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THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
THE MARGIN OF 
 HESITATION 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK MOORE COLBY 
 
 M 
 
 Author of 
 
 "Imaginary Obligations" and "Constrained 
 Attitudes" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1921 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 r 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 ©CI.A627634 
 
 PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 
 
 NOV -8 '2 
 
 -ho j 
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 I Trolley Cars and Democratic Raptures 2 
 
 II Thinking It Through in Haste 11 
 
 III The Language or Feminist Debate 23 
 
 IV Pleasures of Anxiety 48 
 
 V Hating Backwards 58 
 
 VI After the War in Thompsontown 71 
 
 VII International Cancellation 85 
 
 VIII The Lesson of Literary War Losses. . . 93 
 
 IX On Behalf of Harold McChamber 106 
 
 X Subsidizing Authors 113 
 
 XI Incorporated Taste 119 
 
 XII Barbarians and the Critic 126 
 
 XIII Reviewer's Cramp 135 
 
 XIV How to Hate Shakespeare 145 
 
 XV Confessions of a Gallomaniac 154 
 
 XVI The Classic Debate 173 
 
 XVII The Choice of Bad Manners 189 
 
 XVIII Tailor Blood and the Aristocracy or 
 
 Fiction 205 
 
 XIX Our Refinement 213 
 
THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 TROLLEY-CARS AND DEMOCRATIC 
 RAPTURES 
 
 If the appearance of the people on both sides 
 of the car shakes your confidence in the future of 
 democracy; if, while your eye travels along those 
 two deadly parallels of blank-featured human 
 latitude, you mutter to yourself, " Blood will tell, 
 and after all class systems are necessary," and 
 wonder what the world will come to when it is 
 left to the plain people, such exceedingly plain 
 people, for example, as those five awful ones 
 nearest the door; and if you feel all your radical- 
 ism oozing out of you, including the initiative 
 and referendum, recall of judges, short ballot, and 
 proportionate taxation of swollen fortunes; and 
 if, as six more of them get in each with a face 
 like a boiled potato, you begin to distrust the 
 whole foundation of popular rights, even trial by 
 jury, even habeas corpus; if, I say, this sort of 
 thing happens to you now and again, as no doubt 
 it does, there is always an easy means of con- 
 solation. 
 
2 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 Photographs of European royal families were 
 published almost every week during the war, and 
 can be obtained from the files of the newspaper 
 supplements. Clip them and paste them properly 
 and they will cure this phase of democratic melan- 
 choly. I have here a set of Hapsburgs whose 
 faces if placed side by side would be as desolating 
 as anything ever contemplated in the subway. 
 Line a trolley-car with these Hohenzollern heads 
 (without any helmets on them, naturally) and no 
 one would suspect the presence of any person 
 above the rank of gasfitter. He would merely 
 suspect that the car was headed for the borough 
 of the Bronx. Add to the rich supply of wooden 
 visages in the various branches of these two 
 families, all the pudgy, inane, commonplace, un- 
 pleasant, or commercial countenances possessed by 
 the members of every other royal or ducal dynasty 
 for the past century or two; place them in two 
 rows with only the heads showing, and you will 
 feel as you would feel on the way to Coney 
 Island on a Sunday afternoon, except perhaps that 
 you will miss the kingly features of the Long 
 Island railroad conductor, or the royal bearing 
 of his youthful heir apparent, the brakeman. My 
 own collection of royal personages — and I have 
 no reason to think the photographs inaccurate — 
 makes every morning subway trip seem like a 
 royal progress. 
 
TROLLEY CARS AND RAPTURES 3 
 
 But though reconciled to the future of de- 
 mocracy, including that of the people in the sub- 
 way, I cannot be sanguine about it. The pleasures 
 of the advanced thinkers who assure me of it 
 are denied me. I never have any luck in picking 
 out the signs of the times. Even when I do suc- 
 ceed in catching up with an advanced thinker I 
 never share that bright and early feeling. For 
 example, I once got abreast of a man much ad- 
 mired in his day for mental forwardness. I for- 
 get his name, but recall that it was short and 
 energetic, and suited to this Age of Steel — some- 
 thing like Chuggs, I think. He had been pent 
 up as a young man in some college professorship, 
 but had broken away and was lecturing on pro- 
 gress along all the principal railways of the 
 country. 
 
 Professor Chuggs was one of those who as- 
 sure us at short intervals that the present moment 
 is the most egregious moment of the most egregi- 
 ous year of the most egregious century that "the 
 world has ever seen," and that the next moment 
 will be more egregious still. He wrote a good 
 many of those articles before the war which de- 
 clared that China is turning over in her sleep and 
 that Persia is buzzing; that in the waste places of 
 Africa five business men will soon be blooming 
 where one blade of grass had grown before ; that 
 through the mighty arteries of commerce the Life- 
 
4 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 blood of civilization is coursing to the extremities 
 of the earth; that already there is open plumbing 
 in Patagonia and that steam drills are busy in 
 Tibet. He used correctly all the terms employed 
 in his business, including "giant strides." 
 
 His magazine, "The On-Rush," which was de- 
 fined in a sub-title as "A Handbook of the Coming 
 Cataclysm," announced as its policy the avoidance 
 of conformity with "every bourgeois conception," 
 which, in its application seemed simple enough; 
 for the writers had merely to find out what a bour- 
 geois conception was, and then take a flying leap 
 away from it, no matter in what direction. It 
 opened with a "Hymn to Moral Rapidity," of 
 which one stanza ran, as I remember, something 
 like this : 
 
 One thought in the bush is worth two in the head, 
 And a dogma's the clutch of the hand of the dead; 
 So pull, pull away from the sands of Cathay, 
 And forge to the forefront and strip for the fray. 
 Up and off with your mind in the morning. 
 
 So it tossed systems of philosophy about like 
 bean-bags, hit off each classic writer in a phrase 
 careless but final, was on familiar joking terms 
 with all the sciences, explained woman, silenced 
 history summed up everything and everybody — 
 the human race, the fathers of the church, genius, 
 love, marriage, and the future state. In short, 
 
TROLLEY CARS AND RAPTURES 5 
 
 each page was conscientiously prepared as a mus- 
 tard-plaster to draw the blood to some unused 
 portion of the reader's intellect. 
 
 Yet it had no such effect. On the contrary, 
 one gathered from it nothing more specific or ex- 
 citing than that materialism was an inadequate 
 philosophy, that socialism was in the air, that 
 there was corruption in politics, that education 
 did not educate, and that marriage was a good 
 deal of a bother. Apparently the editor and con- 
 tributors had nerved themselves by battle songs 
 into repeating these common remarks of the tea- 
 table, all in a tone of desperate valor, as if hourly 
 expecting each one of them to> be their last. 
 
 I suppose there must be " new thinkers" in this 
 country, and that they must sometimes come out 
 on the news-stands. Yet a "new thinker," when 
 studied closely, is merely a man who does not 
 know what other people have thought. The 
 " new thinker," if I may attempt a definition de- 
 rived from my own unfortunate magazine read- 
 ings, i9 a person who aspires to an eccentricity 
 far beyond the limits of his nature. He is a 
 fugitive from commonplace, but without the 
 means of effecting his escape. 
 
 Not that I deny the approach of the social 
 revolution. I merely say that since the social 
 revolution will come about through the sort of 
 people one ordinarily meets, it will not be par- 
 
6 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 ticularly exciting. This extreme excitement of 
 many social thinkers over the people one ordi- 
 narily meets has nothing to do with the nature 
 of the people; it is a free gift of the temperament 
 of the thinkers themselves. 
 
 Possessed of this light, gay, literary disposition 
 they will often bubble over at the sight of persons 
 and objects that leave almost everybody feeling 
 rather spiritless. For example, an American so- 
 cial thinker, presumably a middle-aged person 
 and living in one of the most prudent portions of 
 New England, that is to say near Mount Tom 
 in the state of Massachusetts, can become ecstatic 
 at the bare thought of an American business man. 
 According to him this business man "plays with 
 the earth mightily," and " grasps the earth and 
 the sky, like music." Railroads remind this social 
 thinker of Heaven. 
 
 Life is no tangled web for him, nor is the 
 world in the slightest degree unintelligible. War 
 and wickedness and all that sort of thing used to 
 trouble him a good deal, he says, but that was 
 before he had really thought them out; now he 
 feels quite comfortable about them. What is the 
 use of "puttering," he says, "theorizing, historiciz- 
 ing, diplomatizing?" Get down to business and 
 look humanity in the eye. People, he finds, are not 
 so bad as they seem, and the only trouble with 
 them is that living in a machine age they have got 
 
TROLLEY CARS AND RAPTURES 7 
 
 caught in the machinery. The way out of it is 
 easy. It is simply a matter of inspiring million- 
 aire business men. "The inspired millionaire " 
 surrounded by his " inspired or elated labor " will 
 soon be filling the world with the " awful, beauti- 
 ful resistless tread of the feet of the men of 
 peace." 
 
 Now this may well be true. Nobody knows 
 what might have happened already if Mr. Mor- 
 gan, or the Rockefellers had had the advantages 
 of Moses. Or take a simpler case. Suppose the 
 president of the Boston and Maine railway passes 
 a night alone with this social thinker on the cloud- 
 capped summit of Mount Tom Massachusetts, 
 and comes down the next morning with eyes 
 aflame. He returns transfigured to his office and 
 soon the inspiration runs all along the line, stock- 
 holders dancing and praising God, trains starting 
 on time amid Hosannas, and the seven devils that 
 are in every baggageman turned into swine and 
 drowned. Sanctification of other lines soon fol- 
 lows, and there is no reason, assuming the divine 
 nature of the guidance, why it should not spread 
 rapidly throughout the world. There is no doubt 
 that by inspiring millionaire business men suffi- 
 ciently anything can be done. But for that mat- 
 ter inspiration and revelation could work wonders 
 through almost anybody — through a labor leader 
 as well as through a millionaire. Who knows, 
 
8 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 for example, whether Samuel Gompers walking 
 with the Lord might not have been just as effica- 
 cious as John Wanamaker on the island of Pat- 
 mos? However, it is unreasonable to look too 
 closely into this matter. The main point is the 
 temperament of the writer. Exaltation can be 
 had by him on easy terms. 
 
 On the other hand an equally talented British 
 visitor on encountering the " average" American 
 business man was recently excited in a directly 
 opposite way, and yet almost as violently. The 
 business' maft is always the same, says he, " from 
 east to west, from north to south, everywhere, 
 masterful, aggressive, unscrupulous, egotistic;" 
 " a child with the muscles of a man;" " a preda- 
 tory, unreflecting, naif, precociously accomplish- 
 ed brute." It is a rare man to whom as he 
 travels about " everywhere " all business men 
 will seem the same. It springs from a gift of 
 nature. 
 
 Each of these writers ran on passionately in 
 this manner for many pages, quivering, ejaculat- 
 ing, singing snatches of a psalm. They have 
 " watered the desert," says the American admirer 
 of business men, and " thought hundred year 
 thoughts," and said, " Come " to empires and 
 " Come " to the earth and sky. " Come, earth 
 and sky, thou shalt praise God with us ! " They 
 are the "masters of methods and slaves of 
 
TROLLEY CARS AND RAPTURES 9 
 
 things," says the British rhapsodist, and " there- 
 fore the conquerors of the world." 
 
 Such are the blessings of this buoyant temper. 
 For us rather jaded and humdrum persons it is 
 impossible to regard the coal man, much as we 
 dislike him, as a tiger, or to feel toward the rail- 
 way station as toward the Holy Sepulchre. We 
 too crave that vision of the Boston and Maine 
 railroad tipped up like Jacob's ladder with the 
 shining forms of presidents, vice-presidents and 
 directors, ascending and descending, accompanied 
 by corporation counsel. And it would give a 
 pleasant spice of danger to our daily visits to the 
 green grocer, could we, like that other enthusiast, 
 regard him as a jungle beast. 
 
 But that is the way with it. Some men are con- 
 demned from their nativity to matter of fact, 
 while others, surmounting all the obstacles of 
 variety, exception, and experience, can find a 
 " type " or a " superman," for the looking. The 
 term " business man," like the term " biped," or 
 " homo sapiens," leaves us cold and a little ab- 
 stracted, but in the writers of brisk little papers 
 on enormous subjects, this, or any other large, 
 loose, shapeless, social designation will often 
 arouse the keenest personal feelings and implant 
 the stoutest convictions. They can get gooseflesh, 
 or even the assurance of apocalypse, from the 
 mere contemplation of generic expressions which 
 
io THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 convey no emotion whatever to any of the rest of 
 us, except perhaps that of being a little at sea. 
 
 Finally another social thinker that I have 
 recently encountered soars far away from the 
 earthiness of these conceptions, far away from the 
 earth itself, and looking down from this height 
 on its misguided populations, thus addresses them : 
 Begin all over again, he says. If the new charter 
 of human rights does not re-create everything, it 
 will create nothing at all. Make a clean sweep 
 of all notions imposed from without; make a clean 
 sweep of everything bequeathed to you. Away 
 with God, church, king, priest, ruling class, the 
 aristocrat, and the old-fashioned republican, the 
 school as it now is, privilege of every sort, chari- 
 ties, inheritance rights, national frontiers, colonial 
 power, and so on with much circumstance as to 
 the range and depth of this damnation, but with 
 no information as to the ways and means of doing 
 the next thing that remains to be done after the 
 damnation is achieved. For the next thing, he 
 insists, is this : Be the people of peoples, and set 
 up at once the universal republic, founded on 
 equality and justice. And he is just as elated and 
 just as sure that the thing will be readily accom- 
 plished, as if he had never traveled in a trolley 
 car and never looked hard at the sort of Utopian 
 ingredients that all trolley cars seem forever des- 
 tined to contain. 
 
THINKING IT THROUGH IN HASTE 
 
 Though often entranced by that brilliant group 
 of cosmic problem-solvers — Mr. H. G. Wells, 
 Mr. Bernard Shaw and others — I insist on my 
 personal iresponsibility for the state of Mankind 
 as a whole. These men are much too busy nursing 
 civilization. They regard it as a sort of potted 
 plant which they fear to find frost-bitten of a 
 morning. This is especially clear in certain writ- 
 ings of Mr. H. G. Wells, in which he shows an 
 impatient desire to tidy up the whole world at 
 once. At one swoop he would remove the shirts 
 from our clothes-lines and the errors from our 
 minds. The world is too large for his feather 
 duster ; he had thought to find it a smaller planet 
 that he might have kept at least half-way clean. 
 Now see what he has on his hands — everything 
 in a mess, Africa backward, China careless, the sex 
 relation by no means straightened out, socialism, 
 imperialism, industrialism, planless progressivism 
 littering up things, a great war and its greater 
 failure, and nobody caring a rap — at times it 
 seems to his housewifely spirit almost too much 
 for one person to manage. And then that infernal 
 
 11 
 
12 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 human diversity — slow minds, stupid minds, minds 
 made up too soon, or not at all, closed minds, 
 tough minds, tender minds — what is to be done 
 with them? He burns to do something. 
 
 In one of his books he describes himself in fancy 
 as going about the country and, with the keenest 
 pleasure, spearing all Anglican bishops. Though 
 I am myself a stranger to the sport, I believe the 
 pleasure of spearing bishops is exaggerated. For 
 once begun it must lead logically to a daily drudg- 
 ery of slaughter among the great crowds of folk 
 who are not intellectually independent or morally 
 daring — lead, in short, to the massacre of those 
 who are not particularly exciting, a large task and 
 tedious, owing to their quantity. 
 
