very intimately close to Nature. One cannot, somehow, think of Thoreau as expressing his love of Nature by playing golf. He obtained a far greater. natural education than golf would lead to and, at the same time, he found time to read the world's great books and add unto himself the culture of the past. When we come to books, we are getting very far away from golf . But we hit upon the object of this brief comment. According to a writer in the New

York Times, America spends $ 168,000,000 a year

for golf balls. It is a great deal more than America spends for books. Even with the increase in reading of late years, it still lags far behind a

rather meaningless game in point of interest. ( And much of the read ing, we must say, is intellectually on a level with golf. ) The American

Babbitt makes a fetich of exercise -- with a purpose, going about it as solemnly as if he were negotiating a real estate deal; and he throws

himself into a game with all the passion of a religious devotee, so that it vies almost with the business that he worships ; it becomes a principal

subject of his conversation , and its peculiar vocabulary is more familiar to him than ordinarily good English. Golf also is rather a sign of social

position, and speaks of membership in the Country Club, and such ideal honors of Babbittry. The chief attraction of golf, however, is that it is comparatively

thoughtless . It is something to do. The Babbitt wants to be on the go, and not sitting still trying to put his mind to a book. The Babbitt wants to be in a business deal, or talking about one ; playing golf, or talking about it ; his work, his recreation and his conversation must all be à

dealing with things, and there is nothing that he shies from so much as ideas. Golf balls are plain things, to be plainly handled, and when

Babbitt is knocking them about he is doing something. Books are apt to lead to ideas and to stir deep emotions — and of this Babbitt has an

abhorrence. Wherefore he spends millions for golf balls, and very much less for books. And such books as he buys must not take him farther from accustomed notions than the distance he can knock a golf ball . TAKING ADVANTAGE OF A " DRY” WAVE

HIS is the straight, sober record of an ordinary afternoon in a city which has recently been struck by what is called ( euphe mistically ) a " dry ” wave. It is a city situated in the honest, reformed, incorruptible heart of America - not really a big,

wicked city like Chicago and New York , but a typical metropolis out where the wheatfields and the simple American virtues begin . It is a

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city of churches, and one long boulevard has a church in almost every

block. In Monday morning's paper there is always a page of reports

of sermons, so you can see that the city is well taken care of morally and spiritually. This little story, by the way, comes to me from a man who is absolutely reliable when sober. He was sober when he told it to me. He impressed upon me that this had been a very mild, commonplace ex perience, and hardly worth the telling, save for whatever moral could be drawn from it.

Lately the papers have been full of a " dry” crusade in this city. Only a few days before the day of this story, padlocks had been solemnly and securely placed on thirty-seven or fifty -seven saloons, cabarets and joints — well, it may have been sixty - seven — a good many, to be exact. The official word had gone forth that the flow of booze was to be completely stopped ; it was implied that this wholesale padlocking had just about stopped it ; and one who believed what he saw in the papers

would regard the city as practically dry as the desert. Curiously enough, all this did not dismay my friend when he thought, in his idle cheerful way, that he would meander around the city and have a few drinks and renew valuable connections. Whether he was skeptical or optimistic, the fact is that the only question in his mind was whether he should go at once to a block of homebrew apartment houses or should go all the way downtown to the regular saloons. They were regular saloons, with one exception ; there was no rail — the good old brass rail, you remember

-along the bar. The bartender had obligingly and naively explained this absence of a once important fixture. “ It's against the law ," he said, “ to have a brass rail." And then he asked : “ What will it be ?

An

'alky' highball or a whiskey highball? " Just for a change it was an " alky” —i. e., an alcohol-highball. But as I was saying, the upshot of his brief cleliberation was that he would make the round of a few saloons first, where he could have his

choice of several varieties of highball, or straight whiskey, as the boys used to say, or beer liberally spiked with alcohol . He chose a saloon somewhere on Tenth Street, where there was a bartender who looked so much like a bartender that it was actually an artistic pleasure to watch

him work. Somehow he was not surprised to find that there was a full house — the bar so crowded that with difficulty he edged his way in at one end - a half -dozen groups standing about, engaged in earnest con versation, in the room-a row of comfortable booths at one side filled

with lazier or longer-gone drinkers. The bartender didn't wait to ask my friend what he wanted, but with a charming air set out a glass of Bourbon ( as it were, or as he said it was ) with the remark, “ This is on me." It was quite an original remark , but then, as you have been told,

this fellow wasa real bartender. He was a worthy keeper of the tra ditions. My friend drank it, and still held the glass with a profound

considerative air. The bartender says, “Well?” And my spy says, “ It ain't hard to take.” “ But it may be hard to get along with .'

And the

bartender laughed, for business was good , and he was no teetotaller him self. These little jokes are necessary and harm no one. Glancing around , my friend recognized a bright and rising young bartender who had been thrown out of a job, temporarily, by the pad locking aforesaid . A drink was bought with a celerity that proved

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previous practice ; and the bartender out of a job admitted, confidentially, that he didn't regret his disemployment, as, in fact, he was going to start

a place of his own in a few days. He extended a perfectly sincere in vitation to " come around . ” On the other side, a customer objected in good humor that the ice in his highball liad a little bit of straw on it.

And the bartender out of a job laughed with loud, delightful, drunken freedom, and said, “ Aw ! you damned grouch, do you want clean ice every time ?” “What will it be?” was the strategic inquiry of the func tioning bartender. “ Rye or Bourbon ? There ain't no more Bourbon. “Well, let it be rye, but pass up Clarence, for he's already awry .” “Devil you say ! I ain't riotous, am I ? This is only the third day I've been drunk , and I can always count on myself until two o'clock in the after

noon of the fourth day. Twenty -four hours yet to go .” Just then a couple of gals, remotely connected with the welfare department, bounced in and performed a gay little dance, and a gentleman friend bought them the drinks.

And Clarence had a semi-friendly quarrel with one

of the gals, because he had stolen one of her slippers a few nights before and wouldn't give it back.

Why not have a change of scenery ? it was suggested. Clarence had a car ( he had run joints and gambled to quite an extent as well as tended bar ) and so he and my spy fared forth to visit several other saloons . Clarence was complaining that his car had just been tagged by

a traffic cop, and that, said he, he would fix before he had many more drinks. It appeared that it was something between a joke and an out

rage that his car — the car of a bootlegger -bartender in good standing should have been tagged. “ You know ," says he, “ that I don't give any money to the police, except in a regular way, as you might say.” In the middle of the next block he stopped alongside a mounted traffic officer, and made his complaint with a touching alcoholic emphasis. The cop said, friendly and intimate-like, "Oh, that'll be all right. See Hawkins. What magic in aa little plain word !! "“ See" somebody — that's all . Enough said, etc. There was a brand new saloon at the corner of Eleventh and Stone

beautiful mahogany fixtures, a long splendid bar and the nicest little booths for leisurely reflective intoxication that you ever saw. It was a

new bar to my friend — just opened in the past few days. And on this score he had a criticism of the press. The press reported the bars that had been closed, but it didn't report the new bars that had been opened. It neglected its full journalistic duty on this side. “ It seems. like," he said aggrievedly, " that I can't always keep up with the new bars." He

was bawled out by Clarence for being such an unreasonable kicker “ Damn it, you ought to appreciate a new bar.” Thus recalled to his senses, my friend bought the drinks, and for company they had the policeman on that beat, who seemed genuinely to enjoy a glass of beer, and who of course innocent man ) couldn't distinguish these whiskey

highballs from so much lemonade. Futile inquiries were made by Clar ence regarding a recent considerable loss of a bank roll in that saloon ; and the victim said , with pathetic conviction, " What hurts is when your

friends rob you .” For a crooked fellow like Clarence, whose light fingers respect no man's pockets, this was a rare remark and one to ponder on quite profoundly. One's friends shouldn't rob one just because one

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robs one's friends. Two wrongs don't make a right. All of which was very original and highly moral in tone.

Here were unpleasant memories, and they were escaped by another little swing around the circle, during which Clarence swore picturesquely

at some careless sober pedestrians who got in the way of his car. The next stop for lubrication was really to be described with some accuracy as

a " dive. It was approached from an alley, and on the back porch sat a dozen twin brothers of the Old Soak, and one could see at a glance they were happy and with no burden of sin on their souls. Crossing

at a left oblique angle a large, low -ceilinged, dingy room, crowded with tables which were crowded with topers, the main bar was reached in a narrow adjoining room. Slices of bologna and cheese, a bowl of crackers, and a plate of some kind of preserved fish, under a not very clean cloth, made up a free lunch. The price of the highballs, said my friend, was too high for the low character of the place. A " dump," I believe he >

called it. He was fastidious, and insisted that they move on . His in interest in realism was satisfied at a glance. " Let's come back ," he said ,

" sometime when we're drunk. Then it'll be just as dirty and more dan gerous , but we won't realize it. The sober man is too much of a realist. The drunk man is a poet , and can see beauty in decay.” This was partly over Clarence's head, but he was amenable, and they returned to

“George's place,” although George is only the bartender — a good bar tender , however, who supplies pretty good highballs at the rate of three for a dollar. That is to say, if you buy three drinks, you get a nickel

discount. Clarence was running an hour or two ahead on his four-day time limit, for he was slightly drunk , which was indicated by his effort to recite The Ballad of Yukon Jake; but all he could say was a couple of lines, He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt

And drank his rum by the keg.

My friend absolutely refused to come to his assistance, pointing out that he wassix drinks short of the Yukon Jake degree of inspiration . Another bartender, padlocked out of a job, asked Clarence if he could get him in somewhere ; and the latter directed him to The Hole in the Wall , at Fourteenth and Berry , where they wanted a man who could play the

electric piano, serve drinks and swear at the porter . Mention of Berry Street reminded my spy of that block of homebrew apartment houses, which were situated on that thoroughfare. He persuaded Clarence to

drive there, but he explained on the way that he was not familiar with

all the houses in the block but with only one; however, he said , every apartment in that building sold homebrew ; all of it was good, and some of it perhaps better ; if you got tired of one supply you could just step across the hall ; and when you had gone through one floor, you could

go up a flight, and in that manner work your way from the bottom to the top. It was sometimes harder coming down that going up.

On this occasion , they only tried three apartments; they agreed, however, that the beer got progressively better. The first place was the most picturesque, for the pretty young lady in charge was serving the beer in a bathing suit — that is, the girl was in a bathing suit.

It was

such a hot day, she said, and besides she had just bought the bathing suit and wanted to see how it became her ; she didn't say " became” but

E. Haldeman -Julius

that's no matter. The fact is that it did.

93

The beer was drunk out of

bright deep aluminum pans, each of which would hold almost exactly one quart; and my spy expatiated just aa little on the delight of submerg ing one's countenance to the ears in the foaming beverage— “ But,” he added , “it's dangerous. There are cases on record of menstaying under

so long that they drowned ." It was nothing more than a way of speak ing for Clarence to say that would be a pleasant kind of death. There was a good deal more of “ the same. " They did get to the

top floor ; but they couldn't come down all at once ; they stopped again at each floor - and, as before the beer had seemed to get better as they went up, now it seemed to improve as they came down. When they

reached the sidewalk, the sad tale of Yukon Jake was being recited by my friend, and Clarence, perversely, was paying no attention . Appar ently Clarence would need a little sleep in order to be in fit shape for

the fourth and last day of his voyage on the good ship Rock-and-Rye. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and there were at least fifteen

other joints in or adjacent to the heart of the city that would have to be neglected at this time. Rationally, however, my friend was willing to go home, and he did ; he was just in a condition to appreciate an

story in the evening paper, under the headline, “ Judge Says interesting Padlocks Have Made City Dry. ST. CHRISTOPHER , TRAFFIC COP HE problem of how to handle the increasing traffic, caused by the great multiplication of automobiles, has for some time been a matter of concern to city authorities. Now it seems

that the problem has been solved in a way so simple that one cannot believe it even when he sees it, not merely in print, but in pic

tures. J. Deitz ( 515 First St. , Charleroi , Pa.) sends me a large photo graph taken from a Pittsburgh paper, which shows a priest and an altar

boy performing a ceremony of safe blessing, etc., etc., over an auto mobile which stands in front of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in that city. A sign in the foreground reads : " Behold St. Christopher.