 I wonder if we commonplace persons are not 
 right after all in a certain instinct of distrust to- 
 ward these gifted writers. We believe implicitly 
 in their fancies and not at all in their facts. We 
 believe in the world they have invented and not 
 in the world they have observed; and we distrust 
 them utterly as world-pushers. The signs are 
 plain — terribly plain sometimes — that it is when 
 they have the smallest notions that they say their 
 largest things. 
 
 In common with other admirers of Mr. H. G. 
 Wells, I am always charmed by him and his 
 heroes when they are thinking things out and see- 
 ing things through, but I am profoundly disap- 
 
THINKING IN HASTE 13 
 
 pointed by the sort of thing they think themselves 
 into. Mr. Max Beerbohm described the situation 
 with perfect accuracy a few years ago when he 
 represented a Wells hero, after a "lot of clear, 
 steady, merciless thinking" about the muddle of 
 the universe, as finding the solution in the "Pro- 
 visional Government of England by Female 
 Foundlings." I reproduce a passage of this most 
 righteous parody, which is based, I think, on 
 The New Macdhiavelli: 
 
 True, there was Evesham. He had shown an exceed- 
 ingly open mind about the whole thing. He had at once 
 grasped the underlying principles, thrown out some 
 amazingly luminous suggestions. Oh yes, Evesham was 
 a statesman, right enough. But had even he really be- 
 lieved in the idea of a Provisional Government of Eng- 
 land by Female Foundlings? * * * "You've got to 
 pull yourself together, do you hear?" he said to himself. 
 "You've got to do a lot of clear, steady, merciless think- 
 ing, now, to-night. You've got to persuade yourself that 
 Foundlings or no Foundlings, this regeneration of man- 
 kind business may be set going — and by you." 
 
 This is not in the least unfair when you consider 
 Mr. Wells's exultant discoveries during the last 
 half dozen years or so, down to and including his 
 recent discovery of God. Here are just a few 
 of the problems and their solutions : 
 
 The future of America : This to his mind re- 
 quired instant settlement. It was absurd that 
 
14 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 nobody should have a plan. They were letting 
 America drift — that is what it amounted to — 
 and he simply could not bear the thought of it. 
 "Let America slide?" said he to himself on the 
 way over. "Let a whole continent go to the dogs 
 just for the lack of a little, clear, straight, beauti- 
 ful thinking? I should be a coward if I shirked 
 it." The solution came to him before he reached 
 New York and was confirmed in a conversation 
 a day or two afterwards. The idea, I think, was 
 that we should all marry negro women, so far as 
 there were enough of them to go< around. 
 
 What is humanity as a whole doing? That was 
 another question which everybody was dodging at 
 the time out of sheer mental indolence. What is 
 the nature of the world process? His hero thinks 
 it out. His hero "takes high, sweeping views, as 
 larks soar." He spends five years in South Africa, 
 two years in Asia, six months in America, and 
 sketches briefly civilization as it has pottered along 
 in all those continents. "Pottered," that is the 
 word for it. For what is civilization? What is 
 it? Why, hang it all, it's a "mere flourish out of 
 barbarism." What is Bombay? What is Cal- 
 cutta? Mere "feverish pustules on the face of 
 Hindustan." Something must be done about it. 
 He thinks still harder and at length it flashes on 
 him — the very thing — why had he not thought of 
 it before — a plan at once simple and vast, a plan 
 
THINKING IN HASTE 15 
 
 that was immediately practicable, yet of enormous 
 
 future potentialities, a plan . Well, the plan 
 
 was, I believe, the incorporation of an interna- 
 tional book concern which should publish the best 
 works in all languages, along with satisfactory 
 translations. 
 
 Then there was the whole sloppy subject of the 
 British Empire — King, army, colonies, Parlia- 
 ment, Church, education, London Spectator, and 
 all that. A pretty mess they had made of it, and 
 not a blessed soul paying the least attention to it; 
 so another Wells hero had to think it out. "Why," 
 said he, "the Empire and the monarchy and Lords 
 and Commons and patriotism and social reform 
 and all the rest of it is silly, SILLY beyond 
 words," and the hero in his irritation flung him- 
 self right over into Labrador to think it out, and 
 finally, after weeks of cold, hard, bitter, ruthless 
 ratiocination, he cut down to the very roots of it, 
 and he emerged from Labrador with a Plan. The 
 plan consisted, I believe, in the publication of a 
 book to be entitled Limits of Language as a Means 
 of Expression — title subsequently changed to 
 From Realism to Reality. 
 
 Another hero of lark-soaring mind is annoyed 
 by the senseless refusal of almost everybody to 
 shape his life in such a manner as will redound 
 to the advantage of the beings who will people 
 the earth a hundred thousand years from now. 
 
1 6 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 A plan must be found. The thinking required is 
 terrific, but he does not flinch, and at last he has it. 
 It is the publication of a magazine called the 
 Blue Weekly, whose motto is to be Love and 
 Fine Thinking. 
 
 Meanwhile, aside from the sweeping of his 
 heroes, Mr. Wells in his own name was doing 
 some rather brisk chamber-work about the uni- 
 verse. He let in the light on the labor question, 
 as one might open a blind. He shot his mind back 
 to the twitching, thrusting protoplasm of the 
 Carboniferous slime and he shot it forward to 
 the final man, half-angel, who should stand on 
 the earth as on a footstool and stretch his hand 
 among the stars, and he delivered a lecture on that 
 final man before some learned body. He gave a 
 ship-shape account of the human race in twenty 
 pages or so, seeing it through the ape-man stage, 
 barbarism, and civilization, and well along toward 
 the Great Solution, and then at the end put it all 
 into a diagram, not too long for a busy man to 
 carry in his pocketbook; it ran from complete 
 savagery all the way to the great, harmonious, 
 happy future state, and it was only about five 
 inches long. 
 
 Some people complain that a Wells hero really 
 does not think at all but merely explodes into 
 fragments of periodical literature. I cannot see 
 the force of this objection. Of course, Mr. Wells 
 
THINKING IN HASTE 17 
 
 is not, in the austere sense of the term, a thought- 
 ful person, and he does not make his characters 
 engage in any such dry, lonely, and unpopular 
 process as thinking. If he did, they would be 
 quite generally repulsive. But he does somehow 
 contrive the illusion that a good deal is going on 
 in their minds, and he makes them spit out be- 
 tween clenched teeth a platitude that you will often 
 mistake for an astonishing idea. That is the 
 measure of Mr. Wells's skill. The hero's mind 
 does really sometimes seem to soar over the whole 
 of civilization, when it is merely coquetting with 
 last month's magazines. 
 
 Analyze the conversation in a Wells novel, and 
 it will remind you sometimes of the cumulative 
 index to periodical literature, and sometimes of 
 the table of contents of a text-book on geology; 
 but what other novelist could give you the im- 
 pression that an index to periodicals was a fiery 
 thing or that a geological title-list was almost 
 passionate? I for one surrender instantly to the 
 persuasiveness of Mr. H. G. Wells, and when 
 the thoughts come red-hot from the hero's brain, 
 they almost always warm me up, even though I 
 have met them months before, cold and clammy, 
 in some magazine. But then comes that awful 
 moment of deflation, when the hero finally thinks 
 things out — thinks things utterly down and out — 
 gets what he is after — the great solution or the 
 
1 8 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 great keynote, or the mighty mission that is pro- 
 portionate to the mighty measure of his mind — 
 and the solution is something like the Endowment 
 of Maternity, and the keynote is, perhaps, God 
 bless our home, and the mission is, for example, 
 the chairmanship of an international commission 
 for the promotion of poultry farming. 
 
 It is, of course, exorbitant to demand of Mr. 
 Wells that the great idea when once attained shall 
 come up to our expectations, but he might at 
 least kill the hero off while still pursuing, and 
 never let him bag the game. It is unsportsman- 
 like to start him off after the largest sort of 
 scientific moose, and then have him end up by 
 stealing somebody's magazine farmyard chickens. 
 Something of this sort happens in a good many 
 of his novels, and I believe it results from his too 
 great preoccupation with the details of an unim- 
 aginable future state. 
 
 Out of an apparently impenetrable past, says 
 Mr. Wells, science has reconstructed the mega- 
 therium, and he swears that the megatherium is 
 every bit as real to him as any hippopotamus he 
 has ever met. Why then is it not possible, he asks, 
 that the same amount of scientific energy should 
 ultimately evoke from an impenetrable future the 
 creatures that shall succeed us on this earth ? No- 
 body approaching science by way of Mr. Wells 
 can deny this cheerful possibility. If, from the 
 
THINKING IN HASTE 19 
 
 past, science can produce a pre-horse or eohippus, 
 it may of course call up from the future an after- 
 horse or hystero-hippus, if it has not already done 
 so, and if, on looking back, it finds the ape-man or 
 pithecanthrope, it might conceivably, on looking 
 forward, chance on one of Mr. Wells's angel-men, 
 which, in its mad desire to raise the devil with the 
 English language, it would call either an angel- 
 anthrope or an anthropangeloid. No one will dis- 
 pute the point with Mr. Wells. 
 
 The only important point to the reader is what 
 happens to Mr. Wells when he is too much pre- 
 occupied with these two extremes. However real 
 the megatherium may seem to Mr. Wells, to him 
 the hippopotamus for fiction's purpose is infinitely 
 better company. The imagination can play around 
 a hippopotamus but on a megatherium it can only 
 toil. In the same way, owing to the lack of a 
 generally understood social background, ape-men, 
 cave men and the like are always failures in con- 
 temporary novels, and half-angels are worse still. 
 Fiction cannot proceed in a social vacuum and the 
 future space which a Wells hero thinks himself 
 out into is, socially speaking, void. 
 
 That is why he comes back so empty-minded 
 that he snatches at the first progressive-sounding 
 magazine title he finds. It is unfortunate that a 
 writer who can deal delightfully with actual 
 human beings should think himself clean out of all 
 
20 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 relation to them. In several of his books Mr. 
 Wells is wholly concerned with the thinking out, 
 not at all with the people who do the thinking. 
 This is especially true of a certain story in which 
 a bishop finds his way to God. It is not important 
 that Mr. Wells does not make the bishop see 
 God or that he does not make us see religion, 
 but it is important that he does not make us even 
 see the bishop. We do not mind our not arriving 
 anywhere nearly so much as our not having any 
 company on the way. 
 
 I confess, however, that when Mr. Wells is 
 really eloquent about his Great Solution, no mat- 
 ter which one it may be, he is apt to have me under 
 his thumb for hours. Suppose, for example, he 
 should become very much excited about malted 
 milk, and see in it a solution of every problem 
 that now troubles society. I do not know whether 
 Mr. Wells has as yet written a novel on malted 
 miilk, though he has championed other causes in 
 his fiction that did not at first sight seem to me 
 more promising. But I do know that if he should 
 write a novel on malted milk, it would, for a while 
 at least fairly sweep me off my feet. I should 
 believe that malted milk, steadily consumed 
 through the ages, on and on, would really produce 
 that final perfect human race dreamt of by the 
 hero of the narrative. It may be that for his 
 wide and probably painful magazine readings he is 
 
THINKING IN HASTE 21 
 
 taking an ironical revenge and that these Great 
 Solutions are only a sort of practical joke on his 
 contemporaries. In that case, I have been often 
 taken in. 
 
 The only excuse for thus singling out Mr. Wells 
 is that he is in these respects representative. Vast 
 numbers of contemporary humanitarian writers 
 never rise above this level to which he sometimes 
 descends. Moreover this body of writing which 
 has obviously not taken the trouble even to catch 
 up with the past is admired on the singular ground 
 that it has overtaken the future. It is the journal- 
 ism of prematurity. 
 
 It is the subject or the occasion of those breath- 
 less articles on the "modern spirit" and the way 
 we speed along; on the revolutions of taste within 
 a decade; on the terrific onward modern plunges 
 of the novelist of last week; all written by excitable 
 commentators who exclaim with astonishment and 
 sometimes alarm at the contemporaneousness of 
 their contemporaries. 
 
 But it is well known that these audacities and 
 modernities in no wise account for the hold of a 
 book on the attention. Thoughts just as bold and 
 newly dated have often put us fast asleep. In 
 books it is not the progress that is exciting, it is 
 the person you are progressing with. There is 
 not a day without its prosy iconoclasms, when 
 some of the dullest people ever known will blaze 
 
22 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 away at God, government, the family, and the 
 moral sense with the most violent intentions and 
 the drowsiest results. When the ideas are all 
 about us in the air there does not seem any great 
 audacity in presenting them. It seems rather like 
 calmly blowing back our own breath into our 
 faces. "Modernity" is an accidental quality of the 
 books to which I have referred, having no more 
 to do with their essential worth than has the day 
 of the month on which they were printed. Be- 
 cause everything is swept away that preceded the 
 date of publication, and to-day's superstitions are 
 substituted for yesterday's superstitions, and be- 
 cause there is an unaccountable tendency to deify 
 the middle of next week, which is not a very in- 
 teresting object of worship, it does not follow in 
 the least that it is a modern book. It does not 
 even follow that it is in any essential sense a 
 book at all. Literature does not stay behind with 
 progress; it moves along with experience. 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF FEMINIST DEBATE 
 
 I do not agree with certain representatives of 
 Roman Catholic opinion that the modern sociolog- 
 ist does more harm than good. I would not burn 
 a modern sociologist or even abolish him, if I 
 could. Considering him as an indefatigable 
 rodent burrowing among the roots of social com- 
 plexities that he cannot understand, I rather ad- 
 mire him, but when he comes to the surface too 
 soon, as he often does, and proclaims enormous 
 certitudes as to the soul of this nation or that, and 
 as to the direction that human society is bound 
 to take, I should like to get him back into his hole 
 again. And I question the value of a great many 
 of his biological and evolutionary analogies. Take 
 the man who some years ago reached the con- 
 clusion after the most violent sociological endeav- 
 ors that the average politician was something of 
 an ass. Why need he have fought his way to such 
 a simple consummation, when he might so easily 
 have jumped to it? Not that he said in so many 
 words, politicians are asses. He put it sociologic- 
 ally. Party cries and iterative watchwords, said 
 he, biologically, psychologically, and sociologically 
 
 23 
 
24 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 regarded, are modes of appeal to the instincts 
 of the herd, inherited from remote, probably pre- 
 historic, zoological ancestors. But when you an- 
 alyze this it comes to nothing more than saying 
 that politicians are like the prehistoric ass, which 
 adds little to our knowledge, and even as a term 
 of abuse is not much more effective. 
 
 "The scarlet paint and wolf-skin headdress of 
 a warrior, or the dragon mark of a medicine man, 
 appeal, like the smile of a modern candidate, 
 directly to our instinctive nature." 
 
 I see no value in this discovery. Had soci- 
 ology never been invented I should have known 
 that the dragon-mark of a medicine man ~ as fven 
 more primitive in its appeal than the smiles of 
 comparatively ancient types of presidential candi- 
 dates. 
 
 Laughter, he went on in his strange thoughtful- 
 ness, laughter occurs sometimes in political life, 
 but sociologically considered it is "comparatively 
 unimportant." Nevertheless let us consider it 
 biogenetically : 
 
 "It may have been evolved because an animal 
 which suffered a slight spasm in the presence of 
 the unexpected was more likely to be on its guard 
 against its enemies, or it may have been the merely 
 accidental result of some fact in our nervous 
 organization which was otherwise useful." 
 