Then Go Your Way in Safety." The priest is reading from a fat-look ing book and in his right hand he holds a roll of paper or a tin horn ( I am not clearly versed in these things ) while the altar boy is holding what looks like a lantern although the sceneis supposed to be in broad daylight - a censer, I guess, is what the lad is holding onto for dear

life. Anyway, the idea is explained in a few words under the picture, and it is that " an automobile stopping in front of the church will be blessed with a special rite, sprinkled with holy water, and given à label

of protection for the machine, the clriver and its passengers.” Mr. Deitz suggests that the next step will be to give the machine a soul, but he may be only joking and probably is not of a devotional turn of mind. At any rate, this new arrangement, if there is truth and efficacy in it , should solve the traffic problem , if one can believe it.

St. Chris

topher ( the Martyr, by the way ) , will act as traffic cop for the whole country. But what does St. Christopher know about automobiles ?

What does he know about modern traffic ? Aye, there's the rub, or one of the rubs.

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There are other things that one who is skeptically practical, and prac tically skeptical, will observe. He will have his opinion about the con duct of the driver of an automobile after his machine has been blessed, sprinkled and labeled in the name of St. Chris. The driver, of course, is a man of perfect faith or he would not have his car blessed . Yes, he has

no doubt of the power of St. Christopher in this regard, although we may believe that the old saint would be scared half to death and startled plumb out of his wits at the sight of an automobile. Yet the driver, St.

Chris notwithstanding, will be quite likely to keep to the right as he drives away from the church . Ifthere is a sign at the next corner which says, “ No 'Left Turn ,” the driver will not turn to the left at that corner. He will , we may be pretty certain, watch the traffic signals as carefully as he did before. He will stick out his hand to let drivers behind know

his intentions of turning or stopping. He will not speed past a street

car that is letting off or taking on passengers. He will see that his car has plenty of oil and gas, and he will see too that it has water inside in

addition to the holy water that has been sprinkled on the outside. He will hold on to the steering wheel , more or less, and keep his eye on the road, or at least glance at the road casually from time to time. And

when he gets home safely, he will praise St. Christopher ; but when he has an accident, he will not blame St. Christopher. One other question occurs to us . Are automobiles blessed at a flat

rate, or is there a graduated scale of charges, so that a Ford blessing will be cheaper than a Cadillac blessing ? Or will a Cadillac be con sidered a safer car, and therefore be blessed , sprinkled and labeled at

a lower figure ? And how long will a single blessing work without the ceremony being repeated ? so many days or so many miles or so many gallons of gas ? But, after all , I want to be " constructive." And so I make the sug

gestion that every filling station be equipped with blessing materials, and the fellows who put the gas in cars be specially empowered to perform the ceremony in the name of St. Christopher. This would save time, and it would place this great blessing easily within the reach of humanity. NOT COWARDLY, BUT HONEST

READER says that it is rather cowardly for me to call myself an agnostic instead of an atheist. No, I am simply honest. I avoid the other extreme of dogmatism from that ofthe preach ers. My effort, above all, is to be a realistic thinker , and in

order to be such, I must confine my outright assertions within the boundaries of my own knowledge. I follow reason as far as I can that is, so far as there is any evidence and any tangible hold for the mind —and then I stop. As an intellectual game, or as an interesting literary exercise, I may indulge in theory and fancy beyond this, but I do not let it be too serious and I am not positive where I have no proof or

present possibility of proof. The terms " atheist” and “ agnostic" do not represent a mere meaningless distinction. I shall take the advantage of

quoting the clearest possible statement on this question by Joseph Mc Cabe. In his The Futility of Belief in God ( Little Blue Book No. 1060 ) Mr. McCabe defines the agnostic view as follows:

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The word [atheist] is taken to mean a denial of the existence of God, and most of us do not care to deny the existence of anything simply because it is not proved. [ Agnostics] do not deny, but they do not accept, the existence of God. But it must be clearly understood, when we use the word Agnostic, that we do not .

mean that it is quite an open question whether there is a God or not. There is no respectable evidence whatever for God, and there is a mass of evidence which dis poses us to believe that there is no God. The case for Theism is very feeble ; the case for Atheism is very strong.

That ought to be satisfactory. Certainly, it is honest. We cannot go farther than our knowledge goes. We can only say that there is no reason that has ever been shown that is sufficient to make us believe

in God. We can say that belief in God does not seem to make the mys tery of life a bit clearer, and that there is no way in which it can be

useful. To be sure, we can say that every notion of God that has been advanced by men is unreasonable, unprovable and unhelpful. We must recognize, however, that there is a point beyond which all is a blank to our intelligence. And it is no good for us to cry into that outer dark ness a dogmatic denial or a dogmatic assertion. We should fight bunk by showing its absurdity, its inconsistency, its unreality ; we should demand proof, and let our minds be guided by the evidence; we should measure every idea by its soundness in relation to this life and the affairs of

earth ; but if we are thoroughly debunked, we must be prepared to say, regarding whatever may lie beyond the evidential realities of this mun dane sphere, that we do not know. For no matter how stoutly we assert

that we know , one way or the other, our knowledge is not increased a hairsbreadth thereby. ON FREE AND FORCED WRITING

HAVE never claimed to write always from pure inspiration and in the high style of a masterpiece. I look at writing as a job, and I am sure that this attitude saves me from a good deal of worry and strain and enables me to write more freely than I

could otherwise. I try to write something that is interesting, or amusing, or suggestive ; and that, if not always serious, at least never deliberately

violates the implications of good sense. At times I have admitted that I wrote under difficulties, sticking to my typewriter when I should much rather have been doing something else less interesting to my readers but

more selfishly enjoyable by me. This confession hasbrought a note from Channing Severance ( Los Ageles, Calif. ), which emphasizes to me one

advantage that, even in my least inspired moments, I have in the writing job. But first I quote Mr. Severance : I was quite interested in your comments on the failure of the mind to function with equal facility at all times , when desire or necessity leads to writing. I have

sometimes wondered, with all the seeming ease with which your thoughts chase each other over a blank sheet of paper as they roll off your pen point, if your thinker

was never like a fountain pen with no ink in the barrel. All writers, so far as I know , whether they are high-ups or low-downs, have days when writing is not a result of spontaneous thoughts, but is dependent on mental efforts. And I recall a good editorial writer who once confessed that there were days when it was hell

to get started. And we see why perfunctory writers, who must grind out a certain amount of copy daily, are often prosy if not worse than that. We have a flip writer here, who while not using much space, is expected to produce something sensational every day, to please jaded readers ; and by damn , sir, he turns out about

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What complete and chaotic bunk ! Not a statement is true, nor even

sensible. And we have the Bible spoken of as a Book, a Voice, a Friend, a Fountain, a Mind, a Good Physician, a Sun, a Sword, aa Letter, a Guide, a Charter, and a Volume. If the Bible is all these things, either simul

taneously or changeably, it is no wonder that it has so mixed up the affairs of men . It would set my mind reeling if I had the slightest idea it were true. The change from a Sun to a Sword must be particularly difficult.

ATHEISM AND ARITHMETIC

TOME of my readers are sensitive, from a laudable conscientious point of view, about the use of the designation, “ agnostic.” They regard it as a shirking of the issue. Be logical, they say. No one can prove the existence of a god. We should therefore absolutely deny a god, as if our knowledge were entire and ultimate and clear. One reader ( T. Mendoza, Custer, Mont. ) , turns to an analogy of arithmetic to maintain his case. With a plausible air he writes : The thought has repeatedly occurred to me that " agnostic " is a shield behind

which the less courageous often hide : not only this but itis a somewhat meaningless word, at least from one point of view. I am certain that two and two equal four.

It is impossible for me to conceive a condition wherein two and two has in the past or will in the future equal something other than four. I am not an agnostic on this. My sense perceptions make it impossible for me to conceive a First Cause. If it be rational in the face of this to say that I am an agnostic, why is it irrational for me to concede that two and two under inconceivable conditions might equal more or less than four ?

And does Mr. Mendoza really think there is no difference, logically, between the simple sum of two and two and the question of a First Cause ? We know that two and two are four ; we can prove it ; no one

doubts or disputes it ; it rests firmly upon the arbitrary science of mathe matics. If there were as much certainty about a First Cause as there is about the sum of four, all the world would be, as it might happen, deists

or atheists. The agnostic follows the simplest course, recognizes the present mystery of life, and does not venture dogmatic assertions about what may or may not be beyond life and the universe. He may and does refuse to believe in any idea of a god or in any conception of a future

life or in any theological view of human origins that has been brought to his attention. He holds that such notions are pure theory at best, when

they are not downright nonsense. He can see nothing in reason or ex perience to justify any extra-mundane theory. He sticks to life as he can apprehend it and as he actually lives it. He holds to facts ( such as

that two and two are four ) , but when it comes to statements of absolute truth , he is frankly a skeptic.

It is not right to assume that the agnostic is afraid . He is simply being honest with himself. If Mr. Mendoza will only think a moment, he will realize that as much unpopularity attaches to agnostic as to

atheistic opinions. “ He who believeth not shall be damned .” That means just as fiery a portion of hell for the agnostic as for the atheist. The fact is that all non-believers of whatever degree - all skeptics or rationalists — are damned in toto by the Christian as infidels.

One need

110t even be so much as an agnostic in order to receive a dose of rhetorical

E. Haldeman - Julius

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hellfire from the church. Both Thomas Paine and Voltaire were deists ;

but their opposition to the church, their disbelief in the tenets of the Christian religion, their skepticism as to the divine authority of the Bible were enough to bring upon them the curses of all the generations

of the preachers and the faithful. Could Ingersoll have been more bit terly hated by believers if he had been an atheist rather than an agnostic ? Manifestely not.

One might say indeed that there is little difference, save a form of words, between the agnostic and the atheist. Neither believes in a god nor in immortality nor in supernaturalism nor in any form or feature of theology. Neither is in the slightest degree religious. Neither takes a god into account in his life. Neither, as the preacher says, “ dwells in Christ,” and neither makes any pretense of ever dwelling anywhere save in his own skin.

The atheist says he knows there is no god.

The

agnostic says that, as far as he knows, there is no god. I think Joseph McCabe put it most neatly in a personal talk with me when he visited me in Girard less than a year ago. He said : “ Psychologically, I am an atheist ; but logically, I am an agnostic.” That is to say, the idea of a god is quite unreal to him ; but he refuses, with

intellectual caution and candid logic, to make any positive statement that goes beyond reality. He is, indeed, a realist. knowledge that transcends the realities of life.

He pretends to no

I AM CONVERTED TO HASH !

AME a letter ( as the movie captions say ) and it was a poetic

and eloquent defense of hash. I read it, but no tears came to my eyes. These arguments were interesting, as expressing an honest and sincere opinion of a straightforward, debunked and civilized individual.

But they did not convert me. I remain hostile to

hash. But first , let me give you this letter — it is from Kenneth N. Rinker, Greensburg, Ind. : Hash. Browned hash, baked fragrant with the seasoning from the hand of a master cook. Hash. Steaming as it poses itself in a heaping helping upon your

plate, wafting stray bits of steam that make your nose prick up in ecstasy supreme. Hash. Soſt and yielding, lending no resistance to the onward march of the teeth, no reproach to the conquest of mastication. Hash. Like all the rest of civilization's benefits, improvement thousandfold upon the raw , red hunk of carcass Oli hacked from off the buck's hind quarter. Hash. First aid to false teeth, soft gums. pyorrhea, while it sharpens the appetite and imposes so little burden upon the stomach that that organ faints at sight of roast beef rare . Haldeman - Julius, do you still say

you detest hash ? Have you no kinship with Brilliant- Savarin, who would have flown into renewed raptures over a bowl of true American hash ? Alas, I thought you a gentleman bum and I find you a bum gentleman. But for the sake of all that is sweet and sour do not begin to tell us that hash is bunk, for many a one of us, if you but said the word , would throw our nightly hash out the window in this sudden craze to completely debunk ourselves.

That, in my opinion, is a great piece of special pleading. But it merely convinced me that Mr. Rinker is for hash ; it did not stop me from being against hash . An appeal to reason does not always win. But—and here we get to the great Drama of Hash - in my Weekly

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recently I stated that Mr. George S. Harrington, Boston, Mass., is an

other friend of hash, and I quoted his appealing letter in full. You may not recall that he promised to send me a can of Marston's hash. Well, it came - Christmas morning, along with a bunch of other packages. It was a simple, humble gift, but a gift it was and I appreciated the thoughtfulness and courtesy of my Boston reader who was so solicitous

of my pampered stomach. I took the can of Marston's corned beef hash down to the kitchen

-Cora was off ; so I had my dealings with her substitute — Maggie. ( Isn't that a wonderful name ?

Maggie !

It thrills me just to say it.

I like the way it rolls off my tongue. Maggie ! There's a name that has

some character to it. When you yell Maggie, you've yelled something.. You can keep all your Bernices, Gwendolines and Consuelos. Give me Maggie ! I like these old, simple, direct, purposeful, mouth - filling names. Maggie ! It's the kind of name that makes you use your whole mouth when you say it. And you open it wide in order to let the wind rush by.. Maggie ! When I call Maggie I think I am making a Fourth

of July speech or auctioneering a hog sale, or barking for a side show . Say Maggie a few times and you will realize why I admire it. ) I opened the can - solemnly, mysteriously. Sententiously, with almost official formality, I said : “ This, Maggie, is a can of Marston's famous and incorruptible

corned beef hash, sent to me by a friendly reader anxious about the state of my soul.”

" Hash ?” Maggie asked, incredulously. " Yes, Maggie . Hash for Christmas. I know you have a goose on

the stove a great, tender , well-cooked goose. We shall have the goose, as arranged, but as a side dish, to be served simultaneously, we are to have hash, cooked according to Mr. Harrington's directions in this issue of my Weekly ."

Out came the frying pan, Maggie took the can and turned it up side down. The contents dumped into the pan, standing like one of the huge oil containers to be seen near refineries. That was the way

she intended to cook Mr. Harrington's gift ! It was absurd . " No," said I. “ You must mix it up. Here let me do it . ”

I took a large fork and proceeded to hash up the hash, spreading it all over the pan. Marcet, hearing the report that I was in the kitchen

on official culinary business, came hurrying in to see what was wrong and how she might make it right.

“ Let me take that fork. Maggie, chop up an onion quickly. Better make it an onion and a half. Also, some salt. Also , more butter. I shall see to it that the hash is turned at the proper moment, for it must be browned just right." At dinner there were eight of us , and the goose was brought in

and then the hash . Wanting to play fair with Mr. Harrington, Idecided to eat the hash first. I lifted a forkful to my mouth. I admitted it through the sacred portal . I was eating hash. I held the first mouthful

over my tongue. I rolled it around. It was good. I nodded my head. The seven at the table took their eyes off me for only a second - long enough to nod to one another.

“How do you like it ?" asked Marcet, breaking the deathlike silence.

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“ Like it ? I'm crazy about it! It's delicious ! It is fit for a king, And to think I have been missing it all these years. I could weep. Harold, bring back that dish of hash, I beseech you. I must have more. It is the best dinner I have ever known. The goose will receive con sideration, but first honors must go to Mr. Harrington's portion of

canned joy. I am converted - completely and unalterably. I shall spread the news far and wide. The world shallknow of this conversion. Jus

tice and righteousness demand that I shall tell the truth. Others may be living in darkness. I must do my part to rescue them, to bring them into the light. This is one of the most important moments in my life. I have been slandering this dish–I have been misrepresenting it - holding it up

to ridicule and abuse and contumely. For shame! But the wrong shall be undone . I shall write a piece for my paper, taking back every mean thing I have said. I am converted , and I care not who knows it. And you, Marcet, you deserve a great deal of credit for this triumph. It was your well-timed appearance that saved the day for hash. That onion, chopped so efficiently by Maggie, sets it off - the final artistic touch. Had you not appeared on the scene at the critical moment, Maggie and I might have ruined this portion of Marston's corned beef hash , and

I might have carried my prejudice into another article for my great religious journal. You, Marcet ; Maggie in the kitchen , Mr. Harrington, and Mr. and Mrs. Marston — to all of you I bid deep and lasting thanks !"

With that speech over, we sailed into the gcose,

A BUNK SCOUT CONSTITUTION: INCE upon a time, feeling bright and gay, I conceived the idea of having a national organization of Bunk Scouts. Each Bunk Scout would be constantly on the look-out , hand over eyes to

shade his vision from the glare of fanaticism , for all sorts, kinds, and conditions of bunk. It was by no means a simple ambition, and by no means an easy duty that was involved in the plan for these Bunk Scouts. And, going on with my idea, I made a plea for a Bunk

Scout Constitution, to besolemnly drawn up and subscribed to. That was a job for some enterprising lawyer, of course. And sure enough a lawyer took it upon his sturdy shoulders to supply said Constitution, and he did such a splendid job of it that I have decided to pass it on . Here it is .

Unfortunately , I cannot reproduce here the manner in

which the original copy of this Constitution was dolled up - a most im pressive-looking document it was, done up in legal style, with all sorts of ribbons, seals and a blue jacket. Read it, my friends, and be merry. THE CONSTITUTION, BY-LAWS and STATUTES of The BLITHE and

BENEVOLENT BROTHERHOOD of BUNKSCOUTS ( Unlimited ) WE, the undersigned, being someofthe people of the United States of America,

do hereby, under, beneath, and by the Grace of God, if there be any of the latter, ordain , utter, declaim , vociferate, defame and pronounce in the following manner, and in the following words, to-wit : THAT WHEREAS :

We hold the fact to be self-evident, undeniable, and incontrovertible that the Universe in general, and the aforesaid United States in particular, are now, and since time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary have been, befuddled,

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bequacked, ensnared, inflated, behocussed, gulled, misled, victimized, and otherwise taken in and debunked, AND WHEREAS :

We hold it to be equally true and obvious that the said Universe, and the said United States aforementioned, are now , and have been, humbugged, abused, illu sioned, cozened, beshammed, hoodwinked, baited, cajoled, befooled, cobwebbed, begar

bled, tricked, and otherwise, and in all manner imposed upon and debabbitted, AND WHEREAS : The said Universe and the said United States , as the result of the aforesaid

conditions, are full , to the utmost capacity and plenitude, of bunkards, bunkiffs, tricksters, buncadocios, buncagogues , buncasters , politicians, bunkitians, doctors of

divinity, boosters, orators, buncographic writers, necromancers, jugglers, bunkefici

maximi, frauds, buncocrats, rotarians, prestidigitators, chiropractors, and similar other bunkelles, bunkerinos, shammists, and bunksters, AND WHEREAS :

We hold it to be necessary, if the said world is to be saved from perdition, and if mankind is to be brought to realize its serious mission, if any it has, that the aforesaid conditions should be forthwith and immediately repaired, amended, de flated, destroyed, punctured, corrected, and otherwise done away with, and the said world restored to its primitive condition of complete debunkation and debabbittation .

NOW, THEREFORE, BY REASON OF THE PREMISES , and the unfortunate matters herein

before complained of , lamented, regretted, enumerated, mentioned, stated and pointed out,

WE, the undersigned , as aforesaid, being desirous of undertaking, assuming,

taking up, and otherwise shouldering the labor and burden of debunking, tampering with , and otherwise interfeiing with the world in its aforesaid afflictions, and the said United States in its aforementioned predicament,

DO HEREBY.FREELY AND VOLUNTARILY CONSTITUTE and establish ourselves, our heirs, executors, administrators and assigns, into an organization, union, assembly, association, convention council, board, and COMMITTEE DEBUNKATORY,

And as such, we do hereby adopt, publish and declare, this, our Constitution,

By-laws, and Statutes, in the following words, and in the following manner, that is to say, to-wit : ARTICLE I.

Name of the Organization . SECTION I. The name of the said organization is hereby declared to he: THE BLITHE and BENEVOLENT BROTHERHOOD of BUNKSCOUTS

( Unlimited ) , that is to say, B. ,B. B. B., ULTD . ARTICLE II. Emblem and Coat-of-Arms.

SECTION I. The Emblem of the Order shall consist of two crossed Water man Fountain Pens, rampant, in a field of Carter's Ink, triumphant, with ink wells , couchant, as a border.

SECTION II. The foregoing coat-of -arms shall have a legend , which shall be communicated sub rosa , and in a whisper, only to members in good standing, in these words, to-wit :

“ The Pen is mightier than the Cross ,” which shall be interpreted as follows, that is to say : " The virtues of our neighbors are matters of their own concern ; their faults we drown in INK .” ARTICLE III . The Motto of Our Brotherhood.

SECTION I. The motto of this Committee shall be : “ DEBUNKATE FRATRIS ! ”

103

E. Haldeman -Julius which, when translated into English, signifies, denotes, and means :

brothers !"

“ Debunk .

This command,in the singular form , was uttered, or, at least, should

have been uttered at Mark Antony, when the latter was engaged in the famous bunkiloquent address over the body of Caesar. ARTICLE IV.

Officers ofthe Organization. SECTION I. This brotherhood shall have one ( 1 ) president, director, head, leader, king, duce, director, and commander-in-chief, upon whom we do hereby bestow, proffer and thrust the modest title of Supreme, Sovereign, Serene MAESTRO DEBUNKATORE ( S. S. S. M.D. ) .

SECTION II.

The term of office for the said president shall be durante

beneplacito, and as long as he shall remain bunkless.

SECTION III. The duties of the said president shall be : (a ) To issue Edicts Debunkatory, whensover the occasion shall arise therefor.

(b ) To direct offensives, raids, attacks, and battles against any and all Buncariums, fortresses and citadels of Bunk, whensoever such are discov ered by him or his assistants.

(c) To supply chariots of War, and other vehicles of expression, notably the 9

Haldeman -Julius Monthly, upon which the membership may ride in their minor debunkatory excursions. ( d ) To do, or refrain from doing, such other things as in his wisdom he shall see fit.

SECTION IV. The other officers of this Brotherhood shall be designated OWL BUNKSCOUTS . They shall be not less than four hundred in number , and shall act as accomplices , coadjutors , correspondents, lieutenants, disorderlies , aides de camp, disciples, second fiddles, accessories before the fact, and after the fact, juris- consults, advisors , and agents of the PRESIDENT , and in particeps criminis with the said president . SECTION V.

The other duties of the aforesaid OWL BUNKSCOUTS shall

be the following : ( a ) To scout for, detect, discover, unveil , hunt for, seek out, search for, un

cover, and otherwise find, BUNK, in all its manifestations, and report the same forthwith to the President.

(b) Carry out such Edicts and Orders Debunkatory, as shall, from time to time, be directed to them by the President. ( c ) Prescribe, in an advisory manner, the method of attack, upon such bunk ifices as they have discovered.

( d ) Destroy small or insignificant Buncadillos that shall fall into their path , without troubling the President.

(e ) To do such other things as they shall deem fit, the provisions of the fore going Constitution to the contrary notwithstanding. ARTICLE V. DE MODUS DEBUNKANDI.

SECTION I. Debunkation shall be conducted in two distinct forms, to-wit : 1. By example, that is to say, by leading Bunkless, though not necessarily sin less or virtuous lives.

2. By actually performing debunkatory services and deeds ; and in this connec

tion we caution all members to reflect that our organization is literary and not military in character, and that all debunkation must be conducted in writing. Such literary forms of debunkation shall be in the following rhetorical style, to-wit :

(a ). DEBUNKATIO VI ET ARMIS : That is to say, with sledge hammers, with brick - bats, with catapults, with cannon , with jack -knives, with stilettos ; by

dynamite, by battering -rams, by purgis ct calcibus, administered preferably a pos

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teriori; by ambuscade, by lying in wait, by flank attack, by blockade, by deflation with pins and needles, and by similar literary forms of offense and defense. Such

forms, however, shall be used only by such Scouts as shall be familiar therewith, and who shall be unacquainted with gentler styles of literary composition. (b )

DEBUNKATIO IN FORMAE LAETAE :

This is recommended as

the most effective form, and shall be conducted by : jeering, hissing, hooting, horse laughing , buffoonery, mockery, caricature, parody, sarcasm, travesty, irony, raillery,

and, most important of all, if one possesses the rare ability to use it, Allegorical Satire.