 Why all these sociological hypotheses of laugh- 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 25 
 
 ter? My own hypothesis is just as good: Laugh- 
 ter, I contend, is nothing more than an attenuated 
 hiccough, pleasurably reminiscent of the excesses 
 of our ancestors. Sociologists can never let laugh- 
 ter alone, though you would think it was the last 
 thing they would want to bother with. There 
 was one of them the other day who after a patient 
 study of Aristotle's Portico, Bergson on Laughter, 
 Bain on the Emotions and the Will, Kuno Fischer 
 in "Ueber den Witz," Cicero on Oratory, Stanley 
 Hall on "The Psychology of Tickling, Laughter, 
 and the Comic" and some twenty other authorities, 
 came to the conclusion that "Laughter at any rate 
 is highly relaxing," but as this seemed a little too 
 informal, he hastened to express it as a "pyscho- 
 genetic law." "Laughter," said he, "is one of 
 the means which nature has provided to preserve 
 psychic equilibrium and prevent more serious out- 
 breaks." In its former state no one would have 
 noticed this remark, and now it has become a 
 sociological law, highly prized, I believe, in seri- 
 ous quarters. One never can tell the sociological 
 possibility of some little thing that seems hardly 
 worth the saying. Thus if you say, he swears 
 like a pirate, you are not sociological. But sup- 
 pose you pull yourself together and say: Pro- 
 fanity in that it relaxes the inner tension by a 
 sudden nervous discharge and offers a means of 
 escape from social inhibitions, is, when phylo- 
 
26 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 genetically considered, nature's method under the 
 conditions of modern civilized life of providing 
 an outlet for primitive emotions which in an earlier 
 period were apt to take more socially injurious 
 forms, such as piracy. You will then be taken 
 for a sociologist. I do not say you will really be 
 a sociologist, but you will look like one, especially 
 if you add a bibliography. 
 
 Sociology, as I have lately seen it streaming 
 from the press, seems to consist of two main varie- 
 ties. There is the sort above mentioned that tells 
 in a strange language what everybody knows al- 
 ready. You recognize your own thoughts, though 
 terribly disfigured. Then there is the full-winged 
 or apocalyptic kind that tells you what nobody 
 ever could know. This is the sort that sweeps the 
 heroes of Mr. H. G. Wells off to Labrador or 
 India in order to think out civilization, and that 
 propelled an excellent French sociologist, during 
 the war, straight through the soul of the entire 
 German people. 
 
 But I am here concerned especially with the 
 effect of social studies upon the language of fem- 
 inist controversy. I recall, for example, a solid 
 treatise greatly admired in its day, written by a 
 German woman of enormous industry. Toward 
 nonsense in all its forms she maintained an attitude 
 of extraordinary seriousness. She did not even 
 call it nonsense, but enveloped it in scientific-sound- 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 27 
 
 ing terms that made it seem quite dignified. Let 
 Michelet remark in a thoughtless moment, "You 
 must create your wife — it is her own wish," and 
 she straightway defined it as a "subjective erotic 
 fantasy." Some of the simplest and most familiar 
 types of men disappeared beneath her Greek de- 
 rivatives. For example, there was he who swag- 
 gers a good deal in his own household and is 
 "tame and feeble" everywhere else — he who for 
 all ordinary purposes might with perfect adequacy 
 be termed a silly sort of man. This simple defini- 
 tion by no means contented her. She said he 
 "experiences a dyscrasy," and that "between his 
 sexual life and his career as a citizen there exists 
 a latent contradiction which secretly is, perhaps, 
 as great a trial to him as to the wife who is de- 
 pendent on him." A licentious, domineering man, 
 a weak, passive, crafty, false, or ludicrous woman, 
 is an acratic person — that is to say, a "partially 
 developed being whose whole personality is deter- 
 mined by teleological sex characteristics." They 
 are exponents of "centrifugal sexuality." On the 
 other hand, persons like the Christian saints are 
 iliastric, "the highest type of centripetal sexual- 
 ity." Better still are the synthetic folk whose 
 sexuality is an equilibrium of the centrifugal and 
 the centripetal sexual tendency. She seemed to 
 have caught some bad verbal habit from almost 
 every science she had studied, but she had no 
 
28 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 doubt suffered the most from sociology. Take, 
 for example, the simple and familiar precept that 
 women should advance in morality and intelligence 
 so far as possible without shattering the outward 
 decencies. What mind uncorrupted by the social 
 sciences would conceal it under this? 
 
 To emancipate oneself from the ethical normative of 
 femininity, which fetters individuality because of the 
 teleological limits of sex, is a distinct right. But to pre- 
 serve its formal quality is the task of a free personality. 
 
 There was one good result, however, from her 
 excessive industry. She did some excellent de- 
 structive work on the subject of Woman in Gen- 
 eral. Many pages of her arguments may be 
 summed up in the single and apparently sound 
 thesis that Woman, with a capital letter, is a myth, 
 and that only women are realities. After a care- 
 ful study of men's general statements about 
 Woman she concluded that Woman is merely a 
 "subjective fetish of sex," having no existence out- 
 side the brain of the thinker. She made the fol- 
 lowing collection of the foolish and contradictory 
 remarks of the thinkers : There is Lotze saying 
 that "the female hates analysis" and therefore 
 cannot distinguish the true from the false. There 
 is Lafitte saying that "the female prefers an- 
 alysis." There is Kingsley calling her "the only 
 true missionary of civilization," and Pope calling 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 29 
 
 her a rake at heart; Havelock Ellis saying that 
 she cannot work under pressure, and Von Horn 
 saying that in the fulfilling of heavy requirements 
 she puts a man to shame; M. de Lambert that she 
 plays with love; Krafft-Ebing that her heart is 
 toward monogamy; Brissac that "souls have no 
 sex," Feuerbach that they have; Laura Marholm 
 that "the significance of woman is man," Frau 
 Andreas Salome that woman is one "who en- 
 deavors to realize an ever broader, ever richer 
 unfolding of her innate self;" Havelock Ellis that 
 nervous irritability has ever been her peculiar 
 characteristic; Mobius that women are "strongly 
 conservative and hate all innovation;" Hippel that 
 "the spirit of revolution broods over the female 
 sex;" Lecky that woman is superior both in in- 
 stinctive virtues and in those which arise from a 
 sense of duty; Lombroso that there is "a half- 
 criminaloid being even in the normal woman;" 
 Bachhofer that "Law is innate in women;" and 
 von Hartmann that the whole sex is unjust and 
 unfair. 
 
 This seems a fair illustration of the condition 
 of men when they write about Woman. In con- 
 temporary writings their state is even worse. In 
 reading all the little papers on this giant theme 
 I have often wondered what it is that so balloons 
 Man's thoughts of Woman just when he is about 
 to print an article and at no other time — the sort 
 
30 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 of man who could not fathom a single concrete 
 personality. Why this mad rush of certainties 
 with Man and Woman and Marriage and Society 
 and God and Cosmos crammed into nutshells and 
 all dispatched in about five thousand words. By 
 what apocolocyntosis or pumpkin-change should 
 the head of a journalistic comprise of a sudden a 
 "Female Cosmos" merely because he wants to 
 write an article ? By what miraculous distention 
 was an entire Superwoman squeezed into the tight, 
 three-cornered intellect of Mr. Bernard Shaw? 
 For some of the most charming writers of our day 
 seem subject to this strange inflation. Woman, 
 the Female Cosmos, "vast, broad, universal, and 
 liberal; "Woman, the Superwoman, "ever pursu- 
 ing Man at the behest of the Life Force" — what 
 in the world is any middle-sized intellect to do 
 about her? One thing is certain: There is no 
 possible chance of disproving anything that the 
 light literary character who invents her may have 
 chosen to lay at her door. Refutation in this airy 
 region is impracticable. Yet no matter how frivol- 
 ous the writer may be, some feminist attempts 
 the refutation. 
 
 A few years ago, for example, some harmless 
 professor of biology let his mind sweep from the 
 feminine germ cell all the way down to Mrs. Pank- 
 hurst, and filled a page of a Sunday newspaper 
 with guesses as to Woman's place in nature, in 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 31 
 
 human history, and throughout all future time. 
 For aught a finite mind could tell, they may have 
 been good guesses, but it is not likely that even 
 the professor himself had any deep conviction that 
 in so large and blank a matter he was guessing 
 right; he was thinking rather of filling that page 
 of the newspaper. Yet his words were taken 
 seriously at the time, and several women writers 
 are even now rebuking him for his "views," 
 though I am sure he was guiltless of holding any. 
 Nobody has any "views" on the subject of 
 Woman. When a man begins a sentence with the 
 word "Woman" you may at all times, everywhere, 
 blame him for the beginning, but you have no 
 right to quarrel with any way in which he may 
 choose to let it end. Yet to these careless, large 
 assertions women retort seriously, even bitterly, 
 and will often toil with might and main at their 
 refutation. 
 
 Once, for example, the woman suffragists 
 throughout this country, stung by the taunt that 
 they had lost the cunning art of domesticity, 
 plunged into the wildest household activities. For 
 weeks they sewed things by hand, boiled them, 
 and put them up in jars, and when they were 
 finished threw them all into a public building in 
 New York City and dared the world to come and 
 see. It was to show that despite their strength 
 of mind they had not lost their womanhood — in 
 
32 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 reply to some magazine article whose writer had 
 long since forgotten what he said. 
 
 And there was one point especially on which all 
 argument was thrown away. There was no use 
 in trying to reason a hominist out of his profes- 
 sional timidity. When he said, as his wont was, 
 at short intervals, that he feared the neglect of 
 home and husband if women voted, it would have 
 been wiser to take no notice. Whenever the hom- 
 inist quoted his St. Paul and cited those cherished 
 examples from history — Penelope, Griselda, Ruth, 
 Boaz, and the bride of Peter the Pumpkin-eater — 
 there was always a retaliatory article instancing 
 powerful and public-spirited women of to-day who' 
 in spite of everything had retained their woman- 
 hood. 
 
 This very laborious repartee was unnecessary. 
 The husband marooned in a kitchen with his wife 
 off voting all day long, was not an image that 
 haunted us greatly in our daily lives, vivid as it 
 seemed in the pages of certain essayists. Taking 
 American husbands as they were this was never 
 a natural anxiety. The chief task of the woman 
 suffragists in this country was to prove that women 
 had interest enough in politics, not to allay the 
 fear that they might have too much. 
 
 Times have changed, and politics may now be 
 discussed even at the womanly woman's hearth- 
 stone, but it ought always to be remembered that 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 33 
 
 we owe to the advancing woman, terrible as she 
 was, this emancipation of the American male. It 
 was not the rule in the American household that 
 the man repressed the woman's political aspira- 
 tions; on the contrary he generally encountered 
 the sternest feminine opposition to any full ex- 
 pression of his own. 
 
 For a long period there were few American 
 husbands who in their own families dared to be 
 as political as they wished. Looking back on that 
 grim domestic tyranny of the cold shoulder and 
 the absent mind, the yawn, the interruption, the 
 glazing eye, the sudden vanishings in the midst 
 of sentences really eloquent, who can picture the 
 American man as trying to keep women from get- 
 ting into politics ? They were all so obviously try- 
 ing to keep politics from getting out of him. 
 
 This practical side of the matter was once 
 summed up by a friend whose point of view rather 
 appealed to me. "In regard to woman," said he, 
 "I have no sympathy whatever with anti-feminist 
 fears of the neglect of the family. If, with the 
 march of mechanical improvement, housekeeping 
 grows easier, what is to be done with the released 
 housekeeping force? Turn it back, say the anti- 
 feminists to the expanding woman, and house- 
 keep more fiercely. Let that great managing tal- 
 ent which once ranged from corn-field to nursery, 
 rocked the cradle, smoked the ham, reaped, spun, 
 
34 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 milk, stewed, chopped, and sewed up everybody, 
 wreak itself on one man, two children, five rooms, 
 and a bath. 
 
 "Think of the households in which domesticity 
 boils in its too narrow channel with a dispropor- 
 tionate force, the souls which go out into wall- 
 paper, the excesses of conjugal scrutiny and child- 
 care, the surplus anxieties, the many needless 
 strenuosities of wedded life. An active-minded 
 married woman in these days without outlet is 
 bound to overdo her marriage. Suppose you mar- 
 ried a very efficient person, and the only object of 
 that efficiency were you. Take a woman of 
 marked executive, though latent, ability — a woman 
 who might have been Zenobia if she had had the 
 chance. Would you, in a small suburban home, 
 care to be Zenobia's Palmyra ? Anti-feminists in- 
 cluding a large body of sentimental epigram- 
 matists have had much to say of the home as 
 woman's kingdom and the sanctity of woman's 
 sphere. But would any one of them wish to be 
 a woman's sphere? Husbands of able but old- 
 fashioned wives are worn to the bone by their 
 wives' unduly limited activities. They would 
 gladly see their feminine forces dissipated." 
 
 "The main danger, as I see it," he went on, "is 
 that they will not be sufficiently dissipated. I am 
 afraid of the great pressure of released mother- 
 power upon purely personal affairs. In the politi- 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 35 
 
 cal domain, if anyone tells me that women, now 
 that they have the ballot, will vote more foolishly 
 Hhan men, I can reply tranquilly that that is incredi- 
 ble. In the economic domain, if anyone tells me 
 that the average woman is not fit for the large re- 
 sponsibilities of business enterprise, I can reflect 
 comfortably that there is nothing whatever in the 
 modern world to show that the average man is, 
 either. In both of these fields moreover, the great 
 feminine innovation is already so well along that 
 nobody will be startled much by the further 
 steps that it will take. But when it comes to 
 the personal domain, my mind is less adequately 
 prepared, and in some respects unreconciled. 
 There is a hard reasonableness about women in 
 all matters that pertain to health and ruthless hy- 
 giene is pretty sure to sweep over the community in 
 the long run if their will prevails. Owing to 
 certain dispositions into the details of which it is 
 not now necessary to enter the duties of mother- 
 hood under the new regime will be considerably 
 reduced. Great quantities of mother-power thus 
 released will be poured into the public life where 
 it will take the form of health control, minute, 
 inquisitorial and all-embracing." 
 
 "A single woman can often make a man uncom- 
 fortable by the application of her cool reason to 
 his irregularities in food, drink, underclothing, 
 getting up and going to bed. In the new regime 
 
36 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 every adult citizen will probably be exposed to the 
 equivalent of one hundred units of mother-power. 
 A certain warm casualness that is promised in the 
 domain of the sexual relations does not in my 
 opinion offset the icy regularity of the tobacco- 
 less, wineless, physiologically matronized state 
 which is indicated by the most advanced and 
 thoughtful leaders of the movement. 
 
 "I may learn in time to flit from concubine to 
 concubine as a matter of course, as is earnestly de- 
 sired by an Austrian feminist. But of what use 
 is this element of variety, if every moment of my 
 life is under the merciless scrutiny of the Inquisi- 
 tress-General of Diet, the Women's Eugenical 
 Board, the Committee on Private Life Inspection, 
 and the Bureau of Sanitary Propagation. I am 
 perfectly willing to renounce that attitude of pro- 
 tection toward woman which her leaders denounce 
 as the expression of a slave morality, but I am 
 somewhat concerned by the amount of real pro- 
 tection she is threatening to bestow on me. One 
 gathers from recent literature not merely that 
 mother-right is coming into its own. One gathers 
 that mother-right is coming into almost every- 
 thing. But that may be merely intentional over- 
 statement in order to startle one into paying 
 attention, just as a suffragette used to break the 
 windows." 
 
 As to breaking windows, by the way, who could 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 37 
 
 blame woman for answering wildly to the confused 
 arguments that were brought to bear upon her? 
 Any one who can recall the incoherencies of 
 woman suffrage argumentation must, I think, ad- 
 mit that however mad the suffragists seemed, the 
 opposing hominists seemed even madder. It may 
 well be that suffragettes went insane in an honest 
 endeavor to meet insane objections. When they 
 threw pepper on a statesman perhaps it was de- 
 signed as an answer to some such anti-suffrage 
 argument, as "Woman is a capsule covering empti- 
 ness alone. Only man can make it full." It does 
 not seem a reasonable answer, but then I cannot 
 imagine what a reasonable answer would be, and 
 a normal mind might be dislocated in finding one. 
 It was not easy to follow a woman's reasoning 
 when she smashed a statesman's hat in, tore his 
 buttons off, burned buildings, broke glass, ripped 
 Bellinis and threw apples at everybody, and as 
 arguments they seemed irrelevant to the question 
 of the suffrage. But it was no easier to follow the 
 hominist when he exploded after his own manner 
 in generalities. Indeed, the missiles of the mili- 
 tants seemed more applicable to human affairs 
 than did the hominist's enormous certainties about 
 Woman as the supreme being, holding up the 
 universe amidst the "poetry of the pots and pans;" 
 Woman as the universal principle of Thrift; 
 Woman as the Queen Elizabeth who decides 
 
38 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 "sales, banquets, labours and holidays;" Woman 
 as the Aristotle who teaches "morals, manners, 
 theology, and hygiene." 
 
 I do not wonder that women became confused 
 when they read these things and replied with ob- 
 jects equally relevant and considerably more con- 
 crete. When a learned and entertaining writer 
 took a long breath and called a suffragist "a jade, 
 a giantess, a Hanoverian rat, a San Jose scale, 
 a noxious weed, and a potato bug;" when another 
 still more profound person declared that women 
 do their thinking in "henids," whilst "in man the 
 henids have passed through a process of clarifica- 
 tion" and that "the very idea of a henid forbids 
 its description; it is merely a something" — I am 
 not surprised that the individual mentioned was 
 somewhat haphazard in her replies. 
 
 I do not maintain that throwing a cabinet min- 
 ister downstairs is either so desirable or so inter- 
 esting as the essays of the brilliant and well-known 
 hominists from which I have quoted. I merely 
 contend that it is just as reasonable. 
 
 Sex-patriots are indeed a fierce folk, be they 
 feminists or hominists, and they have no patience 
 with people who in a modest bewilderment re- 
 frain from taking sides. That is why the usual 
 treatise on "Woman, Her Cause and Cure," con- 
 tains so little for us outsiders. It is intended as 
 a missile for the contrary-minded, not as a message 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 39 
 
 to those who have not yet made up their minds. 
 Is Woman that supreme being whose "two strong 
 arms are the pillars that sustain the universe" or 
 is she that "capsule covering an emptiness which 
 man alone can fill?" There is the naked choice. 
 Writers on Woman would think it base to hesi- 
 tate. And they are angry if you try to pin them 
 down to the particulars of actual experience. 
 Writers on Woman hate to be pinned down to 
 anything. It is a leaping kind of competition be- 
 tween feminists and hominists and each side thinks 
 nothing of taking six centuries at a dash. Up- 
 in-the-air habits have been formed in consequence. 
 But on the whole I think the hominist cut the sor- 
 rier figure in the great debate. The nature of 
 actual women seemed never to have entered his 
 mind. Once visited perhaps by Ruth, Penelope, 
 or some female relative since deceased, his mind 
 was now deserted save for a few mottoes and the 
 rush of the wind in empty spaces. 
 
 There was one, some years ago, the spirit of 
 whose writings admirably typified his kind. He 
 was a man of stern and ancient faiths, a believer 
 in early woman, and compulsory charm, alter- 
 nately angry and alarmed over the needless 
 changes since the time of Homer. He said women 
 were sterile and dying out; also that they were 
 deadly vermin always multiplying. Sometimes a 
 woman seemed to him a little weed soon to be up- 
 
4 o THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 rooted; at others he would shrink from her as 
 from a boa constrictor. Again he would describe 
 her as a rat. Epithets that seemed to destroy one 
 another were seized by him apparently in the hope 
 that they would destroy her. Each sentence re- 
 garded by itself was vigorous and interesting, and 
 even seemed to have a meaning when you forgot 
 the sentences that went before. 
 
 Great is the glory of that woman, he said, who 
 is not talked of for good or evil, who hath a veil 
 upon her head, who vaunteth not herself, — she 
 that is meek, and is not puffed up, and walks in 
 quietness, and is mysterious, and suffers long. He 
 chose as models Helen, Briseis, Penelope, Arete, 
 Clytemnestra, Chloris, and a few others from the 
 Greeks, and three from the Bible, and he said that 
 women had since then degenerated. To-day, he 
 said, all women were like "dogs in a dance," and 
 the veil was rent and woman was ashamed. He 
 first proposed as a remedy that the right kind of 
 woman should fall in a cold-blooded virgin fury 
 upon the sugar-mouthed idle kind who lived within 
 melliferous walls. But in another mood he found 
 this inadequate and declared that the only desir- 
 able form of society was that in which all women 
 dressed in skins. Dissatisfied with this in turn, 
 he finally decided that it was better for everybody 
 concerned that women should live in trees. 
 Women were never really happy, he said, unless 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 41 
 
 they lived in trees, and on that point his argu- 
 ment rested. This book was perhaps more ad- 
 mired than any other of its class, for it was quoted 
 in all the serious journals in Europe and America 
 and translated into many foreign languages; and 
 it may be for aught I know, part of the bedside 
 reading at this moment of ten thousand hominists. 
 Now the question arose at once whether he 
 really cared for all these feminine virtues he had 
 praised and if so 1 why he had no word of com- 
 mendation for the sort of modern women who 
 excelled in them. A collection of feminine sim- 
 plicities such as he had praised was published soon 
 afterwards by a woman writer. Why single out 
 Penelope for meekness, for example? Arunta 
 women, said she, are much meeker, for if an 
 Arunta woman leaves the house and walks about, 
 her brother has the privilege of spearing her. 
 Was Penelope after all more pious or self-effac- 
 ing than an everyday modern Koniag? she in- 
 quired. "In Alaska a Koniag woman fasts and 
 lies wrapped in a bearskin in' a corner of her hut 
 when her husband goes whaling." Woman 
 "vaunteth not herself" among the Zulus for a Zulu 
 woman may not even speak her husband's name. 
 Charm, mystery, veil on the head, walking in 
 quietness, and all the rest are as she pointed out 
 nowadays plentiful, sometimes with cannibalism, 
 sometimes without. In other words, the answer 
 
42 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 of this feminist to this hominist was simply that 
 if he really desired these virtues in women he had 
 only to look about the world. There was no need 
 whatever to regret the passing of the Greek and 
 Hebrew meek ones. There were Thlinket women 
 to-day who were much meeker. There were at 
 this moment sweet natures on the Upper Congo 
 and among the Tshi, Wagogo, Kaya-Kaya, Aleuts, 
 Bantus, Ostiaks, and Yarabaimba — sweet femin- 
 ine natures absolutely unspoiled. 
 
 The writer of the book in question did not, of 
 course, mean anything. He did not want all idle 
 women killed. He did not want all women to 
 wear skins. He did not really care for tree- 
 women and he probably never knew a man who 
 did. Simple sweet natures, such as he imagined 
 in the time of Homer, such as now abound along 
 the Congo, would on the whole have bored him. 
 And if the women of his family or acquaintance 
 had been reduced to any such elementary condition 
 as his language demanded, he would have been the 
 first to complain. Not only did this hypocrite 
 neither seek nor relish any of those tender, meek 
 Wagogo or Kaya-Kaya simplicities in his con- 
 versation with actual womankind. At bottom he 
 disliked them. 
 
 But I wonder if those conscientious women who 
 wrote on feminism had gone about their business 
 in a little more light-hearted way, whether the re- 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 43 
 
 suits would not have been more permanent. At- 
 tacking an institution is not necessarily a gloomy 
 occupation. On the contrary there is no limit to 
 the genuine pleasure felt by many abounding writ- 
 ers of our day on finding themselves on a planet 
 where there is so much to dislike. Had these 
 writers, bubbling over with the joy of demolition, 
 been born on a star whose social system suited 
 them, imagine how cheated they would have felt. 
 Here, things being in a sad mess, they are happy, 
 hitting out. But the women writers on feminism 
 seem to think it follows from the painful nature 
 of the subject that the style of writing should be 
 painful too. 
 
 I recall, for example, another of them who in 
 a vigorous volume on the sex relations established 
 the fact that men and women in this world are as a 
 rule very badly mismated and then made some 
 reasonable guesses as to the cause and some reason- 
 able suggestions as to improvement. It was a solid 
 piece of work, written from the point of view com- 
 monly regarded as pernicious, that is to say, with 
 an open mind toward social experiment. It was 
 not a book for the mentally sheltered classes. One 
 could not, for example, have discussed it with one's 
 aunt, and one would hardly have wished to show 
 it to a United States Senator, but it was an honest, 
 independent endeavor to systematize ideas that 
 had been in the air for fifty years or so. The 
 
44 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 chief objection to it as a controversial treatise was 
 that it was steeped in gloom and clogged by the 
 jargon of the social sciences. Contemplation of 
 the horrors of wedlock and the horrors of celibacy, 
 the woes of all who are wrongly mated or too 
 much mated or not mated enough, had lowered the 
 writer's vitality. As she walked the streets of a 
 bright afternoon she was weighed down by 
 thoughts like these. 
 
 There is hardly one person in a hundred of those who 
 bear the name of human, devoid of some obscure, in- 
 calculable stigma, from which every anti-social growth 
 may proliferate like a cancer and endanger the very 
 foundation of human society. 
 
 This weakened her as a combatant. She went 
 heavily into the fray encumbered by sociological 
 and biological terms. She never let an obvious 
 thing get by her unsaid and she hated a simple 
 way of putting it. In highly complicated language 
 she argued that although marriage was an inherit- 
 ance from ape-like pre-human ancestors, it did not 
 follow that married people nowadays need all be- 
 have like apes. Language like this has retarded 
 the woman movement. Language like this would 
 probably have retarded any movement. The 
 writers, of course, were not primarily to blame for 
 it, because the books they had been reading were 
 just as bad or worse. 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 45 
 
 Peel almost any page of sociology and you will 
 find little commonplaces that were long since ban- 
 ished from intelligent conversation. As a woman, 
 this writer if she met you face to face, would 
 never think of telling you that you are not obliged 
 to behave exactly like a monkey or that for several 
 reasons you may be justly proud of European civil- 
 ization, or that an institution when superfluous 
 will often pass away, but as a feminist she can do 
 so without turning a hair. The other eminent 
 apostle of the cause would probably think twice 
 at the dinner-table before remarking that woman 
 ought to advance in morality and intelligence 
 while observing the outward decencies. Dinners 
 are often very dull, but I doubt if even at the 
 most fashionable you could successfully make this 
 remark to the woman you took in. But as a fem- 
 inist you can carry it off with a high hand. 
 
 Social philosophies have to> bluster in this 
 large language in order to conceal the smallness 
 of the personal basis on which they rest; and 
 when in the sex-conflict the two sides pelt each 
 other with universals, it is because they are 
 ashamed to mention the rather small particulars. 
 A hominist, for example, will often seem to wish 
 to save the world from an invasion of unsexed 
 Amazons when he is merely fleeing from some 
 single female relative. The feminists reply in the 
 same manner, damning some tiresome man by 
 
46 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION, 
 
 everything that they can find in text-books of 
 sociology, biology, and anthropology. 
 
 If hominist and feminist ever squabbled in real 
 life after their fashion in the printed page one 
 might be overhearing some day on the train some 
 such conversation as this : 
 
 He : My dear, you are quite wrong about the children's 
 school. You do all your thinking in henids. There is a 
 half-criminaloid in every normal woman and you seem 
 particularly normal to-day. 
 
 She: I might have known you wouldn't understand it, 
 George. How could you? Sprung from a germ-cell 
 that has fused itself with the larger, self-contained organ- 
 ism, the ovulum, you'd naturally take a narrow point of 
 view. I don't like to say it, George, but you have always 
 been acratic. And I have never known the time when 
 your whole personality was not absolutely determined by 
 teleological sex characteristics. I ought not to have 
 brought up the subject of the children's education again, 
 but I did hope that this time you might be able to control 
 that little tendency toward subjective fetichism, and — 
 
 He: Their school is plenty good enough and you'd see 
 it yourself if your psycho-physical constitution enabled 
 you to overstep the limits fixed by femininity, but the 
 female ever hates analysis. Never by any chance in your 
 discussions with me can you grasp the simple notion that 
 the significance of woman is Man. The female's peculiar 
 characteristic, as Havelock Ellis says, has always been her 
 nervous irritability, and you drive me almost — 
 
 She: Havelock Ellis J Why drag in that man? Do 
 
FEMINIST DEBATE 47 
 
 you consider him an iliastric person? The children aren't 
 getting on in their studies one bit and they aren't making 
 the right sort of friends either, whereas Fanny says at 
 the Butler School — but why expect the children's welfare 
 to interest you? As Woman I am quite accustomed to 
 your point of view. Among the Bobi the father always 
 ate his eldest-born. The children of the Bangu-Zigzags, 
 torn from their mother at the age of two, are made to 
 sleep in trees. The ancient Poot father on the island of 
 Zab slashed the cheek of each of his daughters with a 
 pointed rock dipped in the juice of the toto-berry. Among 
 the Khai-muk, Teh-ta, Thlinket, Mendi, Jabim, Loanga 
 Bantu — but what's the use? You come by it all so 
 honestly. 
 
PLEASURES OF ANXIETY 
 
 What with the tango and the slit skirt, eugenics 
 and the pest of women's thinking, the growing 
 impudence of the poor, the incorrect conversion 
 of certain negro tribes, and the sudden appear- 
 ance of a rather strong article on feminism, civil- 
 ization in this country, and perhaps everywhere, 
 was drawing to its close in many a serious maga- 
 zine article, some years ago. I made rather a 
 conscientious survey of the matter at that time, 
 and I recall to this day some of the shocking par- 
 ticulars. Down goes the dike, said one; and it 
 seems to have been the only dike that could have 
 prevented "our civilization from being engulfed 
 in an overwhelming flood of riches, and from sink- 
 ing in an orgy of brutality." Now that religion 
 has gone, said another, "the old-fashioned prin- 
 ciples of right and wrong have also largely dis- 
 appeared." Turning a few pages, I found the 
 "ulcer in our new morality;" a few more, and I 
 saw the "canker at the root of education." Then 
 I learned how low this nation was rated by a 
 connoisseur of all the nations of the globe. "Of 
 all the countries I have ever met," said he, as his 
 
 48 
 
PLEASURES OF ANXIETY 49 
 
 mind reverted along the parallels of latitude to 
 the thirty-seven populations he had intimately 
 known, "this country, to speak candidly is the 
 least desirable;" and so he cast off the country 
 as one who throws away a bad cigar. 
 
 And consider society's danger from astrologers. 
 Abolish astrologers at once, said another con- 
 tributor, and also spiritualists and quacks and 
 prophets; for if we do not, all clean culture will 
 soon rot and vanish, killed by the germs from 
 this "cultural underworld." There were dozens 
 of bodings just as dark as these in other numbers. 
 But there was always a consolation. 
 