Next to Satire, which we consider the highest form of debunkation, we

are pleased to mention a certain practice which has, since time immemorial, proved effective for purposes of calling attention to folly, to-wit : laughing in ore's sleeve. The victim of this form of derision is offended at first, but will finally carry his own sleeve to his face, and will join the show, to indicate that he, forsooth , is not the one who is being thus treated ! We do, therefore, recommend that all debunkers

and bunkscouts provide themselves with long and ample sleeves, in which to practice this art.

(c) There is a minor form of debunkatory offensive which we are pleased now to list, that is to say : By using weapons which are themselves pure bunk, to-wit : abstracts of title ; legal documents ; medical prescri tions ; sermons ; political

platforms, and similar instruments of torture, which , if persistently used, will some times effect temporary partial debunkation. The foregoing suggestion, be it hereby acknowledged, is based upon that form of bunk which prescribes for a dog-bite the hair of the biting dog, for antithetical results. ARTICLE VI. PENAL STATUTES : LEX TALIONIS.

SECTION 1.

As between brothers of this organization the strictest TOL

ERATION shall prevail, the members being hereby admonished, toward brothers suspected of Bunk, to observe the Golden Rule, to-wit : That, He who hopes that his hocus shall not offend, Should overlook the pocus of his friend, PROVIDED , HOWEVER, NEVERTHELESS : SECTION II .

That if a member of this Brotherhood shall appear in the

Council Chamber of the Order, or elsewhere, in a state of Inflatio causa Bunkis, he shall be deemed guilty of a felony ; and, upon his being himself convinced thereof ,

he shall be first systematically deflated, and shall, thereafter, be condemned to spend, in thesupreme boredom of Main Street, the period of three (3 ) consecutive days ; PROVIDED, however, that the said brother may atone for the fault, by writing fifty-six simple debunkatory articles, or, in lieu thereof, four (4) bur

lesques, or one ( 1 ) satire, upon subjects demanding instant debunkation. SECTION III . Upon a second conviction of the same offense, the said mem

ber shall be adjudged to be too fortunate to live ; and he shall, accordingly, be condemned to read, within the space of three weeks, the Shepherd of the Hills, by Harold Bell Wright. If he survive the ordeal, his guilt shall be deemed conclusive, and the trial judge shall be rewarded for his wisdom ; but if he shall die, then, in that event, the entire Brotherhood shall attend his funeral in a body. ARTICLE VIII .

SECTION I.

AMENDMENTS : This Constitution shall be at all times

considered the paragon of perfection, and no amendments thereof shall be tolerated or permitted.

SECTION II. PROVIDED , HOWEVER, that a decided minority of the members present may, at all times, propose such amendments as they consider advis able, and such amendments shall forthwith be adopted ; and in this connection , we do hereby establish the fact to be, that the opinion of one ( 1 ) bunkscout, honestly,

logically, and bunklessly arrived at, shall be equal to the combined notions of 397 other members of this Brotherhood.

E. Haldeman -Julius

105 ARTICLE IX. REVOCATORY CLAUSE.

SECTION I. Having exhausted our constitution in the composition: thereof, it now occurs to us that such documents and compositions are, and from time im memorial have been, essentially, necessarily and unavoidably the last refuge of political, social and judicial BUNK , and, therefore, SECTION II. Though we hesitate exceedingly that which we are about to do, SECTION III . We do NEVERTHELESS consider it necessary in view of the reasons given in Section I of this Article, to keep our beloved Order and

Committee safe and sane from all equivocation, complication, and other forms of damnation invented by constitutional lawyers, and, consequently, ARTICLE X.

SECTION I.

WE DO HEREBY revoke, recant, annul, cancel, repudiate,

disavow, disown, dismiss and disclaim this, OUR CONSTITUTION and all parts, sections, articles, preambles and provisions thereof, including all of the words and figures of the same, remaining alone and unrevoked, this, our ARTICLE OF RECANTATION . The said revocation shall be effective, in the same manner, to all intents and purposes, as if the said Constitution had never been composed, written, conceived, or even thought of.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, we, the undersigned, do hereby adopt the fore going Constitution, its Revocatory Clause being specifically included, this 20th day of February, in the YEAR OF OUR CONSTITUTION, ONE ( 1) . WITNESS OUR HANDS AND OUR SEALS :

AN ARCTIC VACATION ?

HY not go to the Arctic zone — say, within picknicking distance of the North Pole — for your next summer's vacation ? Laugh

W plorer.

coldly at the suggestion if you will, but it's pleasant up there, according to no less an authority than Stefansson, Arctic ex One advantage Mr. Stefansson undoubtedly has in discussing

climatic and other conditions in the Arctic region ; he has been there,

The trouble with the old school-book description of the far North ( which is only slowly being superseded ), says the celebrated explorer, is that it was written by men who had never been there. The prevailing idea that the Arctic zone is perpetually cold and uninhabitable by people not born to the rigors of the climate, that it is the “ land of eternal snow ,”

that the Eskimos live in ice houses ( igloos ) , drink oil and converse in a “ blub-blub” language, is a striking rather than a true picture. “ Yes,' says Stefansson, " a man can rear a family in the Arctic zone.'

And the

Northern explorer cannot complacently view himself as so much a hero “ when confronted in the Arctic by an ordinary young ‘schoolmarm' teaching Mary and Johnny in a government school." There is summer in the Arctic and one can work up a sweat. “ Once I crossed the Arctic circle on a trip down the Mackenzie river," says the explorer. " In the

background were great forest trees, some more than 100 feet high . Out of the forest the Eskimos came running to meet us, perspiration streaking down their faces."

At times, an “ Eskimo pie” would taste good even to an Eskimo.

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What is generally believed regarding the " dreary land of snow and ice " is as follows: "The North Pole is the most difficult place in the world to reach .

It is the last word in chilliness .

The Arctic zone is

covered with eternal snow and ice, in most of which there is no vegetation

except lichens and mosses and occasionally some bushes big as a lead pencil . Most of the Arctic sustains no life of any kind. The few in habitants, Eskimos, live in ice houses and drink oil.” As few people have ever thought about homesteading in that country or establishing a business so far away, they have accepted this view without question. The facts, so different from the shiveringly thrilling romance, are of

a nature to surprise many who first laughed at the notion of an Arctic vacation. In a recent lecture in Kansas City, as reported by the Star, the explorer describes the North : The North Pole is not the most difficult place on earth to reach, inasmuch as

the gulf stream, a current which warms Iceland, strikes within four hundred miles of the po

which, in the Arctic winter, may be reached by dogsled.

There is

snow in the Arctic zone in the winter ; in the spring the snow vanishes, leaving

virgin soil, on which grass and flowers grow, even as on the plains of Kansas. The temperature of the Arctic sometimes goes ashigh as 103 degrees Fahren heit. It is not the coldest place on earth in winter. The temperatureof the North Pole region probably never descends lower than_55 degrees below zero. As a child, Mr. Stefansson went to school in North Dakota in a temperature of 54 degrees. Forests run 150 miles north of the Arctic circle in Canada and three hundred

miles above the circle in Siberia. Daisies grow on the northern coasts of the north ernmost islands of the world.

Eskimos do not drink oil, except for money given by tourists. Similarly, the insistence of American tourists to see the grave of Hamlet resulted eventually in Hamlet's grave, fenced in, for admittance to which an enterprising Dane charged a fee.

Eskimos do not live in ice houses.

It is not surprising that wrong ideas of a theoretical nature should persist, when a particular portion of the earth — and that not so remote from civilization, not inaccessible, and not unvisited — should be so in accurately known at large. When facts are so slow in circulating, how can opinions be sound ? And to state facts is not to have their full reality

immediately felt. Doubtless for a long while people will think of the distant North according to their old habit. A picture once implanted in the mind, and one too that is unusually picturesque and impressive, can not so easily be ousted by a picture drawn closerto the facts. We think of man's efforts to understand life, and his still more

amazing efforts to go outside of life on speculative ventures, and then we remember that one of the greatest tasks of man in the achievement

of knowledge has been simply to find out what kind of world , in the matter of mere appearance , he is living in. Consider how long it was before man discovered that the earth is round ; how for thousands of years he thought it was flat, and feared that if he went sailing too far on the seas he would fall over the edge of the world , and would land God only knew where. People still think romantically, not realistically, of the East. South America is for the most part unknown country to the average man. The South Sea islands are imagined as a scene of primitive savagery, whereas civilization has marked them for its own.

It is not so many years ago, in the early 90's, that George Kennan ( The

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Exile System in Siberia) surprised many readers with the knowledge that Siberia is a habitable, rich , agreeable country with varied climate

and scenery, and not some dark, cold, forbidding limbo. Now at this late day we learn that the Arctic zone, if not so pleasant as the middle of our own temperate zone for winter living, would be quite comfortable for a summer vacation. A PLEASANT LITTLE DINNER PARTY

GOOD, a very good, dinner ; good people, a thoughtful, inter esting group, not idle in mind, but liking smart discussion with their food and drink. At this dinner party, the next war was

the subject. At the start they agreed that the next war is inevitable. Yes, as the salad was passed around, and in between ex clamations of the deliciousness of this dish, it was definitely agreed that all present would live to see another war. It was also the consensus of opinion that the next war would be very much more terrible than the late war.

References were made to

books describing the probable features of the next war, more frightful and immense - poison gases ; air raids ; a war perhaps without warning, onenation suddenly swooping down upon another with mighty and swift engines of destruction ; civilians in as much peril as soldiers. What nations would be involved in the next war ? Well, there was

Japan and Russia and America -- but why limit the thing, said everyone in unison, for the next war will involve the whole world.

All agreed that this was the best dinner they had had in a long while. The subject of war was for a moment sidetracked by a discussion of different- recipes for cooking beans and the edible relationship be tween cheese and apple pie.

Shortly, however, without any diminishing of appetite among the diners, the conversation again took a serious turn ; and itwas conceded , without a dissenting note, that civilization was headed for destruction and that it was futile trying to save it. This agreement did not pre

vent some minutes of very earnest talk on the desirability and prac ticability of various theories and tactics for saving the world, even

though manifestly it could not be saved. Yes, plainly civilization was hopeless, the world could not be saved, indeed there wasn't time, the war would finish things ; but, just as it was very pleasant to eat this dinner within possibly a few decades of universal catastrophe, so it was inter esting to discuss world-saving theories. And it was the general opinion, after the question had been carefully considered, that the next war might happen within ten years and would very, very likely be within twenty -five years. Twenty -five years seemed, indeed, to be a reasonable time. A war every generation, said one. Pass

the dressing which, by the way, is excellent. And it is the sense of this meeting, of this dinner party, that while we are waiting for the next war, we will enjoy the few remaining years of peace ; that, if civilization is to be destroyed, that is no reason whv we should not make plans for tomorrow and next week .

It is all like the story of the unlucky Arab who was chased by an angry camel, and climbed a small tree overhanging an abandoned well ;

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1

the tree, insecurely rooted, began to bend and slide toward the well, in which, at this critical moment, the poor fellow espied a venomous reptile ;

and in this position, in the few moments left him, the fellow ate and enjoyed some berries that grew on the tree. Or let us agree that the philosophy of this dinner party,speculating in this mood on the future ofhumanity, is expressed very well in Samuel Butler's note on “Accumulated Dinners," as follows : " The world and all that has ever been in it will one day be as much forgotten as what we

ate for dinner forty years ago. Very likely, but the fact that we shall not remember much about a dinner forty years hence does not make it less agreeable now , and after all it is only the accumulation of these

forgotten dinners that makes the dinner of forty years hence possible." PITCH FOR PASTIME

JOUR persons, intelligent and strong and in the best of health , did not wish to go to bed for another couple of hours. They did not know what to do in those two hours, except, as a last

suggestion welcomed with relief , to play an indefinite number of meaningless hands of more or less aimless pitch. You know what pitch is ? To explain it in a general way, you deal , and then you bid, and then you draw, and then you discard, and then you throw one card upon another, and you keep doing all this over and over again until you are ready to quit.