 When perils came out in the new numbers, it 
 quieted one to turn to the old perils in the bound 
 volumes of the file — yellow perils, black, white, 
 brown, and red ones, horrors of house-flies and 
 suffragettes, and all the evil kind of micrococcus, 
 back to imperialism and the bicycle skirt of fifteen 
 years before, and to read, say, of Carrie Nation 
 ravaging Kansas, and the California lady who 
 used to hurl college professors through the win- 
 dows, thus destroying academic liberty, and Mc- 
 Kinley "blood-guilty" and sitting on a "throne," 
 and Thanksgiving day changed to Shame day or 
 the Devil's own day by some Boston contributors, 
 and the Stars and Stripes painted black and "re- 
 placed by the skull and cross-bones," and blood- 
 shed in fiction, and hazing at West Point, and the 
 
5o THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 United States government "shaking Porto Rico 
 over hell." And every time saved by a miracle — 
 the same old family miracle! 
 
 I could not deny that civilization was then in 
 danger, but it did seem to me that in any serious 
 magazine it always must be in danger. And it 
 so happened at that time that every writer was 
 spared all anxiety about any actual danger. The 
 one thing not noticed on any of the quaking pages 
 I have mentioned was the shadow of the great 
 war, which was then approaching. 
 
 The contributor of a peril to a magazine is not, 
 as a rule, an unhappy person. On the contrary, 
 he is often a large, calm man, with a good appe- 
 tite, and more cheerful in his mind than we. If 
 one could feel toward any menace to humanity 
 as one used to feel toward tales of Jack the Giant 
 Killer, just believing enough for a little goose- 
 flesh, there would be more fun in it. Any man 
 who is about half convinced that he and a few 
 others are the sole remaining friends, of civiliza- 
 tion finds some dramatic zest in life. It is a mis- 
 take to assume that men who earn their living by 
 anxiety are at all anxious in their private lives. 
 
 And it is the same way with all great political 
 despairs in private conversation. The most de- 
 pressing talkers you ever meet are not themselves 
 personally at all depressed. On the contrary, they 
 are, at bottom, rather gay persons. The hopeless- 
 
PLEASURES OF ANXIETY 5 1 
 
 ness of the situation really adds, for the purposes 
 of conversation, to its charm, by absolving from 
 the need of any personal effort other than the pre- 
 sumably agreeable one of talking. In middle aged 
 conversation there is always a certain cosiness in 
 political despair, and the thought of a large gen- 
 eral disaster coming on has, at any rate, one 
 bright side in the way it warms up elderly con- 
 veners. I do not mean to deny that the disaster 
 may exist even when it is talked about. I merely 
 mean that if a disaster did not exist it would be 
 necessary to invent it. 
 
 For some time past in common with certain 
 other fellow-beings, I have read the more or less 
 radical journals with greater interest than the 
 other kind. What is worse, I enjoy various 
 eccentric and perhaps fanatical or one-idea'd peri- 
 odicals more than I do those of sober cast and 
 steady habits and institutional point of view. I 
 confess a strong distaste, probably a vulgar one, 
 for all that class of periodicals which no gentle- 
 man's library used to be without. In America I 
 have found more pleasure in periodicals, which 
 would be reckoned by the safe person as unsafe, 
 than I have in the daily journalism of broadly 
 based opinion on the one hand or the monthly 
 journalism of no opinion at all on the other hand. 
 I mean literally pleasure, for in this preference 
 I have not primarily my country's good in mind, 
 
52 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 or the future of civilization, or my own or any- 
 body else's moral safety. I suppose I share these 
 peculiar and ill-regulated tastes with about six 
 million persons in the English-speaking world. 
 We are considered a small band, and dangerous, 
 for some reason, though the thing that most often 
 strikes me is how numerous we are and how mild. 
 
 Nevertheless it is a minority and most people 
 that I know, for my acquaintances are mainly 
 among the majority, do not find pleasure in this 
 type of journalism, and they too profess to regard 
 it as dangerous. In this for the most part I be- 
 lieve they are hypocrites — not of course in their 
 expression of a lack of pleasure but in the reasons 
 they give for it. 
 
 I deny that their dislike is born of any sense 
 of civic danger. It is the product of ennui. Peo- 
 ple will run, and always have run, grave risks to 
 existing institutions so long as they are amused. 
 When they are not amused they express alarm for 
 the safety of the institutions. It is simply their 
 emphatic way of saying that they are not amused. 
 Thus you will often hear a man say of a certain 
 periodical that it ought to be suppressed, its editor 
 hanged, all its contributors tarred and feathered, 
 and the premises fumigated by the health board, 
 and then add casually that he has picked it up 
 from time to time and simply could not read a 
 word of it. Or you will see an elderly club mem- 
 
PLEASURES OF ANXIETY 53 
 
 ber so incensed by some article on birth control 
 (hard enough, Heaven knows, for any one to 
 keep his mind on, but not remarkable in any 
 other way) as to be hardly capable of coherent 
 speech, and find him five minutes later with all 
 the pornographic French weeklies on his lap, 
 soothed again and beaming, as if reassured after 
 all in regard to the bloom of innocence that he 
 had almost feared was passing from the world. 
 Not that I pretend to know which is the better for 
 him — the awful Anglo-Saxon solemnity of the 
 article on birth control or the unconquerable hil- 
 ariousness of certain French minds on subjects 
 more or less akin to it. But neither does he know 
 and he simply does not care. For the rule here 
 applies as it does to a large part of current criti- 
 cism that distaste sounds more emphatic when ex- 
 pressed as moral disapproval. With most of us 
 the moral counterblast is nothing more than the 
 angry rendering of a yawn. 
 
 For one person who is repelled by the views 
 of the sort of periodicals I have mentioned there 
 are a hundred persons repelled by the manner of 
 presenting them, and their objections to that man- 
 ner, so far as I have heard them expressed, seem 
 to boil down to two main grievances : In the first 
 place an apparent desire on the part of the writers 
 to conceal their thoughts, and in the second place, 
 and what is more important, a degree and con- 
 
'54 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 tinuity of seriousness, unattainable, even on the 
 assumption that its attainment is desirable, by any 
 person in the outside world. 
 
 I believe there is a basis for both charges. Con- 
 cealment of thought, however, — vindictive though 
 it often seems — is, as a rule, involuntary. Social 
 studies are commonly the cause of this defect, — or 
 courses taken during impressionable years at 
 American schools of political science where any 
 lucid way of putting things is always hated, if it 
 is known at all. 
 
 As to the sort of seriousness of which readers 
 complain I confess I sometimes cannot see the 
 excuse for it. The radical mind seems never to 
 permit itself an instant's respite from its cares. 
 At least I have never happened to meet one of 
 them in print when it was taking it. Pen in hand 
 there seems only one of two things for it to do: 
 Either to tell people how they ought to act or 
 blame them for not doing so. 
 
 It is invariably harassed by the cares of a sort 
 of gigantic paternity, and it slumbers not nor 
 sleeps. If it did its watching only over Israel it 
 might lead, comparatively speaking, rather a jolly 
 life; but take its duty to Asia for example. Asia 
 is, to you or me, for comfortable intervals at 
 least, only a distant continent on the map. Asia 
 is never for a moment anything of the sort to a 
 man of these responsibilities. Asia to him is as 
 
PLEASURES OF ANXIETY 55 
 
 a little child constantly running some hairbreadth 
 escape. Russia, says he, is not only the acid test 
 of diplomacy; it is the acid test of intelligence. 
 Now of course that is perfectly true, but if you 
 follow him carefully and far enough you will 
 observe that Africa also is an acid test and 
 so is South America. You will observe also that 
 sex, woman, Bolshevism, Shantung, war babies, 
 North Dakota, feeble-mindedness of peace com- 
 missioners, Ireland's wrongs, syndicalism, the rail- 
 way bill, Poland, classicism, ultra-realism, or any- 
 thing else he may have thought about, supplies 
 the acid test of what to think; anl that, as the 
 months pass by, he has gradually narrowed the 
 area of permissible thinking, that is to say the 
 zone of opinion conforming to his own, first to a 
 strip, then to a long line, zigzag and perilous, so 
 narrow that two can scarcely walk abreast on it, 
 and then if they should chance to fall to quarreling 
 one would inevitably be lost. 
 
 Now if you will turn back six months on the 
 track of this serious person — : a thing that appar- 
 ently the serious person never does — you will 
 find half a dozen questions reported as about to 
 flame, which, somehow, never flamed at all; and 
 you will find a score of problems which if not 
 solved at that particular instant were to have 
 brought us to the verge of the abyss but which 
 have not been solved since then and seem to have 
 
56 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 been forgotten even by the writer — along with 
 the abyss. In short, a six months' retrospect of 
 him seems to reveal something seriously amiss 
 with his seriousness. It would seem, after all, 
 that some of the responsibilities were needlessly 
 incurred, or that there were well earned intervals 
 of moral repose of which he might have taken ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 A special and temporary reason for it in this 
 country may have been a too close relation with 
 the universities. There has often been an inter- 
 locking of college and editorial faculties to an ex- 
 tent most discouraging to an adult general reader 
 who prefers not to continue to be taught — or at 
 least not taught as in a university from which 
 he was probably glad to escape. College and 
 editorial chairs have often got so mixed up that 
 a writer forgot which he was sitting in; hence, 
 floods of didacticism were poured upon the pub- 
 lic that were really intended for Sociology B. And 
 as to chairs of English literature they were notori- 
 ously wheeled chairs, all of them, and likely to 
 turn up at any time in serious journalism, for 
 when a man once firmly settled down in one of 
 them, he never got out, and even after resignation 
 would be rolled about in it all through life, rolled 
 generally into some editorial office. 
 
 But any one at all familiar with the pen-habits 
 of Americans ought to know that the sort of per- 
 
PLEASURES OF ANXIETY 57 
 
 sons he thinks he is meeting in these serious pages 
 do not exist. He will not mistake the heavy hand 
 for the heavy heart and he will not imagine that 
 those anxieties, running all the way from babies' 
 milk to the state of Europe in the twenty-fifth cen- 
 tury are really felt. He will realize the tradition 
 of serious journalism which demands as a matter 
 of course that a man shall conceal any tremor of 
 indecision in regard to any subject that comes 
 along, no matter how tremendous. And he will 
 not confound a human attitude with a simple mat- 
 ter of conventional technique. 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 
 
 So far as I can recall that course in modern 
 history after these many years, human liberty 
 was born somewhere in the Thuringian forest. 
 The precise spot for the moment escapes me, but 
 the professor knew it, perhaps had visited it. He 
 was willing to admit that other races had their 
 missions, not without some value to the world, 
 but on this one thing he insisted : Had it not been 
 for that blue-eyed, fairhaired, broad-chested early 
 Teuton there could have been no political liberty 
 as we enterprising western people understand 
 the term. The Latin idea: All authority from 
 above down — by the grace of God. The Teutonic 
 idea: All authority from below up by the will of 
 the people. There you have it in a nutshell — two 
 irreconcilable ideas whose conflicts and alterna- 
 tions make up the history of modern Europe. 
 Latin elements in history : The Papacy, Holy Ro- 
 man Empire, divine right of kings, passive resist- 
 ance, Inquisition, Counter-Reformation, every 
 form of obscurantism, every reactionary move- 
 ment down to the present day. Teutonic ele- 
 
 58 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 59 
 
 merits: Rise of the Free Cities, Third Estate, 
 Witenagemot, trial by jury, British Parliament, 
 representative government, and every popular 
 revolution, or progressive tendency down to the 
 present day. In short, if from the point of view 
 of modern liberal sentiment anything in the world 
 went wrong there was a Latin devil at the bottom 
 of it, and if it went right there was always that 
 early Teuton to be thanked. Nor let us forget 
 his deep-bosomed spouse, at whose chastity so 
 many historians have exclaimed with a degree of 
 astonishment that seems unaccountable, for they 
 themselves could not have been wholly without ex- 
 perience of chaste women in their lives. But per- 
 haps they believed that chastity also occurred for 
 the first time somewhere in the Thuringian forest. 
 Every reasonable American soon grew tired of 
 this worthy couple and I fancy the Teutonic ex- 
 planation of civilization made very little impres- 
 sion on the minds of our growing youth. But this 
 sort of nonsense was rather prevalent in those 
 days. We had formed the habit during many 
 years, it will be remembered, of shipping to Ger- 
 many hordes of imitative, unimaginative Ameri- 
 can scholars — a wise thing to do if we compelled 
 them to stay there, but we very foolishly let them 
 come home again. Hence in my unduly pro- 
 longed academic experience I was forever en- 
 countering unfortunate creatures who had fallen 
 
60 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 betwixt the two stools of civilization, and did not 
 seriously belong anywhere. A good many of 
 them served no other purpose than to spread a 
 sort of German measles in -our academic life. 
 However, most of us made a quick recovery. 
 There have never been many people in this coun- 
 try who really cared whether the superman of his- 
 tory was a blond or a brunette. I, for example, 
 am a party man, as passionate political candidates 
 are fond of saying, but in the remotest epochs of 
 universal history I have usually rejected my pres- 
 ent party ties. At all events I have always ap- 
 proached the affairs of early German forest life 
 rather in the spirit of a mugwump, and I have 
 never cast my vote for any divinity that ran for 
 the office of historic Providence on an exclusively 
 Teutonic platform. 
 
 On the other hand, during the late war, I 
 escaped the opposite danger of the anti-Teutonic 
 interpretation of history of the theory of German 
 diabolism. I owe this to good luck and not to 
 any merit of my own. For I have no doubt that 
 it was only the shortness of the war, after the 
 entry of my country into it, that saved me from 
 that same faith in the exclusively German origin 
 of evil which pervaded the writings of my emi- 
 nent contemporaries. In exhibiting their excesses 
 here I have no desire to blame them but only to 
 illustrate the grotesque and unnecessary forms 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 61 
 
 that patriotism has latterly assumed, particularly 
 among the learned and literary classes. 
 
 All through the war the ablest English and 
 French publicists, journalists and men of letters 
 were busily engaged in reducing history to* melo- 
 drama with the Teutonic element as the villain 
 of the piece. The French were especially 
 thorough in their methods — so thorough indeed 
 that they went far beyond the capacity of human 
 detestation. It was not enough to hate all Ger- 
 mans of the present day, it seemed, or even to 
 hate them through eternity, as M. Paul Bourget 
 so earnestly advised, but they must be hunted out 
 at the beginning of their history and hated all 
 the way down. So back these writers went in 
 their turn to that same tiresome early German 
 couple, looking for a prehistoric scandal, and they 
 found that their forest life was a devilish loose 
 one at best, and that they lied like thieves even 
 before they were out of the forest. 
 
 As an instance of this irrelevant and almost 
 superhuman indignation, I will cite the labors of 
 a widely known French sociologist who set out 
 to attack the Germans sociologically at the begin- 
 ning of the war, and was about finishing his third 
 volume when the war ended. As a man, he felt 
 toward contemporary Germans just as you or I 
 did during the war. As a man, he was, in com- 
 mon with you and me, so deeply absorbed in the 
 
62 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 Germans under his nose that he did not much 
 care about the Germans of a thousand years ago. 
 That is to say, had you proved to him that excel- 
 lent Germans may at one time have existed, say in 
 the underbrush of that Thuringian forest, quite 
 early in the Christian era, it would not have al- 
 tered his opinion in the slightest as to the Ger- 
 mans that he saw existing. But, being by some 
 accident of birth a sociologist, and hence a 
 stranger to the rude pleasures of our common 
 speech, he could not say what he liked about the 
 Germans as he knew them. He had to be as 
 sociological as he could. 
 
 I must grasp them, he said, biologically, ethno- 
 logically, psychologically, historically, and at 
 last, synthetically; I must seize not only the 
 social soul, but the individual soul, omitting no 
 element, however slight, in their mental, moral, 
 or material life at any moment of their history. 
 It seemed rather a dog's life for him to lead, but 
 he went ahead with it. 
 
 He grasped them biologically long before they 
 were out of the forest, and he fell upon them 
 phylogenetically the moment they emerged. He 
 found them, as savages, more savage than other 
 savages. He gripped them enthnologically about 
 300 A. D., showing that at that time, as now, 
 they surpassed all the other races of the world as 
 liars. He next seized with no light clasp, every 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 63 
 
 exposed portion of the German soul he could lay 
 his hands on down to the close of the middle 
 ages, during which time they were chiefly en- 
 gaged in resisting the approach of civilization. 
 The purer the German, the darker the deed, 
 summed up well enough the middle ages. When 
 the Germans through no merit of their own had 
 reached the modern period, he grasped their soul 
 again ; and he grappled with it anew in Frederick 
 the Great's reign, when it turned out to be about 
 the same as it had been hitherto; and then he 
 made sure that it remained the same for the last 
 two centuries. In short, the soul of the German 
 people, as seen any time these last two thousand 
 years, looked to him for all the world like the 
 soul of the kaiser, as described in the contem- 
 porary columns of the Allied periodicals. So it 
 turned out just as he had suspected from the 
 newspapers before he began to write the book. 
 
 Now the German soul to this honest and in- 
 flamed sociologist was nothing whatever but the 
 spiritual equivalent of a German trench, at that 
 moment on the soil of France. 
 
 The sweep of his soul over the soul of the 
 German people was tremendous, ranging quite 
 easily from Velleius Paterculus to Mr. Houston 
 Chamberlain and back again, but its motive 
 power was certainly not that of any mere scientific 
 curiosity, psychological, historical or sociological. 
 Its flights over German history were merely those 
 
64 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 of an aeroplane, looking for a place to drop a 
 bomb. To sympathizers with his. cause this pur- 
 pose seemed altogether laudable. If all the 
 sociologists of war-time had been hollow, and 
 made of the best steel, and if through a well- 
 directed group of them shells could have been 
 shot at the rate of 1,600 every minute and 
 a quarter at a given point in the enemy's lines, 
 there were a great many of their readers at that 
 time who would have gladly seen them brought 
 into action. But when they shot only their own 
 sociology it was a different matter, for it was not 
 nearly so dangerous to the foe as we should have 
 liked to have it, and besides, from the moment 
 of discharge, it ceased to be sociology. Thus 
 there resulted a great waste and a misunder- 
 standing all round and not a German was brought 
 down by their compound adjectives. "As soon as 
 war was declared there were let loose those mys- 
 tic influences which prepared it and which were 
 synthesized by the ideal of universal domination." 
 This was not a sociological explanation of a peo- 
 ple's mental attitude. It was simply a sociologist's 
 manner of swearing. A plain man in a fight 
 knows at least that he is fighting, whereas your 
 sociologist as he blazes away regards himself as 
 quietly engaged in scientific research. 
 
 And why this pious fraud of scientific termin- 
 ology? As a matter of fact this sociologist in 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 6s 
 
 his laboratory was less scientific in his analysis 
 of the German soul than a French soldier at 
 Verdun in war time. He was afraid to note any 
 exception to this rule, and the poilu at the front 
 was not. To the broader mind of the poilu, 
 with his calmer sociological outlook, there were 
 several kinds of Germans. To this scientist 
 there was only one. The poilu, with scientific 
 poise and a mind open to inconsistent facts, 
 knew that he could shoot just as straight even 
 if acknowledging that there were some decent 
 Germans in the opposite ranks. This socio- 
 logist believed he could not write straight if he 
 mentioned a single decent German. 
 
 The difficulty with the crowd psychologist 
 seems to be that he does not allow sufficiently 
 for the effect of his own crowd on his own psy- 
 chology. In this case the crowd psychologist had 
 written hundreds of learned pages all to the effect 
 that it is impossible for any one to escape the 
 contagion of the crowd. "Not only," said he, 
 "do men of different races not understand each 
 other but they have the greatest difficulty in 
 imagining the possibility of holding a different 
 view from their own." "The evolution of the 
 sentiments is independent of our will. No one 
 can love or hate at pleasure?" "Mental con- 
 tagion affects also the isolated individual." "Race 
 hatred is as widespread among the savants as 
 
66 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 among the people." "Men of different races 
 do not understand each other, above all because 
 the generality of their opinions are all derived 
 from the suggestions of environment acting upon 
 the unconscious hereditary elements of which the 
 characters of the race are formed." He did not, 
 like an ordinary person refer casually to these 
 laws. He elaborated them into volumes, like a 
 sociologist. But not a word did he say about 
 his own miraculous immunity from their opera- 
 tion. 
 
 As a matter of fact he marched on through 
 this book as in a regiment — psycholigical proposi- 
 tions streaming like banners, sociological laws 
 beaten like drums, analyzing the German soul as 
 others would sing a battle hymn and trying to 
 grasp the history of the Teutonic peoples exactly 
 where in war time it should be grasped, that is, 
 by the throat. His psychology emerged just 
 where his patriotism began, forming a healthy 
 circle. In short, he gave his crowd psychology 
 completely over to the service of his country. 
 It was, in his own opinion, the best thing he had, 
 and one had, therefore, to applaud him, for 
 giving it, even while admitting that others had 
 given much more. But a man of his mettle could 
 certainly have dispatched the German soul much 
 better without sociology than with it. It was 
 foolish to enter the German soul with that quiet 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 67 
 
 air of sociological precision instead of with a war- 
 whoop when it came to the same thing in the end. 
 War-whoops are more effective and less mis- 
 leading. 
 
 It was not from kindness toward any Germans, 
 however early, that many of us at that time ob- 
 jected to hating them so far back in their history. 
 It was simply because it seemed to us a tactical 
 mistake to consume in the pursuit of early Ger- 
 mans a warlike energy which might be put to 
 some use against the very latest ones. Yet a 
 large number of the ablest writers during the war 
 would when confronted with a German criminal 
 of any kind fall into an absent-minded fury upon 
 his remotest ancestor. They seemed not to under- 
 stand that nothing they could possibly say against 
 Alaric the Visigoth would change in the least our 
 sentiments- toward any modern German of our 
 acquaintance. I never understood at the time 
 and I do not understand now, why they could 
 not skip those early Germans. No sooner did 
 the bombs begin to fall again upon the Rheims 
 Cathedral than some one wrote a letter to a news- 
 paper about the morals of the Marcomanni, and 
 if there was a pro-German in the neighborhood 
 he retorted that according to Tacitus the family 
 life of the early Germans was very pure. This 
 brought out a third man with a quotation from 
 another classic author to the effect that so early 
 
68 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 as the first century A. D. every German was al- 
 ready a scoundrel. And they put this sort of 
 thing into all their war books. I gathered from 
 many of these writers that the longer you looked 
 at an early German the less you would like him, 
 but I could not guess from any one of them why 
 it was necessary to look at him at all. If it was 
 for the nourishment of warlike sentiment — and 
 that seemed to be the purpose of these authors — 
 it was surely much better to look at any German 
 political leader, or at any pan-Germanist pamphlet 
 or at almost any German Lutheran divine. 
 
 When one had for his contemplation an event 
 so rich in hostile significance as the sinking of the 
 Lusitania, for instance, it seemed a pity to turn 
 back and curse the Cimbrians. Suppose Tacitus 
 was quite wrong in saying that the early Germans 
 were often chaste and sometimes sober, if that is 
 what he did say; suppose after immense historical 
 exertions I could have proven that they were 
 never sober and seldom chaste; why should I 
 have bothered people by mentioning it? I did 
 not deny that the doings of that German forest 
 married couple, say about the year 50 A. D., might 
 well have been perfectly scandalous, but I did 
 deny that the point was of the slightest belligerent 
 value to us in our existing frame of mind. Should 
 we have happened on some Hohenzollern, for 
 example, engaged in poisoning a well, it would 
 
HATING BACKWARDS 69 
 
 have been no relief to our feelings to hear some 
 one with a far-off look in his eyes exclaim, "Why, 
 how like Ariovistus !" — even if it should be estab- 
 lished that Ariovistus had poisoned a well. We 
 could not at that crisis hate a Quadus of the first 
 century; we could not even hate an Alemannus of 
 the second, not because we doubted that they were 
 detestable, but because we had not the time. Ger- 
 mans of our own day were too engrossing. 
 
 One can easily understand that an academic 
 person, like any one else, should at the very sound 
 of the word German at that time, have been car- 
 ried away by his feelings, but it does not follow 
 that he should have been carried so far away as 
 into the fourth century. A hot tempered man 
 away off in the fourth century smashing miscel- 
 laneous German objects gave many of us during 
 the war rather an impression of carelessness, when 
 there were so many things that needed attention 
 nearer home. 
 
 If it had really seemed that this manner of 
 writing would bring down the German empire 
 any sooner, there were several millions of French 
 sympathizers in this country even in the time of 
 our neutrality who would gladly have seen it 
 going on, and some of us would no doubt have 
 taken a hand in it. I for one, would gladly have 
 had a fling at Alboin the Langobardus if I had 
 believed it would aid in taking a single German 
 
70 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 trench. If it would have helped General Joffre 
 to have us hate the Germans backwards, we 
 would have burned the Germania of Tacitus, ex- 
 purgated Caesar's Gallic War, and tried to get 
 Velleius Paterculus into the schools. If it had 
 seemed necessary to hate them forwards, we 
 would have founded a society of detestation on 
 the model of "Souvenez-vous," a French associa- 
 tion already organized, and by means of "books, 
 pamphlets, albums, placards, lectures, films, pic- 
 tures, class-room manuals, New Year's gifts, 
 prizes, plays, commemorations, anniversaries, and 
 pilgrimages," every one of them perfectly odious, 
 we, too, might have committed ourselves through 
 all eternity to keeping resentment aglow. But it 
 was only fair that we should know in advance 
 why it should be done ; and that was a point never 
 cleared up by any of these eminent writers, dur- 
 ing the war or afterwards. 
 
AFTER THE WAR IN THOMPSONTOWN 
 
 I wish to say, at the start, that I see no sin in 
 the sudden wealth of Thompsontown. I am not 
 going to denounce the profiteers of that city or 
 draw any moral lesson from it whatever. I do 
 not believe that the wealth of its inhabitants, was 
 in its origin, either moral or immoral, or that it 
 had anything to do with the relentless working 
 of any economic law. The people of Thompson- 
 town became rich by accident. They did not, in 
 the ordinary sense, make money; they were ex- 
 posed to it and caught it, like a cold. To attribute 
 the new wealth of Thompsontown to any form 
 of business activity, lawless or otherwise, is totally 
 to misconceive the situation. Great droves of 
 business men became rich through their inactivity; 
 to have avoided money they would have had to 
 dodge. 
 
 Hat men — I select hat men, because the civili- 
 zation of Thompsontown all came from hats — 
 hat men did not conspire to raise the price of 
 hats; nor was there any great, organizing super- 
 hat-man who amalgamated hats, driving little 
 hatters to suicide. Hat men made fortunes out 
 
 71 
 
72 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 of hats, simply because people insisted on their 
 doing so. I mean this literally. 
 
 I mean that the hat man would have had de- 
 liberately to thwart his customers, if he had not 
 put up the price of hats. Some hat men did at 
 first keep down the price of hats, and their cus- 
 tomers scattered all over town looking for the 
 same hats at higher prices. As wealth increased 
 in Thompsontown, hat buyers not only preferred 
 a worse hat at a higher price, but would walk a 
 mile to get it. 
 
 The sort of people who became rich in Thomp- 
 sontown had no personal preference whatever be- 
 tween any two hats when considered simply as 
 hats, but only when considered as symbols of 
 opulence. A five-dollar hat gave a five-dollar 
 feeling and a fifteen-dollar hat gave a fifteen-dol- 
 lar feeling, and so on, and that is all there was to 
 it. Feeling varied with the price, not price with 
 the feelings. Feelings varied with the price, the 
 object purchased remaining the same. Until the 
 people of Thompsontown learn the prices of 
 things, they do not know what to think about 
 them. 
 
 Now these thousands of people in Thompson- 
 town have made money merely because they did 
 not break off habits which, perhaps, after all, they 
 could not have broken off. People with shops 
 in State Street became rich just because they did 
 
AFTER THE WAR 73 
 
 not close their shops in State Street. Fortune 
 favored every dealer just because he did not cease 
 to deal. They did not seize an opportunity; they 
 merely waited to be seized by it; and while there 
 were exceptions, it is safe to say in general that 
 the new wealth of Thompsontown was the reward 
 for going where you usually went and sitting 
 there. 
 
 Then came the problem of spending it. They 
 bought automobiles, of course, two or three at a 
 time apparently, and they paid sixty dollars for 
 silk shirts, and forty dollars for shoes, and the 
 women wore things in the street that made even 
 them uncomfortable, and State street became in 
 several ways the equal of Fifth Avenue. You 
 stood an equally good chance of being killed by 
 an equally good motor-car, there was as much in- 
 convenience in getting about, and the noises were 
 almost identical. There was nothing gay or high- 
 flying about it, but you cannot blame them for 
 that. Spectacular spending has always been exag- 
 gerated and outside print, the madder prodigalities 
 are hard to find. People who buy ten thousand 
 dollar tooth picks, do it by stealth. God sees, 
 and Mr. Upton Sinclair — but not the rest of us. 
 
 But nobody seemed to be doing with his money 
 anything that he particularly wanted to do. No- 
 body ever showed an eccentricity. Nobody could 
 be said in any sense to be having his fling, and 
 
74 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 while the newly enriched have not the abandon 
 anywhere that you expect of them, in Thompson- 
 town they are particularly tied down. Not only 
 has there never been anything to fling to in Thomp- 
 sontown, but there have never been the sort of 
 people who could fling. Monte Cristo would go 
 in a limousine to the Men's Forum of the Central 
 Baptists in Thompsontown; Heliogabalus would 
 buy a thousand-dollar overcoat; and each would 
 do it not by way of preliminary indulgence, but 
 after exhausting every other joy. Double their 
 fortunes and they would go in two limousines to 
 the Men's Forum of the Central Baptists and buy 
 two thousand-dollar overcoats. 
 
 And while it was true of everything bought 
 by the great, new, nonplussed hordes of the sud- 
 denly prosperous, down to shoes, shirts, under- 
 wear, things applicable to the most unimaginative 
 needs, it was particularly true of things into which 
 the personal fancy might more freely enter, such 
 as household furniture, ornament, bric-a-brac. 
 But personal fancy never did enter. Money came 
 before desire had emerged, and the joy of getting 
 was in counting the cost of what you got. To the 
 ten thousand newly enriched citizens of Thomp- 
 sontown one thing was literally as good as an- 
 other, and divergent prices had to be invented 
 as the only means of telling things apart. 
 
 This had always been something of a difficulty 
 
AFTER THE WAR 75 
 
 in Thompsontown and the city itself is really the 
 result of this embarrassment. People who were 
 not utterly distracted as to what to do with their 
 money would never have built it as they did. The 
 public buildings were all put up for about $500,- 
 000 apiece, and for no other imaginable motive. 
 The richer you got the less you cared what, in an 
 architectural way, happened to you, so long as 
 it was a good deal. If a multi-millionaire, you 
 let them build you anything, provided it was big 
 enough, and they usually decided on an orphan 
 asylum with a front door like a valentine. 
 
 All Main Street was built up by well-to-do 
 people who had not the slightest personal inclina- 
 tion as to the sort of places they wanted to live 
 in. Its domestic architecture is a sincere and ade- 
 quate expression of that frame of mind. There 
 is not a house in Main Street that does not assert 
 emphatically the owner's sentiment: What does 
 it matter where I am? — and there is really no 
 reason for preferring any house to any other, 
 aside from the price. Cost in Thompsontown has 
 always been the true key to the nature of things. 
 