The above-mentioned quartet pitched a couple of hours away ac cording to the “ usual custom,” to quote the incorrigible tautology of a They played friend of mine. They played without much enthusiasm without any deep, earnest purpose. They played with about as much

enjoymentas they would have had sitting utterly idle, had they felt like sitting that way. Not that I expect a great deal more from pitch . Not

that one should expect it to be played intellectually or artistically or religiously. I simply record the facts and the spirit, or lack of spirit, that marked the occasion. And the only reason that I mentioned this game of pitch is because of the brief philosophical statement made by one of the players . “ I don't want to be too original,” he said, “ and so I will only re

mark that life is brief. In evidence thereof I need only quote Mr. Shake speare , who exclaimed , or made one of his characters exclaim, ' Out, brief

candle !' and who furthermore observed, also through one of his char acters, that ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on , and our little life is rounded with a sleep.' Very well. Granted. Life is brief, and there is considerable evidence in all ages, including the present, that man re

grets the fact ; he is not satisfied with the brevity , the swift passing, of life.

" A few years, and then no more of thee and me. One can imagine oneself living to what is called a good old age ( and which no one feels is really anything of the kind, for what are seventy years compared with

yesterday's seven thousand ?) and still one realizes that all this is com paratively just a spasm . and a flash of consciousness. Turn an empty wineglass down ? Surely, but after all we have only been drunken

E. Haldeman - Julius

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a little while, and the wine remains, the glasses are yet filled, when we are gone .

“ Yes, life is brief-'art is long and time is fleeting' - we feel that a cheat has been put upon us ; we should like to live at least twice as long or indefinitely longer ; three-score years and ten , even with a handful of

years added for better measure, are not long enough for the enjoyment and achievement for which we yearn and of which we feel capable. And, as better men than I have observed, as our years are fewer and drawing to a close, we think how much better we could have managed with the years that are flown.

" Moreover, man not only feels that his life on earth is too short ; he doesn't really want to die at all, and in his sense of the insufficiency of life and the unbearable limitation of individual consciousness, he dreams of immortality, by turns desperately and fondly clings to the idea, and wills to believe himself immortal .

“ The shortness of life, the dream of immortality — under such cir cumstances, of course, every moment of a man's time is precious and

death can never call upon him that he will not find him engaged in something passionately interesting, important, which he cannot bear to drop. “ Yet it is not so .

Even so brief a life is too much for man, where

fore he has invented what he calls 'pastimes'- ponder the word in con

nection with mortality and immortality

to while away the hours in

which he is absolutely at a loss for thought or action. " Pastimes ! In the light of a brief candle, in a life rounded by

a sleep ! What ! Is our life — are the days of our numbered ? Must we then die ? Yet, right now, we better way of living than to spend a couple of hours —and only because we are not ready to go to bed. We

life - s0 stingily can think of no in playing pitch say, in fact, how

we wish we could be sleepy. " And there is another thought. Think how much of our life is necessarily spent in sleep. Think of the dull hours we pass. Think

of the many things we do, not because we particularly care to do them, but because we have not the ingenuity, actually because we have not the spirit, to do anything better. Think of the waste of the hours of a life whose hours are so appallingly too few in number ! “ And we can't help it. Man did the obvious and necessary thing when he invented pastimes.

“ Here we see the double cheat that Nature has practiced upon us. We are cut off with a short life, only one life which is a tale quickly told, and then it is so arranged that we are not mentally and physically able to live this life at the highest, most eager, most vivid pitch of living, but must let many hours of it slip through our hands in the trifling pitch of pastime.

" It is unjust. It is ridiculous. It is sad , maddening, a blunder, a joke. It is the irony of ironies. It is anything you like, but it can not be helped.

“ And, when all is said and done, spades are trumps. See the grave digging scene in Hamlet. Spades are trumps. "

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HAM AND EGGS : OR, INSIDE LOOKING OUT

O I entitle this affectingly human document, this wistful bit of Americana, for that is plainly what it is, first of all and last of all, about—just plain ham and eggs. There is of course some thing said about ham and eggsin relation to Americanism. There is even a side glance at political economy, although I don't myself see that this branch of dismal and difficult science has laid its hand upon the industry of the hens or the birth rate, growth and destiny of hogs. And while this is ( or these are ?) plain ham and eggs that is ( or are ? )

under discussion, there seems to be a rough and indeed quite passable

kind of poetry and philosophy to be got out of the subject. It depends on how the subject is viewed. One man eats his ham and eggs; he eats them at least once a day and perhaps oftener ; they plainly satisfy his appetite, and that is all . Another man eats ham and eggs ; is deprived of the delectable dish ; remembers it " oft in the stilly night”; and writes about it with a zeal that is maybe not so surprising when we remember that “ distance lends enchantment to the view .” The very human, very

affectionate, and very thoughtful attitude toward ham and eggs, which is displayed in the letter below, will be, I think, explained to everyone's satisfaction when it is known that the letter was written by a hapless

fellow creature who, in durance vile in the federal penitentiary at Leaven worth, Kans ., sees the gleam of the Yolk and the hearty texture of the choice cut with the glamor of something “ loved long since and lost awhile .” The letter, written after all in a remarkably cheerful spirit, is from N. H. Pyron, who is Number 20227 in the institution of sighs and

memories aforementioned. Mr. Pyron may not be a one hundred per cent American, but his remarks indicate that he is a good American as regards ham and eggs. His letter follows : There is one very important-no, better yet, one very essential - thing William Feather left out of his list that makes America one hundred percent. And that is

" ham and eggs,” commonly called, just plain, in good old American parlance “ham You know how the waiters sing it out: h-a-m-an' ! Why did he overlook this all-important appendage to our civilization ? No. It is not an appendage; it an ’.”

is the “ It” of our American one hundred percentism , our civilization. If ham -an ' has disappeared from the American table, as he indicates, there is only one

thing it can be laid to - capitalist production , as my good Communist friends would inform you. You know they have such a funny way of quoting Marx ; and from the way capitalist economy is sizing up all over the world, I believe dear old Karl Marx knew his onions, eh ? But now I am drifting away from just plain ham-an'.

When I was out there some six years ago ( I'm now doing fifteen years here in Leavenworth ) ham-an' seemed to hold the center of the stage. As president of the Castle Crag Strawberry Plant Grocers' Asosciation , and I was a fugitive

from “ justice” at the time (a little too much talking during the war, in 1918 ) , at Dunsmuir, Calif., I did quite a lot of travel. No matter whether I ate on the

diner, in the Oakland Hotel, Oakland, Calif., or in a ten -cent chop house, the usual order for breakfast was ham-an' with their bright golden eyes wide open, and of course the conspicuous “ side" of flapjacks reposing beside the plate of ham-an'. The only degree of prosperity between these different places I found ham-an' in was the style of dishes . The food values were the same. On the

diner and in the Oakland Hotel I only paid more, first to eat while I ran , so to speak, and second, while I gazed on the beautiful frescoed work on the walls,

1

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etc. But all the time it was ham-an', real and not imagined, with their yellow eyes wide open and inviting . I saw no difference in the size, taste or looks of the

eggs in either place. Of course there was a psychiç satisfaction I got on the diner and in the Oakland Hotel I did not get in the chop house. They appealed

to my esthetic sense of beauty, etc. But I'm drifting again. The fact that Mr. Feather failed to mention ham-an' makes me believe that the " mode of production ” has so changed that ham-an' has been shoved off the stage and that the nation has been reduced to a bean and atma standard of

living. ( This would be hard on you, H.-J. ) . While these may be all right, yet they do not supply the body with that energetic vitality, that restless spirit of activity, that “ go -get-'em ” stuff which makes it a pleasure to live. This makes me think of what N. Bukharin wrote in his "Historical Materialism .”

“ Did mind

produce matter or did matter produce mind ?” and answers, “ Matter came before mind ; without matter there could be no mind. "

There, without ham-an' there

could be no intellectual processes of life. And so, the smell of America is not enough for me; it may be for the hundred percenters. Every once in a while I get a smell of ham -an' as the pungent odor emits from the guard's kitchen ; it is then I realize that the smell of America is only a hundred percenter's pipe dream. I could perhaps do easier time if I could bring myself under this illusion. But somehow my physical anatomy cries out for ham-an'.

If I believed in the soul, I should unhesitatingly declare that our friend Mr. Pyron has a soul. Poetically speaking, he is soulful anyway. A rare quality of insight or maybe the profound influence of adversity ( so eloquently hymned by prosperous writers) has revealed to him the harmonies and higher things of life ; he sees beauty in the “ bright golden eyes” of eggs that are swallowed hastily by many a soulless brute; the simple things, too often taken for granted, are become radiant to his

longing reminiscence and vision of yesteryear.

Where are the fair

ladies and where are the snows and where are ham and eggs of yester year ?

I readily agree with Mr. Pyron that ham and eggs are typical of our American civilization , and that it is a strange oversight to omit them from a recitative of America's best ; and I can reassure him , if reassur

ance of any solid kind it may be, that ham and eggs have not disappeared

from the American bill of fare. Did Karl Marx say anything about ham and eggs ? Anyway, while capitalism has scrambled some eggs industrially speaking, it has not interfered with the apparently natural

union of these well-nated articles of diet. Not even the phenomenal {

rise of the sandwich in general gastronomic esteem has, so far as I can see, affected the popularity of the elder dish . It is significant, too, as Mr. Pyron points out, that there are no class lines as regards ham and eggs ; that is to say, high and low and middle classes all eat their ham-an'. There is, however, a difference in the eggs. Not all that glitters is pure golden yolk. I prefer to trust the eggs in a first-rate hotel rather than in a ten-cent chop house.

There is something else I would like to say about eggs, if I could think of it-oh , yes, it is this: It is aa crime against the natural symmetry, beauty and color scheme of eggs to scramble them. It is positively unimaginative, and indicates that one cannot see any farther into the heart of an egg than its food value. And hard -boiled eggs not only make people sick ( particularly children, when they eat too many) , but

the egg itself, when treated in this manner, has a sickly look. But alas !

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the trouble is that eggs, while they appeal to our sense of beauty, cannot after all escape their destiny of being eaten ; they affect the stomach as well as the eye, and the fact is that man's stomach craves variety, a change of menu even though it is slight and not fundamental, wherefore | ithappens that occasionally, contrary to the logic and the eternal fitness of things, we order scrambled eggs. We may do it resignedly : we may, in self -defense, steel ourselves to do it unfeelingly ; at any rate, we simply yield in such instances to our animal nature.

So much for eggs. As for ham, it sometimes makes us feel grati tude toward the hog and almost respect him. It reminds us too of Sam uel Butler's remark that man is the only animal who remains on friendly

terms with his food until he is readyto eat it. And then, sometimes, the strife is prolonged in the absurd form of indigestion.

The report on beans isthat they are marching on as steadily and triumphantly as the soul of John Brown. Oatmeal, I believe, has fallen into a just and unlamented decline, being superseded by various forms

of breakfast food that resemble shavings and sawdust. It is not much to say, but I am sorry you are in prison, Mr. Pyron. Why not write and tell me exactly why you are there ? I gather it is

because you talked , sense when others were shouting madness. I am glad you enjoy the Weekly. And I wish that you could enjoy ham and eggs, both poetically and gastronomically, three times a day.

GREAT NEWS

ANY problems, great and small , engage the attention of men

M

throughout the world ; and a man is apt to see these things out of proportion and exaggerate the problem that most interests him ; and this is especially true when his interest is a very There is the problem of world peace ; of war debts ; of

selfish one .

the increasing cost of government; of the Jazz Age and morality ; of crime and its suppression or reduction or treatment; and a lot of prob lems pertaining to the curious ways and the difficult management of human nature. And then, not to keep it back any longer, there is the problem of the persistence of ham and eggs as a popular dish in the daily diet of America.

Some weeks ago I had a letter from N. H. Pyron, in durance uncomfortable but resigned at the Leavenworth, Kans., penitentiary, in which that gentleman expressed not a little concern at the possibility, which somehow had been communicated to him , of the decline of ham

and eggs in popular favor. This made him think that people keep out of prison, not because they are intelligent, but because they are lucky . I did my best to reassure Mr. Pyron. I told him that my observation , casual, of course, and not covering the whole country, showed ham and

eggs to be still holding their own.