 Political economy has not a word of sense to 
 say to such phenomena as the newly rich of 
 Thompsontown. What becomes of the law of 
 supply and demand when applied to the front par- 
 lors of Maple Street? If you charged enough for 
 bunches of bananas, you would see a bunch of 
 
76 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 bananas in the front window of every house on 
 Maple Street. You will find anything in a house 
 on Maple Street, if it costs enough; and that is 
 the only reason why you find it there. You cannot 
 account for these things in the manner of econom- 
 ists ; it is absurd to suppose that anybody wanted 
 them. 
 
 But, in saying that the new wealth is not the 
 result of enterprise, I do not mean that Thomp- 
 sontown is an unenterprising or from a practical 
 point of view a backward place. On the contrary, 
 it is famous for its energy. If I were Walt Whit- 
 man I could sing as well in Thompsontown as on 
 Brooklyn Bridge. I could sing all day of hats 
 and corset-covers, of shoes, nails, lead pipe, soap, 
 and gas fixtures, regarded as embodiments of 
 Thompsontown will-power. Nor do I mean any- 
 thing invidious in respect to progress. 
 
 In public spirit, Thompsontown has caught up 
 to Syracuse, and it has surpassed, I believe Zeno- 
 bia, Esopus, Rome, Thebes, Ephesus, Priapus, 
 every city in that part of the State. Community 
 song, community bath-tubs, community churches; 
 public teas, talk, and chicken-dinners; welfare 
 works ; public outdoor movements if you want to 
 go outdoors; public indoor movements if you 
 want to stay inside; helping hands held out so 
 thick that it is impossible to slip between them — 
 there never was a better town to lose a leg in or 
 
AFTER THE WAR 77 
 
 in which to be saved from a life of shame. 
 Thompsontown is filled with public spirit almost 
 as soon as the spirit is made public, no matter 
 what the spirit is. A headline carried for eight 
 days by the better sort of newspapers becomes an 
 institution there. 
 
 No sooner had the new patriotism been in- 
 vented — I mean the kind that would hang Thomas 
 Jefferson to a sour apple tree — than the clergy of 
 Thompsontown were solid to a man for the de- 
 portation of anybody that it occurred to anybody 
 to deport; and the whole town became so safe and 
 sane that it would have brained an anarchist be- 
 fore it knew he was one. It would be a madman 
 who complained that Thompsontown did not, in 
 a public way, keep abreast of things. 
 
 But private spirit does seem somewhat lacking 
 in Thompsontown. Citizens of it are magnificent 
 in groups, but, detach the individual from his 
 group and he loses color — like a fish scale. And 
 the lack of personal differences makes it hard to 
 imagine a personal preference, and as you meet 
 rich people singly you lose respect for the rights 
 of property and the laws of the land. Robbing 
 them does not seem like robbery; it seems like 
 rescue; it is impossible to think they desire their 
 possessions. Pillage seems rather attractive. 
 You could not hate a Hun who plundered Main 
 Street; you could only wonder at him. If a bomb 
 
78 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 fell anywhere, it would do a lot of good. That 
 is the trouble with looking at the new wealth of 
 Thompsontown ; it makes you a reckless man. It 
 is impossible to avoid the reflection that even with 
 a soviet in the City Hall and the whole town liv- 
 ing in phalansteries and the dullest Utopia ever 
 dreamt of come to pass, there could, after all, be 
 no diminution of those personal diversities which 
 present day society is said to keep alive — varieties 
 of art and mental interest, individual expression, 
 fancy, freedom of view, idiosyncrasy — and no 
 danger at all of the dead level dreaded by the 
 orthodox. For the personal diversities do not 
 exist and the level could not be deader. 
 
 And freedom of mind, always so hard to 
 attain in Thompsontown, became impossible after 
 the war, when the town shook with the fear of 
 Bolshevism. Indeed, it was dangerous to possess 
 a mind after the lectures on Bolshevism began in 
 the People's Athenaeum. I recall one which ran 
 about as follows : 
 
 There was no such thing as Bolshevism in the 
 sense of a body of social and economic theories 
 and ideas, said the speaker. The Bolsheviki had 
 no theories and no ideas, and the only thing that 
 need be said about their programme was that it 
 was a programme of crime. They were simply 
 all murderers, bandits, and degenerates paid by 
 Germany to plunder and kill. They were ex- 
 
AFTER THE WAR 79 
 
 clusively the product of German intrigue. Many 
 years before the war the Germans said to them- 
 selves, "Let us create the Bolsheviki who will so 
 weaken the Russian state that we may get control 
 of it." So they created the Bolsheviki. 
 
 After the war, when the Bolsheviki were ap- 
 parently weakening the German state as well as 
 the Russian, that also was the result of a German 
 plot. The Germans were pretending to be Bol- 
 shevists in order to frighten the Allies into mak- 
 ing softer terms of peace. Bolshevist uprisings 
 were arranged in Germany and in some instances 
 made to look like revolutions. Here and there 
 people would be massacred or a premier assassin- 
 ated or an alleged Bolshevist hacked to pieces, 
 but in this the Germans were not serious. They 
 were only trying to make the Allies think they 
 were. A German may be sanguinary, said he, 
 but he is never serious. When they were killing 
 each other in the streets by the hundreds they 
 were laughing in their sleeves at the impression 
 of seriousness they were producing upon other 
 people. Germans are always up to some such 
 tricks when they kill each other by the hundreds, 
 said he. When they were suppressing Bolshevism 
 in Berlin, they had no objection to Bolshevism. 
 They were not even thinking about Bolshevism. 
 They were simply thinking, "What a splendid 
 hoax on the Allies!" Nor did the setting up and 
 
8o THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 pulling down of Soviets arise from any interest in 
 Soviets. They did not care either one way or the 
 other about Soviets. The setting up and pulling 
 down of Soviets was a mere ruse to produce the 
 impression that Soviets were being set up and 
 pulled down. Fortunately, the Allies were not 
 duped by this affection and accordingly the pro- 
 gramme failed. 
 
 And now, according to the speaker, began the 
 huge final German conspiracy which, if not balked, 
 would sweep from the world every vestige of civil- 
 ization. Germany's plan was to ruin the world 
 in order to rule it. To do this she was about to 
 engage along with Russia in a campaign of Bol- 
 shevization in all the nations on the earth. This 
 would not adhere to a fixed programme but would, 
 in every country, take the course that soonest led 
 to chaos, whatever that course might be, and when 
 chaos was accomplished Germany would at once 
 help herself to anything she wanted in it. There 
 was but one remedy. Bolshevism everywhere must 
 be stamped out instantly by force. 
 
 I repeat these too familiar remarks because al- 
 though they had long been matter of journalistic 
 routine in the respectable press of three countries 
 their effect on Thompsontown was very inflam- 
 matory, and a tragic consequence was narrowly 
 escaped. Eager to destroy Bolshevists when there 
 were no Bolshevists in Thompsontown to destroy, 
 
AFTER THE WAR 81 
 
 the patriotic element in the town turned in its 
 wrath upon old Professor Henderson. 
 
 Now it would be impossible to imagine a man 
 more remote from all the issues that agitated 
 Thompsontown than old Professor Henderson. 
 Some ante-natal circumstance had destined him to 
 Thompsontown and he went on living there out 
 of sheer absence of mind, obviously irrelevant to 
 everything in it. As a political philosopher, he had 
 been known for thirty years outside Thompson- 
 town for his singular faculty of animating sub- 
 jects commonly put to sleep in American univer- 
 sities. He was also one of the few humane 
 writers on history during his generation, and 
 he had actually brought a touch of life to the 
 minds of other writers of history, which of itself 
 to any one acquainted with American historians 
 seemed superhuman. For the rest he was a specu- 
 lative and inquiring sort of person who ap- 
 proached subjects somewhat in the manner of 
 Socrates, trusting that in these modern days he 
 would escape the cup of hemlock; and in this 
 spirit he discussed the fundamentals of political 
 philosophy, turning patriotism inside out, turning 
 the virtues upside down, that is to say, doing 
 everything that people have done in the discussion 
 of political philosophy, ever since the Greeks be- 
 gan. In short, everybody knew him from his 
 writings for the sort of man who gave other 
 
82 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 people's intellects something to do and thus kept 
 other people out of mischief. There might have 
 been some things in Professor Henderson's writ- 
 ings that would have shocked a policeman, but if 
 the policeman had read them all through he would 
 almost certainly have decided not to arrest him. 
 
 But he seemed of a sudden dangerous to all the 
 authorities of Thompsontown. The Eagle-Record 
 set out in pursuit of him in six leading articles; 
 and four speeches were made against him at the 
 Veterans' Lodge. There was a hunt for suspic- 
 ious circumstances, and the suspicious circum- 
 stances were found. They consisted of detached 
 passages from his books, which sounded rather 
 sanguinary. It was understood that the prosecut- 
 ing officer was about to move and people said it 
 would serve the old pro-German right. Four 
 young men who had spent their war-time in New 
 Jersey talked of lynching; and the Rev. Madison 
 Brace, brother-in-law of the millionaire proprietor 
 of Neuralgia Syrup, referred in his sermon at the 
 Tabernacle to the "poison of Bolshevism instilled 
 into the minds of youth under the guise of political 
 philosophy." Then to the surprise of everybody 
 the matter was dropped and it leaked out after- 
 wards that all the seditious passages in his books 
 were found in the Bible or in the Areopagitica of 
 Milton. 
 
 Now, as I write this, immediately after the nar- 
 
AFTER THE WAR 83 
 
 row escape of Professor Henderson, I do not find 
 the situation altogether depressing. On the con- 
 trary I see a chance for the return of a certain 
 measure of mental liberty to Thompsontown. I 
 believe that instances of this nature may carry 
 their own cure even in Thompsontown and that 
 more steps in this direction will result in some- 
 thing so extreme that it will set free enough plain 
 sense to sweep it all away. For assume that this 
 incident had been a trifle more extreme. Suppose, 
 for example, that some uncommonly vigilant con- 
 stable of conversation employed by our League of 
 Patriotic Speech had caught Professor Hender- 
 son at something heinous — poisoning a State 
 Street man's mind, say, by talking about a higher 
 patriotism — or caught him with the Divine Mon- 
 archy in his hand speculating. Suppose then after 
 being thrown into jail Professor Henderson is 
 brought before a judge who is a constant reader 
 of all the League's publications and a person ex- 
 tremely cautious in his thoughts and the judge 
 decides, without a crease in the marble solemnity 
 of his countenance, to sentence Professor Hender- 
 son to five years in chains. 
 
 It would not necessarily be a dark moment for 
 Thompsontown when the chains were fastened on 
 Professor Henderson. On the contrary, it might 
 be the dawning of its day. There might begin a 
 new spirit of understanding and geniality from 
 
84 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 the very moment when Professor Henderson was 
 thrown into chains. He is so obviously the sort 
 of person who ought not to be in chains that out- 
 side Thompsontown the sense of incongruity 
 would be instantly and widely awakened; and 
 some of the sense might find its way back into 
 Thompsontown. Wit might sift in through little 
 cracks in the walls of editorial rooms hitherto 
 supposed to be altogether thought-proof. Com- 
 mon sense might descend upon the people in waves 
 upon waves. And with the striking of the chains 
 from Professor Henderson might come the clear- 
 ing away of the whole nightmare of indiscriminate 
 and unintelligent repression and some glimmer of 
 a notion as to who are enemies and who are not 
 in the world around. Having once reached the 
 outer limit of burlesque, Thompsontown might 
 perhaps revert in the direction of reality. 
 
INTERNATIONAL CANCELLATION 
 
 From hasty and disconnected reading of the 
 treaty discussion I may have became confused 
 in mind, and I am not sure that I recall exactly 
 the names, dates, and other details of a certain 
 article by an expert in foreign affairs that I re- 
 cently encountered, but I can at least reproduce 
 the spirit of it. It was on the subject of Lower 
 Magnesia, with which the writer says every reader 
 ought to be as familiar as he is with the Banat of 
 Temesvar. 
 
 Now the Lower Magnesians are, he says, of 
 the purest Jingo-Sloven breed, and for nine hun- 
 dred years they have burned for reunion with 
 their kinsmen of Mongrelia, from whom, as every- 
 body knows, they were ruthlessly torn by Fred- 
 erick Barbarossa. From that day to this they 
 have hated the North Germans to a man, and the 
 duty before the Peace Conference was perfectly 
 clear. It should either have erected Lower Mag- 
 nesia into an autonomous principality within the 
 limits of the ancient Duchy or Citrate (that is to 
 say, between the Bugrug mountains and the river 
 Mag) , or it should have united it with Mongrelia. 
 
 85 
 
86 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 Instead of that it was provided, by articles 131- 
 422 of the treaty, that the question should be 
 left to a plebiscite. This gave the Germans their 
 chance and they did exactly what the writer, know- 
 ing the German character, expected them to do. 
 They secretly raised an army of 700,000 men 
 and threw it into coal holes from which it was to 
 emerge at the moment of the plebiscite, disguised 
 as Magnesian school-teachers. This was done so 
 secretly that even now no one among the Allies 
 has the slightest suspicion of it. The writer him- 
 self knows how secret it was because he has it 
 on the authority of a secret document, which docu- 
 ment is so secret that its existence is unknown even 
 to the man who possesses it. 
 
 I should like to see set up along with any frag- 
 ment of the League of Nations that may still re- 
 main when these words appear in print, a sort 
 of clearing-house for international impressions. 
 Clearing-house may not be quite the word for it, 
 but it suggests what I believe to be the necessary 
 limitations of the plan, which would not concern 
 itself with the correction of impressions but only 
 with the setting off of one impression against an- 
 other. As the press of each country is at every 
 moment, contradicting itself, cancellation on a 
 large scale would inevitably result. 
 
 That all writers on foreign affairs are simply 
 guessing is, I believe, a safe rule to lay down. In- 
 
INTERNATIONAL CANCELLATION 87 
 
 deed they themselves seldom pretend to be doing 
 anything else, and I have no doubt that the better 
 sort among them are often shocked by the serious 
 way in which they are taken by those whom they 
 seek to entertain. Of course I do not deny that 
 the dark forces, dangerous undercurrents, and 
 sinister designs evoked by the writers on foreign 
 affairs do sometimes actually exist. I simply mean 
 that their existence ought never to be inferred 
 from their evocation. Their evocation is constant, 
 their existence only occasional. 
 
 Take, for example, the vast Anglo-Saxon con- 
 spiracy as conceived by a dozen French journal- 
 ists at this moment (thought it may be forgotten 
 the next moment) and the equally vast French 
 conspiracy as conceived by a dozen English and 
 American ones. Dozen for dozen these writers 
 seem to me, from their manner of writing, almost 
 equally astute. They all have the same air of 
 certitude and the same reticence as to the reasons 
 for it. Dozen for dozen they are evenly matched 
 so far as I can see, as regards access to those sure 
 but unmentionable sources of truth, which are 
 known only to the writer on foreign affairs, and 
 as regards intimacy with those highly placed and 
 serious persons, not to be named without violating 
 a confidence, who though stonily impenetrable to 
 all the rest of the world, pour out all the secrets 
 of their bosoms as soon as they learn that the 
 
88 THE 'MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 person they are talking to writes for a newspaper. 
 
 In short, I see no reason why these two groups 
 of expert writers on foreign affairs are not equally 
 entitled to my confidence. 
 