I don't know whether I suggested

that such a startling change in American life as the subsidence of the

immemorial ham and eggs would be featured sensationally on the front

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pages of all the daily newspapers ; anyway, that would have been a reassuring and possibly true thing to have said.

But it's no use to cry over spilled milk or spoiled eggs or burned ham ; and it is still less use to cry when none of these things has hap pened. Good news - great news, indeed — of a more definite and official kind has come to Mr. Pyron's relief. And he, wishing to strengthen

my own faith in the solidity and beneficence of the best in life, sends me the following item whichhe clipped from the San Francisco Bul letin : “ Ham and eggs are still the premier American breakfast delicacy, according to Allan Pollok, managerof the Southern Pacific's dining car

service.

The company's chefs last year prepared 226,922 pounds of

ham and 3,359,352 eggs for dining car breakfast tables. Co-starring with ham in the accompaniment of eggs, prime bacon played its part to the tune of 54,620 pounds during the same period.” This is a splendid record. Somehow one feels that life will go along all right while men continue to eat ham and eggs or even, ina kindred combination, bacon and eggs at this rate. I read the other day that the American continent is slowly sinking; some day this country may return to the fishes ; but it is not possible to be dismayed by such far-off events so long as one has that feeling of familiar trust in life which comes from the steadfastness of the appetite for ham and eggs. This seems to me a better basis for optimism than any furnished by Ralph Waldo Tripe et al. YOUTH WILL BE SWERVED

HE young men of America are not walking gently into the fold of the Christian ministry as they once did. Whether it is the effect of science, the influence of the jazz age, or

the plain preference for pursuits that are more interesting and that offer a more attractive future, it is true that during the past quarter

of a century the young men have been gradually swerved aside from the path of professional holiness. It is so evident that it is felt some

thing shouldbe done about it, as I gather from a circular letter issued by the First Presbyterian Church of Pittsburgh, Pa. This church has nothing brilliant to suggest by way of making the ministry much more attractive to the young; but it is more solicitous of the preachers it still has, many of whom are well along in years. “ We would do well to heed the fact,” says this circular, “ that over 50 percent of our clergy is past fifty years of age, and that there are but

half the young men in our seminaries that there were twenty-five years ago. " The appeal is made for good Presbyterians to " consecrate" their

dollars to provide a pension fund for preachers. Alchemy is no longer believed in, but when one “ consecrates ” one's dollars they are turned into something of sacred value beyond mere money. Purely as a church question, no doubt preachers should receive better care ; if Presbyterians honestly believe that their preachers give

them heavenly guidance, they shouldn't be stingy with their dollars; the complete and beatific assurance of salvation ought to be cheap at any

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price. Those who cannot see why preachers should exist at all—who ask nothing from the preachers except to be let alone, and would indeed

consider it a sign of very great progress if this profession were entirely to die out — will not be interestedin the question of pensions for a declining ministry. They are interested, however, in the report that >

the young people no longer look so favorably upon a career of preaching. It is not unreasonable to assume that these Presbyterian figures reflect a general tendency. Although the influence of the Church has

of late years been used more freely and successfully in the way of organized interference with laws and customs, it is not such a serious force in the individual life. As the Church has become more a machine

for political control , lobbying and the business of " reform , " its signifi cance for the individual has, I believe, undergone an important change. Men are no longer so devoutly attached to the Church, or, as the

preachers say, so “ spiritually” moved by it, as they once were ; religion, in a word, is not so much a matter of inner conviction as of outward

allegiance. The Church can still exercise a dangerous influence politi cally, so that even many who are not members will follow it in its agi tations ; it has learned something of the methods of modern business and is a more business-like, better organized force ; but personally even

those who respond tamely or thoughtlessly to the rallying cries of Church politics feel less real devotion for the Church and are less influ

enced by it in their own lives ; following the lead of the Church , they remain men of the world, and subscribe to the Church as they do to a

lodge or a club. There is more enthusiasm, of the " pep ” variety, at a noonday luncheon club of business men than is to be seen in the ordi nary church .

This changed attitude toward the Church is, I believe, reflected in

the diminished zeal of young men for entering the ministry. Some years ago it was considered an honor for a young man to become a preacher; he could do so without appearing ridiculous; now it is regarded as rather a foolish step, certainly far from the best choice in life, not what a real

man with ability and ambition would think of doing. Young men are more attracted by the secular professions, by business, and by mechanics . There the call of opportunity, the call of real life, the call of manly activity is greater ; and the call of Christian consecration is no longer so

convincing. A young man nowadays who talks of having a " call” to preach will, even by the majority of church members, be looked at as

queer and rather a boob ; certainly not as a " man among men.” Modern youth is more realistic, more independent, and more lively in its regard for the interests and activities that fill the great world outside the church doors .

The young men want to enjoy life with as little hypocrisy as pos sible, they want to be free, and they want to get the rewards of life.

How can the Christian ministry appeal to them ? It is more recognized as a useless job and at the same time a job that is unnatural and lim ited, one which separates a man from his fellows and robs him of his

simple freedom of action ; and, even to many church people or people

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who believe in churches, there is a good deal of sickly cant about the clerical profession . As for the blustering and sensational type of preacher, who puts on a show, there is more real admiration for a good

An acrobat or a song-and-dance artist is, after all, aa man ; a preacher is not quite å man, and he himself must inevitably vaudeville actor.

assume the role of one who is not as other men ; I am sure that many preachers hate this necessity, this inevitable tendency, and that they

often feel resentful toward these unnatural features of their profession. Yet such is the penalty of being set up as a sort of example for men, and therefore presumably as a better man, and thrust by the force of tradition and circumstances into the unpleasant role of judge, guide and conscience for other men.

The average young man of today is more interested in keeping his own actions free than in concerning himself with the conduct of others; he has less - desire to save souls than to live his own life .

What can be

more absurd than "saving souls" ? What can be less appealing as a job for a real man in the real world ? So it is, I believe, that the young men feel and this is why they no longer enter the pulpit, which is a kind of confession of failure at the beginning of one's life. Naturally, I like to see the young men letting the ministry slide: Next to more freethinkers, the best thing is fewer preachers.

ONLY GLANCED AT

HE other day I spent some time, in a sort of idly interested

spirit, in an old bookstore. I was reminded how easily one can often tell , by a glance at the title of a book or at its first page, that it is a volume of decided bunkistic tendency - or get such a strong impression of bunk that one is not disposed to investigate further .

Here, for example, is a novel that has for an explanatory sub title, “ A Story of Today.” To begin with, that information is point

less, and it is also a foolish device to attract attention by something that is not in itself necessarily meritorious. A story of today may be any kind of a story, and particularly a bad story, one that would bore the reader to tears, and impel him to go out and walk around the block in

order to find something interesting. Now a good story doesn't have to be tagged in that manner, for every intelligent reader knows that it

may be a story of today or yesterday or tomorrow , and yet if it is a good story, no one asks more.

It may be unjust, but I always have a suspicion that " A Story of Today " will be doing well if it lives until tomorrow , if it is not forgotten before the day is over. True, great novelists usually write of the life

they know and the day in which they live ; but they also give you life and character that is changeless, that indeed triumphs over such diurnal

limitations; a story written by a master a hundred years ago may, for that matter, be more a story of today—that is, a story of life which is

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as interesting today as it ever was — than the book which so deliberately claims that doubtful honor.

Next to this day's story which will disappear with the day's light is a novel whose interest is exhausted for me by a glance at the intro duction . In this introduction, the author is careful to say that if in this

story he has written anything that is against God's will , he does devoutly hope that God will forgive him. A story-teller who is that uncertain of himself, who has written with one eye on his story and the other eye

straining for a glimpse of God's countenance, is not likely to interest me. From his point of view, he probably needs the forgiveness of God, for he has been practicing, even though poorly, the art of lying. What is the title of this next book ? Plain Facts. Lord, the poor author ! Didn't he want his book to be read ? Or was the poor man

just simply too dull to make even a pretense of interest that would bring A book with the single -worded title, Facts, would be forbidding enough. But plain facts—that is to say, the author warns

him rcaders ?

you in his title that his facts are not of any special or unusual or inter

esting kind. They are facts without charm, as plain as a simple sum in arithmetic.

Next I see a title that errs in the direction of a sort of broad,

vague, ornate fancy, just as Plain Facts errs on the side of plainness. This title is The Valley of Vision. There is an uneasy feeling that the author chose the title for its alliterative sound, which is bad enough, and

then it is not really good alliteration, which is worse still . And, any way, is there anything attractive about a Valley of Vision, just the sug gestion of it, to lead one to enter such a valley ? One shudders at the thought that maybe this is a story in which someone goes through a long

spiritual ordeal , symbolized by climbing a hill, and that in the end a great spiritual vision - the true spirit of life perhaps — will burst upon him, and that will be the valley. But then one reflects that, after all, it may mean nothing more than that in the last chapter the hero dis covers that he loves the girl, that this will be the great vision that comes to him ; although why a valley is so necessary a setting for either truth

or love , I don't know . Most certainly, I shall not go to that valley, not even if it is the scene of a ghost story, for I have already read all the ghost stories that I need in my life.

Immediately forgetting the valley, I open another novel, as it hap pens at a critical scene. But I, too, am critical , though I trust not

unjustly so : and when the girl says to her lover, sadly, " I must wait until I know whether your love is only desire, " there I close the book and look at it no more.

I don't care whether she finds that his love is

only desire or whether it is really aversion . Often one cannot tell much from the title of a book.

are titles which are misleading.

And there

Harold Waldo's novel, Stash of the

Marsh Country, published several years ago , sounded uninterestingly and even depressingly like a James Oliver Curwood tale ; and yet it was a very good novel , a real story of character, with color and con

vincing action and emotion that made itself felt. A Room With a View is the title of a novel ( by E. M. Forster , I believe that stays in my mind and is most pleasantly inviting ; if, with such a charming title,

ܶ‫ܐ‬

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that is a dull or poorly-written story, I should feel disappointed and

hurt. Something interesting distinction, ought to happen in that room, and the artistic significance, view should have beauty and

an

a true

relation to character ; and it should not be obstructed by billboards. THE PLAYWRIGHT AND THE PUGILIST

ENE TUNNEY , who won the championship title from Jack

Dempsey, is trying for critical as well as pugilistic honors. He says firmly that he doesn't think much of Bernard Shaw's novel, Cashel Byron's Profession. He objects that Shaw has

made the pugilist hero of that story " a blundering vulgarian ” and fur ther says that the heroine, a refined woman, would not have been drawn by merely physical attraction.

This is not a very good start for Tunney as a critic. We are not aware that even today prize-fighters are such mannered, cultured fel lows, although Tunney is said to speak good English and to be some thing of a reader; and certainly, a quarter of a century ago, when Shaw wrote the novel in question, the men of the ring were a hard class, well

entitled “bruisers.” Cashel Byron was far superior to the general run of pugilists in his day, and is certainly not a real character because ( a fact which Tunney seems to have missed ) he is endowed by his creator with Shaw's way of thinking. Like all of Shaw's chief char acters, Cashel acts as Shaw would have acted

the same ituation and

he is a mouthpiece for the author's clever epigrams. As for a refined

female falling before the sex attraction of a strong lusty male, that is so obviously a possible and a common thing that one is just a trifle surprised to see it called in question. From one circumstance, however, Tunney can take doubtful com

fort. No less a critic than Shaw himself has written, in the preface to one of his early novels, that those novels, his first ventures in author

ship , do not rank high as literature. He practically apologizes for pub lishing them, but explains that the texts were extant and available, that he saw they were doomed for publication regardless of any wish of his own ; therefore he resolved in self-protection to oversee their pub

lication, to warn the public against them too seriously as art and, as it were, to minimize the offense.

Thus in a characteristically Shavian

style he disarmed his critics, and poor Tunney is indeed very late with his objections, which objections, after all, are not the right ones. Shaw decided that as a playwright, a critic and a philosopher he would do better than as a novelist.

Yet, do not infer that those early

novels are uninteresting or not worth reading ; they are charming, stim ulating revelations of Shaw, of his personality and thought, and contain criticisms of men and manners that are amusing, whimsical, and thought ful. We can even suppose that Tunney's brain was whipped into action by Cashel Byron's Profession, although he may not have derived from the book any hints that would be useful in his business.

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NEARLY EVERY DAY IS A GOOD DAY

B

UT this is a specially good day, better than usual, my hormones working splendidly, thank you, and not a gland awry. Let me explain why I say that " nearly" every day is a good day. That is true, because there are days when I don't feel as good

as I feel on other days, days when I am not so hormonious, and there are days when I am really in a bad humor. I don't always know why, or will not take the trouble to find out. However, most of the days are good, because — well, because I am in the pink of health and I am agreeably busy and I find something to laugh at and something to think

about and, certainly not the least, although I mention it last, I receive such splendid letters from my readers. Please do not faint when I declare that I am a modest man. What ?

Can a man be modest who expresses his opinions on everything under the sun so freely and extensively and decidedly as I do ? Nevertheless, I am modest, for I do not want to save the world entirely and imme diately and according to a perfected plan that I thought up myself ; and I do not want to solve every unsolved question and discover every undis

covered secret; and I do not want to establish a new philosophy, that shall be full and complete and universal in its scope ; and , most assuredly and most repeatedly, I do not want to found a new religion. No, all that I want is to do good, intelligent, useful work ; to interest many peo ple in that work ; and to feel that I am getting an appreciative response from the minds of many thousands of readers; to feel, in short, that I am living a civilized life and helping or encouraging others to live it. And now for the letter which came today, and which threw me

into this spasm of enthusiasm, and makes this such a very good day. Of course I get letters of interest and approval every day - bundles of

'em, too many to read fully, and obviously too many to notice and answer through my columns. But this particular letter is intimate, appealing, heart-warming. It brings to my mind a picture, a simple and fine pic ture, that I want to share. The letter is from a man and his wife,

Julia Church Kalar and James J. Kalar ( 678 Shelden Ave., Detroit, Mich . ) . If you can read this letter and not have a sympathetic feeling of the pleasure it gives me, then you are a lost soul and the saints could not save you. I except those who believe that I am engaged in

the devil's work. Naturally, they would not rejoice over the letter. They would see in it only another sign that the world is being hurtled

rapidly and recklessly toward hell. It is for those who can appreciate it - and as well for my own satisfaction—that this letter is published : There are in our house at least sixty -eight happy periods a year-fifty-two Weeklies — twelve Monthlies — and four Quarterlies. Quite recently a man from Alpena, Mich., was calling at our home and he remarked that he absolutely didn't believe he could exist in that small town — with no one to listen to in the form of a

lecture, except the preachers—if it were not for the Haldeman - Julius publications. He said they were like a cup of water to a desert traveler. And he, of course, is

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only one and how many thousands there are in this country feeling the same.

We

like you (maybe we differ sometimes ) , we like Marcet, and we like, above all you

do, the Quarterly. We have always been buying the Little Blue Books, too.

Truly, those are golden words. They don't say much, and yet they say everything. They put me in “spiritual” communication — you see, I am cribbing from the preachers — with that surely delightful couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kalar.

I can imagine them taking turn about reading

the Weekly aloud, and discussing it, and chuckling over it, and it is even fun to think of them disagreeing with a certain idea that I have

let slip, and still better fun to think of husband and wife disagreeing amicably yet animatedly over some question that I have raised . they will enjoy the same kind of companionship with the Monthly and the Quarterly .

Yes, my friends the Kalars, there are thousands like you. It is not simply this solitary letter that encourages me so much-although that, as you see, has struck me in just the right hormonious way ( attention, Nick* ) —but it is the fact that the tone of this letter is the same that I find in hundreds of letters that reach my desk . We are a big family the Haldeman -Julius family. We are making our mark. We are happy.

And we are not selfish in our happiness — not entirely, extremely so for we invite the world to share in our happiness.

Now, if this that I have just written is not bubbling over with brotherly and sisterly love, and good will to all men ( of good will ) , and a beatific spirit that even Jesus didn't surpass with his Sermon on

the Mount—if it is not, then I am a liar and a blasphemer, and you can go to Billy Sunday for your good will with " muscular Christianity " thrown in for good measure. KIPLING AND " TOMMY ATKINS"

N mentioning Rudyard Kipling, one naturally uses the past

tense. His significant lines are in the past. He lingers as a shadow of forgotten things, as an echo that no longer has a convincing tone. His late poem, upbraiding America for its lapse from the high mood of the war to the sordid consideration of war

debts, showed how completely he is dead. The poem was a failure,

both as politics and as poetry, and served only as a reminder of the passing of Kipling. And so, thinking of a phase of the real Kipling, I write that he was an imperialist, a saber -rattling poet, one who loved to sing of the march of British arms around the world and of " the white man's burden,"

which burden consisted of the heavy weight of treasure belonging to the darker races of the East.

But there is one aspect of Kipling's

imperialism with which one can sympathize. It is not simply his sin cerity. It is his intimate and even passionate affection for the common British soldier who had to bear the burdens of the Empire.

These

men, to the poet, represented the valor and hope of the Empire. He *My linotype operator.

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did not view imperialism from an impersonal or foreign office stand point. His feeling was with the ranks . He could not be accused of failing to realize or being indifferent to the real hardship and heroism of his " Soldiers Three" and the "far-flung battle line" celebrated in his Barrack -Room Ballads .

For Kipling had lived in India, and he had known imperialism , not as a brave tale heard from afar, but as a reality of sweat and blood. He introduces himself, as the ballad singer of Empire, in the follow ing stanzas : I have eaten your bread and salt,

I have drunk your water and wine, The deaths ye died I have watched beside, And the lives that ye led were mine. Was there aught that I did not share In vigil or toil or ease

One joy or woe that I did not know, Dear hearts across the seas ? I have written the tale of our life

For aa sheltered people's mirth, In jesting guise—but ye are wise, And ye know what the jest is worth.

The sympathy, often the indignation, and the earnestness beneath

the jest appear clearly, strongly enough. The sense of injustice at the treatment of the plain British soldiers is felt more than poetry or humor in the complaint put into the mouth of “Tommy Atkins.” It is only when fighting is to the fore, when dirty and bloody work is to be done,

that “ Tommy” is of any account. In his own England, “ Tommy” is something quite below a civilian. He is — or was—not wanted any where. He was a butt and an outcast, who had to take second best.

But “when the band begins to play, my boys” —and “ when the drums

begin to roll” —then a remarkably different attitude is shown, “ Tommy" is a hero , and it's " Tommy, 'ows yer soul ?" Kipling the imperialist and patriot was more consistent, honest and human than most others of his belief — the mere flag-wavers—when he wrote : O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an ' they're starvation cheap ; An ' hustlin' drunken sojers when they're goin ' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you ;

An' it sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints...

1

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's uniform is not the soldier -man's disgrace.

It is the style of some patriots to praise the upper, glorious show

of rulership . The rulers who control the destinies of the soldiers from

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a safe distance of thousands of miles, and who benefit from the strug

gles and the deaths of these soldiers, are usually the figures of glory that hide the sacrifice which make that glory and uphold that rule. But

Kipling spoke for the soldier even though he seemed to be disrespect ful to Queen Victoria ; and certainly what he wrote about " The Sons of the Widow ” was not calculated to flatter the pride of the Widow . There is irony in his recital of the Widow's power and possessions, her Empire that encircled the globe, for he plainly says that the credit for it all goes to the soldiers in the ranks who are the sons ( or rather the slaves ?) of the Widow. And what is more, those who win and defend the Widow's

dominions endure a hard and thankless life-a life whose end is mo mentarily threatened-for their pains. One can easily believe that Kipling offended the Widow and lost the poet laureateship when he sang of the " Poor Beggars ! - Victorier's Sons !" Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor, For 'alf of creation she owns :

We 'ave brought 'er the same with the sword and the flame, An' we've salted it down with our bones.

( Poor beggars !-it's blue with our bones.) Hands off o'the sons of the Widow, Hands off o' the gods in 'er shop. For the Kings must come down and the Emperor frown

When the Widow at Windsor says “ Stop !" ( Poor beggars !-we're sent to say “ Stop !" )

In literature, Kipling is recognized as the singer of the British Empire, but he was not the perfect patriotic celebrator of that Empire. To be above suspicion and criticism as a patriot, he should have filled his poems only with the glamor of war, he should have made imperial ism seem more noble and attractive than he did .

One who has thought

only of Kipling as a jingo will be surprised, reading his military bailads, to observe how stark and disillusioning is the realism of these ballads. He did not picture the army camp as an ideal place, the battle as a fete, war as a happy, heroic holiday. One writing with a deliberate anti

militarist tendency, in a spirit of hatred for the imperialistic policies that required war, could not have spoken more fully of the tragic and

ugly circumstances inseparable from war.. " The Young British Soldier " does not go like a recruiting air : When the cholera comes—as it will past a doubt Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness comes in as the liquor dies out,

An' it crumples the young British soldiers, Crum- crum- crumples the soldier But the worst o' your foes is the sun over-'ead ; You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said . If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An ' you'll die like a fool of a soldier, Fool , fool , fool of a soldier

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One trying to boost the trade of empire-building is surely forget ting his duty when he lays such unpleasant emphasis upon the cholera and the sun, as well as the bullets--drums in the refrain of “ Fool, fool, fool of a soldier "—is candid to write down the fate of the sons of the ! Widow : "Poor beggars —they'll never see 'ome!” And there is another side of war, the sadness and the stricken loves of those who are left

behind, that Kipling reveals all too plainly , for patriotic purposes, in his refrain of “ Soldier , Soldier.” Soldier, soldier, come from the wars, Why don't you march with my true love ?

Thus sings the British maiden, looking vainly for her sweetheart among

the returning troops (sent somewhere to sạy “ Stop !” for the Widow ). But she is told that she had “ best go look for a new love” New love ! True love ! Best go look for a new love, The dead they cannot rise, 'an you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best go look for a new love.

What remains of the story of the fallen lover ? It is told variously but with an unchanging, steady significance : I see 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle green, An' you'd best go look for a new love.

I see 'im runnin ' by when the shots began to fly, An' you'd best go look for a new love.

I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white, An' you'd best go look for a new love. ? E's lyin ' on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead, An' you'd best go look for a new love. The pit we dug '11 'ide 'im an' twenty men beside 'im An' you'd best go look for a new love.

Again going contrary to the simple patriotic formula, Kipling had sympathy and praise for the “ heathen " enemy from whom the white man, at a great deal of trouble and expense and sacrifice of life, seized his " burden." The sons of the Widow were commanded to fight " Fuzzy

Wuzzy" in the Soudan, in the sun and sands of old Egypt, but it was no part of their orders to sing, as Kipling makes them sing, that " Fuzzy Wuzzy" was a good brave fellow and that he wasn't treated fairly, after all, that the Widow's glory was that of better-armed forces Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid ; Our orders was to break you an ' of course we went an ' did. an ' it wasn't ‘ardly fair ; We sloshed you with Mart But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square.

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'omein the Sowdan ; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin ' man ; An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy -Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air You big black boundin ' beggar-for you bruk a British square.

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When Kipling wrote his Barrack-Room Ballads and his Soldiers Threc, imperialism was a triumphant sentiment, and the British Empire was a real , immense, vital fact and subject of swinging, swaggering balladry. Now the British Empire is disintegrating, dying if not dead, facing the problems of independence and the emergence of a national out of a colonial consciousness in the members of what is more a feder

ation than an empire. No longer is it so true that the Kings must come down and the Emperor frown When the Widow at Windsor says “ Stop ! ”

And the “ 'alf o' creation she owns ” is not as really owned as once it . was .

The pomp of imperialism , its pride and profit, do not seem so

convincing as at the beginning of the present century. A quarter of a

century has made the Empire of Kipling's ballads less real politically, though not less real as literature, not less striking as a poetic theme. There is something youthful, stirring, young and alive, about Kipling's poetry of “ the far -flung battle line." And, for all the truthfulness with

which these poems vividly reflect the real sufferings and sacrifices that made the Empire, the bold adventurous spirit of war is in them ; some

thing of the glamor of war is in them, in the sheer martial rhythm of

these marching stanzas, but it is a terrible glamor; it is something to thrill one reading

in the rather than invite to its actual experience. If Kipling was the poet of British imperialism, let us remember justly that he did not sing of it in a gaudy, false, too sentimental style.

He was a true poet, and a realist as well, for he had sympathy and a clear view of the human elements of his subject that are so often over looked by those who celebrate the glory of empire. We can understand

why , for all his jingoism of political conviction, notwithstanding the genuineness of his British patriotism, Kipling has never been ardently and unreservedly acknowledged by the imperialists as their own. He told too much. He sang too truly. We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor It's safest to let 'er alone :

For ' er sentries we stand by the sea 'an the land Wherever the hugles are blown . ( Poor beggars !-an ' don't we get blown !-)

THE KAISER SPEAKS

E still calls himself the Kaiser, says George Sylvester Viereck, in an interview with the former ruler of Germany, appearing in The Saturday Evening Post. To an onlooker, it may well seem strange that one could get satisfaction out of a meaningless title, and a title, too, that does not live in glorious memory before the world. It is a point of pride, for the ex -Kaiser thinks he is still the rightful ruler of the German people. Although the will of the German people

forcibly contradicts his vain assumption, he has the truly tyrannical,

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royal and withal ridiculous notion that what the people of a country wish has no validity. One man has the right to consider himself mon

arch, though a whole nation dissents, and that effectively, from his claim. It has long been known, what is repeated with emphasis in the Viereck interview, that the ex-Kaiser nurses his pride with the stern consolation of the martyr whom the world misunderstands, who has been cruelly misjudged and misused, but who is conscious of his rectitude.

This scarcely real yet surviving figure of the world before the war looks at himself as a hero — the greatest friend the German people ever had

-and, strangest of all, a hero in the cause of peace. While not for a moment believing in the simple notion of Germany's sole guilt in bring ing the war, still it is a most foolish and arrogant claim that the ex-Kaiser was a peacemaker. He was no more the friend of peace than any other ruler or leading statesman in Europe. Like the rest, he might have been favorable toward peace if he could have had it on his own terms . Interests—the interests of rulers, the interests of power and trade, and not the interests of peoples — were in conflict, none would yield, and the rulers sacrificed their millions of human subject lives, while no ruler lost his own life. As the trite phrase goes, the ex -Kaiser is able to " spend his declining years in peace" -- the war lord , the autocrat of a nation that for years built mighty armaments and, when the time came,

sent them forth with mighty armed hosts to terrify, destroy and slay during four years.

The nations that were opposed to Germany alleged that Germany , that the Kaiser - was directly and solely to blame for the catastrophe. And the ex -Kaiser declares that his enemies ( who, however, did not manage to reach him personally ) were the guilty ones. Both sides are

right, forboth were guilty. Anyone who can believe that the ex-Kaiser loved and desired peace is capable of believing anything, however pre posterous. If it were possible, if he had the strength of numbers and

munitions and advantage, the ex -Kaiser would send armies to slaughter again today that he might regain his throne.

Aside from the war, which occupies relatively little space, the Viereck interview deals personally with the character, habits, and views of the ex-Kaiser. Especially are we told at great length, and in William's

own words, how dearly he loves and admires his present wife. I must say that it is about as dull a thing as I have ever read. For me, the ex

Kaiser praising the virtues of his spouse, and telling how he l-o -v -e-s, is not more interesting than a similar rhapsody ( which is altogether too

fine a word to honor such flatly commonplace expressions) from one of Girard's leading citizens. Granted that the ex-Kaiser loves his wife and that she is a great comfort to him, what of it ? Many other men can say as much and, to the weariness even of their best friends, say it too often .

One remark that William makes about his wife is amusing : “ Like a good Christian, she forgives her enemies. She forgives them readily, but she does not forgive mine.” Any way you look at it, that remark is a gem, but it is even more smilable when you reflect that husband and

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wife have the same enemies. Perhaps William , too, is a Christian in that he forgives his own but not his wife's enemies. One sees how easily the Christian doctrine of forgiveness can be reconciled with the natural emotions. Love your enemies, but not your wife's nor your friend's nor your brother's nor your ruler's enemies : or, as an American preacher delightfully said in a patriotic wartime sermon , the commandment to love our enemies doesn't mean that we should love God's enemies .

So, good

Christians, just identify your enemies with God's enemies, and hate to your heart's content.

We learn from the interview that the ex -Kaiser is really a husky sawer of wood ; that he is in good health ; and that he regularly holds

religious services in his household at Doorn in Holland. We are also told, by the wholly admiring Viereck, that the ex -Kaiser is a thinker. “ The evenings in Doorn,” says Viereck, " when he tells of the books he has read and discusses scientific and political questions that engage his

mind, are as entertaining as a course of lectures by a whole staff of professors.” What kind of professors ? high school professors ? That William occupies his mind with certain thoughts, there is no occasion to doubt. That he is a “ thinker" depends upon how much of a

thinker is meant. Intimately connected with war as he hasbeen, he has not revealed any valuable thoughts on that subject. Specimens of his thought in the Viereck interview do not impress one strongly. Surely many men would be capable , without any great previous meditation, of expressing this thought of William's on the womanliness of woman : “ Bobbed hair is abominable.

Poets of all nations for centuries have

praised woman's hair as her glory. The pictures of Palm Beach beauties and film stars who make themselves look like boys are disgusting. I

am dead against obliterating the distinctions between the sexes. immoral.”

It is

In a word , men should be men and women should be women

-truly a profound as well as a pious utterance. Poetry and piety are rather mixed, however. Is it immoral to bob the hair because the poets have praised long hair ?

Those who worship the image of Jesus as the Prince of Peace will be interested to read this statement of the ex -Kaiser's, which also indicates a depth of thought almost equal to that of a Methodist preacher : “ Christ is a living presence to me, not a figure on a stained-glass window ." !

What better place to close than on this reverent thought? Let us leave Jesus and the ex -Kaiser, walking side by side. Jesus is reported to have said that he came not to bring peace but a sword ; the sword , and

many other instruments of death and torture, did their awful work for centuries in Jesus' name. The ex -Kaiser says that he wished to bring peace but, to his professed surprise and grief, his hand slipped and he

unsheathed the sword instead. The sword that brought death to his

people, brought slavery to his country ! The German people are paying for the war, while the ex- Kaiser, a wealthy and free man , is living in dignified idleness in a Dutch castle !

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AN HISTORICAL NOTE ON TOLERATION

HE virtue of toleration has never been possessed by any party

which had a fanatical belief, which was in power, and which felt itself safe with public opinion in the exercises of intoler ance . Those who raise a new dogma in place of the old will

not necessarily prove themselves more tolerant than their predecessors in the seat of inquisition. An uninformed and prejudiced audience, listening to the harangue of a Protestant preacher, will be persuaded that only the Catholics were guilty of cruel, bloody, monstrous persecution of heretics. The truth is that the Protestants, according to their oppor tunities, were as viciously intolerant as the Catholics. Their combined

record shows that not one church or one creed, but Christianity, must bear the odium of having killed men for opinions' sake. An idea of how the Protestants conducted the business of religious " propaganda of the deed " is given by Sydney Smith, himself a celebrated Protestant preacher of the Church of England in the first half of the

nineteenth century, as follows : Henry VIII, with consummate impartiality, burnt three Protestants and hanged four Catholics for different errors in religion on the same day, and at the same place. Elizabeth burnt two Dutch Anabaptists for some theological tenets, July 22 , 1575,

Fox the martyrologist vainly pleading with the queen in their favor. In 1579, the same Protestant queen cut off the hand of Stubbs, the author of a tract against popish connection, of Singleton, the printer, and Page, the disperser of the book. Camden saw it done. Warburton properly says it exceeds in cruelty anything done

by Charles I. On the 4th of June, Mr. Elias Thacker and Mr. John Capper, two ministers of the Brownist persuasion, were hanged at St. Edmund's-oury, for dis persing books against the Common Prayer. With respect to the great part of the Catholic victims, the law was fully and literally executed: after being hanged up, they were cut down alive, dismembered, ripped up, and their_bowels burnt before their faces ; after which they were beheaded and quartered. - The time employed in this butchery was very considerable, and, in one instance, lasted more than half an hour.

The uncandid excuse for all this is, that the greater part of these men were put to death for political, not for religious, crimes. That is, a law is first passed, making it high treason for a priest to exercise his function in England, and so, when he is caught and burnt, this is not religious persecution, but an offense against the state. We are, I hope, all too busy to need any answer to such childish, un candid reasoning as this.

It would be similar reasoning to say that young Scopes' trial in Tennessee was political, for a violation of law , forgetting that the law was in the first place absolutely an act of religious intolerance ; and a man violating a Sunday law , also a religious law , would be held the same as

any other lawbreaker. Say that a teacher refuses to read the Bible to his pupils, where the state law says that shall be done; he is discharged, and it is hypocritically denied that he has been the victim of religious intolerance ; it is alleged that he simply refused to do his lawful duty which would be exactly as good an argument as if the law he had broken had been one commanding him to attend church. Law is not some

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thing sacred, that cannot be wrong, and that has a peculiar nature called "political” apart from any other other motives. motives. What is back of the law ? what is the object of the law ? are important questions. A law inspired by religious or moral bigotry, a law that is tyrannical in its origin and purpose, is not the less an outrage nor the more defensible because it is passed by legislators rather than preachers, enforced by policemen instead of preachers, upheld by judges instead of by preachers. Three hundred nineteen Catholics, says Sydney Smith, were put to

death for their religion in Protestant England, politically of course and with the forms of-law , because the Protestants were in power and made the laws. And you will note that this persecution was not confined to Catholics. Among the victims were Protestants who dissented from the Established Church and started newer, independent religions.

It was

enough to differ on certain points of religion, even " dispersing books against the Common Prayer,” for hanging to follow. The Protestants had their hands full, as so many creeds sprang up, independent evangelism was rife and ran an erratic course, and heresies both old and new had to be combated. It is hard, in a way, to have the job of trying to make

every one hold a certain belief ; and, even with the unrelenting exercise of extreme power, the job proved to be impossible. THE TRAPEZE PHILOSOPHER

4

OUG FAIRBANKS, who is admittedly awfully athletic, tries also to be philosophic in a recent article.

He strikes a little

different note on the subject of exercise ; and in a way it is timely, as we have truly been bored a good deal with talk of our bounden duty to exercise for our health's sake, and to keep fit and

strong, and cultivate our muscles, etc., perspiringly. Now, says Doug, standing deftly on his head, it is all wrong to consider exercises as a

means to an end. Exercise is an end in itself. A good body, says he, is not considered as the reward of exercise ; but the great joy of exercise is to be regarded as the payment for having kept one's body in good shape.

There is delight, to be sure, in having a body that responds to our demands upon it ; there is joy in brisk and healthy motion. But we cannot quite follow the excessively agile and robustious Doug in his hymning of the high privilege and pleasure of exercise. For he would have us chinning ourselves, balancing ourselves on the trapeze, turning somersaults, jumping over chairs, sliding down banisters, kicking the ceiling, etc., etc., all in the spirit of a most delightful and joyous pastime. He would have us believe that the Daily Dozen is really an inspiring game; that calisthenics ought to be regarded by us as ideal fun ; that

using our muscles for extraordinary and absurd stunts is a pleasure that is purely and properly its own reward. No thanks. We are content to be good, healthy animals without going in for daily acrobatics as an end in life. Certain forms of exercise we shall still see as destitute of any virtue save that of mere exercise.

We are far from denying that the Daily Dozen may be beneficial to some persons who cannot easily indulge in forms of activity that are

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really pleasurable and in which exercise is a by-product ; but the man

who can regard the Daily Dozen as independently and in its own right a fine kind of recreation, a sport, a game, a joy to be hugged to oneself as a treasure of physically fit life - such a man, we declare, is most ludicrously hobby -ridden and is lacking in imagination. Let us play ; let us feel the joy of health ; but if we are going to exercise, let us not fool ourselves as to its nature. The man who can get rhapsodic about swinging on a trapeze is the kind of man who can look forward to a fastingspell as a wonderful experience, arare joy, a beautiful end in itself. This may be the way Doug feels about it ; we remember, after all, that it is a part of his trade. Frankly, I do not feel so. I shall not equip my private office with trapeze and punching bag , nor practice jumping over my desk.

M

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