 Nor do I deny that both conspiracies may as a 
 matter of fact exist. I admit that the American 
 and British governments, working in the dark, 
 may have cemented that Anglo-Saxon blood-pact 
 for the extirpation of all the Latin races in the 
 world. And I admit that, unseen by any human 
 eye, the French premier and his commander-in- 
 chief may have perfected that gigantic plan for 
 the Gallo-Latin domination of the universe. Das- 
 tardly designs, both of them, I say, and I certainly 
 have no desire to throw anybody off his guard in 
 respect to them. But there is one thing I will 
 not admit about this whole black devilish business 
 that may be brewing around us under cover of the 
 night, and that is that any writer in either group, 
 whose article I have happened to read, really 
 knows any more about the thing than I do. They 
 not only do not mention any reason for supposing 
 that the respective plots exist or any person who 
 believes in the plot's existence but they do not 
 even tell you how — whether by dreams, ghosts, 
 portents, flights of birds, thunder on the left side, 
 songs of sacred chickens, or hierophancy — they 
 themselves got a glimmer that the plot does exist. 
 
 In other words, they seem to take for granted 
 
INTERNATIONAL CANCELLATION 89 
 
 the plot's existence and then prove in great detail 
 the horrors of it — which is precisely the opposite 
 of what any serious person in possession of the 
 dreadful information would do. He would work 
 with might and main to prove to other people the 
 plot's existence and he would then take for granted 
 their appreciation of its undesirable results. Even 
 if the world is rent in twain by one or both of 
 these conspiracies upon the publication of these 
 words, I shall still insist that none of these writers 
 had the slightest notion that it would come to pass. 
 The nonchalance of writers who say they see 
 a world in flames, would be incredible if they 
 thought they saw it. No man in private life 
 would casually say to the surrounding family of 
 an evening that in well-informed circles on the 
 second floor he had learned — or that, from au- 
 thorities on the first floor, credibly reported to be 
 in the confidence of the janitor, he had gathered 
 — that the upper stories of the building were at 
 the moment on fire, nor would he, on remarking 
 the serious nature of the affair, return to the read- 
 ing of his newspaper. These writers would never 
 shoot a dog in the light spirit in which they damn 
 a nation. When it comes to the shooting of a 
 dog, writers are always able to produce some sort 
 of an excuse. I may add that when the world 
 does actually burst into flames the writers I have 
 mentioned are not the ones who notice it 
 
90 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 Now the impartial display of this sort of thing 
 by the central body to which I have referred would 
 show, I think, that the suspicion of hostile designs 
 has as a rule no basis in the public mind, or even 
 in the writer's, but is a mere matter of journalistic 
 routine in every country; that of course there are 
 exceptions but that this is the rule. And then if 
 it culled from each national press the narrowest 
 thoughts of its narrowest thinkers, for submission 
 without remark to the quiet scrutiny of many 
 lands, who knows that the countries might not be 
 drawn together out of sheer distaste for the sort 
 of people who held them apart? The combing out 
 from each press of all its chauvinists, of all its 
 imperialists, colonial expansionists, and power- 
 worshippers, of its glory-talkers and debaters of 
 prestige, inventors of wounds in the national van- 
 ity, moral idiots of the beau geste, people with 
 patriotic proud-flesh, Buncombes and Bobadils and 
 royalists of France, and American manifest-destin- 
 arians, glorifiers of a provincial grudge, exploiters 
 of a mean and proximate past with no basis in a 
 true tradition — this mere combing of them out 
 into common heaps as common nuisances to na- 
 tions — who knows that it might not work of itself 
 some miracle of mutual comprehension? 
 
 A progressive writer in his latest volume, on 
 the world's future, is madder in his dreams of 
 universal democracy than he was in the volume be- 
 
INTERNATIONAL CANCELLATION 91 
 
 fore. The peoples of the earth are all alike every- 
 where, he seems to say, and if you break down 
 the political dykes that divide them, they will all 
 flow together in a sea. There are no real moral 
 frontiers, or religious, ethnic, intellectual, or 
 economic ones, and there are no real differences 
 rooted in the past. No nation ought to have a 
 past peculiar to it, says he; it is a foolish thing 
 invented by the soothsayers. Nations should have 
 a common past and listen only to their common 
 story, and try to forget their own peculiar yarns, 
 mere family gossip for the most part. Forget 
 who your father was and try and realize that 
 your brother is a Calmuck; and if the thing is 
 done with a good will all round, think of the 
 warmth of the universal intimacy. 
 
 I confess I have not much hope of an early ad- 
 vent of this universal warmth. Even Englishmen, 
 Frenchmen, and Americans do not look alike to 
 me, despite the large, impressive, undeniably 
 cordial and brotherly circumstance that all of 
 them are bipeds; and I am no more capable of 
 surveying them with the super-patriotic eye of this 
 detached observer than I am of taking the point 
 of view of an angel flying over them. 
 
 But the attitude of this writer seems to me in 
 one respect mundane and even practical. If peo- 
 ple are not so much alike as he says they are, at 
 least they are less unlike than anyone would sup- 
 
92 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 pose them to be from the language of the inter- 
 national impressionists; and since these folk are 
 forever inventing imaginary differences, it seems 
 worth while, in the interest of international com- 
 ity, to emphasize a point of likeness now and then, 
 perhaps even to exaggerate it. 
 
 Since the international impressionists never have 
 any reason for their impressions of the respective 
 nations that they write about, why not follow 
 the instincts of humanity and be equally well im- 
 pressed by them all? For a moment at least, that 
 is the logical consequence of reading them. After 
 reading a sufficient quantity of the language of 
 international comparisons I am forced for a short 
 time almost into an attitude of brotherly love, 
 owing to the lack of proper food for hatred. 
 
THE LESSONS OF LITERARY WAR 
 LOSSES 
 
 Several good British writers apologized during 
 the war because for one reason or another they 
 could not keep all their literary work on a war 
 footing. One of them, for example, author of 
 a number of agreeable novels in the spirit of 
 Anthony Trollope, thought it necessary to notice 
 the complaint of certain critics that his pleasant 
 story about life in an English country house was 
 am "anachronism" — presumably because no shells 
 dropped on it. He tried to reason with these 
 monomaniacs, arguing that interest in quiet things 
 is not obsolete even in war time and that a novel- 
 ist may legitimately go on doing the sort of thing 
 that he thinks he can do the best. It would seem 
 to a sane person fairly obvious. 
 
 Reasonable people at that time were not blam- 
 ing novelists because their writings were not con- 
 cerned immediately with war. On the contrary, 
 they were rather saddened by the too palpable 
 effects of the war on the work of many of their 
 gifted contemporaries. From the point of view 
 of man power it may have been desirable to get 
 a novelist into the war, but from the point of 
 
 93 
 
94 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 view of literary advantage it was found after 
 three years' experience that it was often undesir- 
 able to get the war into a novelist. Of course, a 
 regiment of novelists marching to the front, each 
 determined to bring down a German, might have 
 been a cheering spectacle, but the sight of those 
 novelists all marching home, each determined to 
 bring out at least one war novel and possibly two, 
 would have been on the whole depressing. 
 
 For it was clear to any one who looked into the 
 matter at all closely that one of the disasters of 
 the war was the fancied necessity of writing about 
 it on the part of persons who were manifestly 
 designed by nature for something else. On read- 
 ing an article by Mr. Kipling, for example, it was 
 impossible to escape the conclusion that the loss to 
 letters was far more serious than the damage it 
 did to the enemy's cause. Fill an author with a 
 titanic theme and you do not make him titanic; 
 you often merely burst him ; and one could scarcely 
 turn the pages of a serious magazine during the 
 war without stumbling over the ruins of what had 
 once been a man of letters. The fact that they 
 had perished nobly did not console me for their 
 having gone to pieces, nor do I think it unfair to 
 raise the question now whether they perished 
 needfully. 
 
 Consider, for example, the case of a brilliant 
 British writer, who, I believe, wrote against the 
 
LITERARY WAR LOSSES 95 
 
 Germans about once a week after the war began 
 and was unable to break the habit off till two 
 years after the war had ended. He acquired the 
 ability of hating the Germans all through the 
 Middle Ages. He could hate all of Prussia from 
 the earliest times down to the present moment, 
 and all the Teutonic Knights, and every minute 
 in the life of each Elector of Brandenburg. If 
 shells were bursting on the women of his neigh- 
 borhood, he would attack at once and with the 
 utmost fury trie character of Frederick the Great, 
 and in the course of the same article in his London 
 weekly paper he would find time also for an un- 
 favorable mention of the writings of Walter von 
 der Vogelweide. Now, his feeling toward the 
 Germans was precisely my own and that of almost 
 every one I knew, and I need not say that any 
 havoc he may have wrought among the Germans 
 was welcome to me. I did not wish to see the 
 Germans escape from this agreeable writer. But 
 I should have liked to see him escape from the 
 Germans if it had been compatible with the public 
 interest, and I raise the question whether, if he 
 had done so from time to time, many of them 
 would after all have really got away. For, natur- 
 ally enough, in writing constantly upon so mo- 
 notonous a subject as the moral defects of this 
 morally primitive people this writer fell into a 
 sort of rudimentary routine. It was impossible 
 
96 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 to write against the German morals as we knew 
 them without being rudimentary, for you were 
 addressing them, so to speak, from the threshold 
 of civilized life. It was as if you were contem- 
 plating the original ape-iman in circumstances so 
 acute that even an anthropological interest in him 
 was, for the moment, impossible. 
 
 The Germans as we understood them at that 
 moment were not a subject around which the im- 
 agination of a civilized man really cared to play. 
 As the daily news of pillage, rape, assassination, 
 and mendacity arrived, (and no exceptions to 
 these rules> were ever published) curiosity about 
 them was soon sated and interest in them, though 
 for the moment keen, was of so elementary a nat- 
 ure as hardly to admit of a varied literary ex- 
 pression. A rather coarse cartoon was a suffici- 
 ently delicate reply to the most subtle diplomatic 
 language of a German statesman. In short, the 
 entire situation from the moral point of view was, 
 one may say, extremely crude. 
 
 So it happened that the monotonous succession 
 of barbarities by which this morally backward 
 people made its presence felt each week evoked 
 from this writer each week a monotonous succes- 
 sion of ejaculatory moral sounds, which were no 
 doubt suited to the nature of the subject, but 
 which, I believe, could have been just as compet- 
 ently rendered by a large number of persons, not 
 
LITERARY WAR LOSSES 97 
 
 one of whom could do certain valuable other 
 things which this writer was capable of doing. 
 And therein lay the waste. Of course he acquired 
 great facility. Waked up suddenly out of a sound 
 sleep, he could begin instantly, "Another brutal 
 
 aspect of the burning of babies alive is " and 
 
 finish the article almost mechanically. But I be- 
 lieve almost any one could have been trained to 
 find the brutal aspects of the burning of babies 
 alive. 
 
 Let us suppose the Germans had taken another 
 backward step — a step not difficult to imagine, and 
 one that they might have taken had the general 
 staff thought it desirable. Suppose that proceed- 
 ing logically from the idea attributed to the Kaiser 
 that "For me humanity is bounded by the Vosges," 
 they had actually regarded all people to the west 
 of the Vosges, in common with other animals, as 
 material for food and that cannibalism among 
 them became as well established and as customary 
 a thing in our estimation as, say, the murder of a 
 woman or a child. 
 
 The fact that the Germans ate their prisoners, 
 let us say, received among the Allied nations all 
 the attention that such a subject naturally would 
 deserve. Imagine it displayed everywhere on 
 posters, noted in state messages, recorded in 
 minute detail in the daily press, and assuming its 
 proportionate share in ordinary conversation — 
 
98 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 in short, taking firm hold of the common mind. 
 In these circumstances it seems to me doubtful that 
 any great amount of literary talent need have 
 been devoted merely to showing that the course 
 of the Germans was objectionable. 
 
 The case against cannibalism need not have 
 been made out with any great skill and could 
 have been safely left to much more commonplace 
 persons than Mr. G. K. Chesterton, Professor 
 Gilbert Murray, Maurice Donnay, M. Albert 
 Capus, M. Pierre Loti, and many other essayists, 
 novelists, playwrights, and scholars whose person- 
 alities during the war were not to be distinguished 
 from any other portion of the newspaper. Sir 
 Gilbert Parker need not have sent me and every 
 one else in my office building a handsome, care- 
 fully prepared pamphlet answering the Hin- 
 denburg-Ludendorff defense of cannibalism on 
 grounds of military necessity, and Mr. William 
 Archer would not have had to develop with any 
 particular ability his reply to the philosophic con- 
 tention of Professor Oswald, Professor Haeckel, 
 and other leaders of German thought, that the 
 eating by Teutons of a non^Teutonic race was not 
 to be considered as cannibalism. 
 
 The argument of Count von Reventlow that 
 cannibalism was the corollary of pan-Germanism, 
 necessarily involved in the very conception of the 
 Germanic absorption of inferior races, though ad- 
 
LITERARY WAR LOSSES 99 
 
 mittedly logical, would probably not have required 
 an elaborate reply. And as more of our fellow 
 citizens found their way to the German sideboard 
 the less need there would be that the ablest men 
 of letters of their time should devote their en- 
 ergies to the bald and iterative expression of anti- 
 cannibal views. I do not mean that they should 
 not have written against cannibalism if they had 
 wished to. I merely mean that to judge by an- 
 alogies their longest essays might have been less 
 effective than the simple publication of a German 
 bill of fare. 
 
 People foresaw in a general way the literary 
 effects of the war. They knew that it was likely 
 to devastate light literature in the fighting nations, 
 but they could not have anticipated the startling 
 concrete results. They knew, of course, that an 
 essayist hit by a bomb would cease writing, but 
 they could have had no- idea that the essayists who 
 were not hit would be so strangely altered when 
 they went on writing. There was no external scar 
 on the persons of dozens of eminent writers, who 
 had presumably remained in perfectly safe places 
 and suffered none of the privations of war; yet 
 from the reader's point of view they were hardly 
 recognizable. 
 
 Before the war it was generally supposed that 
 the effect of a strong feeling upon a light literary 
 character was on the whole beneficial, and there 
 
ioo THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 are many to this day who argue that the reason 
 wlhy American light literature is usually so very 
 light that no one can feel it, is because there are 
 no strong, high, noble feelings in the writers them- 
 selves. I have heard it suggested that my 
 friend, Mr. Harold McChamber (whose career 
 I have sketched in another chapter) , had he been 
 borne aloft on some great tempest of emotion, 
 would have been George Meredith — or just as 
 remarkable — and that if the inner life of Profes- 
 sor Woodside were disturbed a modern equiva- 
 lent of Dante's Inferno would emerge. 
 
 But what were the results of shaking up dozens 
 of delightful authors during the war? Simply, 
 that soon after August 4th, 19 14, they became 
 almost completely unreadable, and have remained 
 so ever since. 
 
 This is not said in an unfriendly spirit. The 
 cause of these writers was my own; nor do I re- 
 spect them any less as men for their having rather 
 gone to pieces as writers. Indeed, they may be 
 regarded as sufferers from internal injuries honor- 
 ably sustained; for the casualties of war are subtle 
 and various. 
 
 The bomb that takes off a private's leg may 
 render a good poet perfectly useless for several 
 months. Down went thousands of stout British 
 seamen in the Battle of Jutland and away went 
 Mr. Chesterton's commonsense, as he argued with 
 
LITERARY WAR LOSSES 101 
 
 some equally stricken German that the fight was 
 not really a German Salamis, but, on the contrary, 
 a British Waterloo 1 . While lives are nobly lost at 
 the front, wits are lost as nobly in the magazines, 
 and after a battle there are almost as many mis- 
 carriages among verse writers as among mothers. 
 
 To the right-feeling reader, the foolish thing 
 he encountered in war time on the formerly in- 
 telligent page seemed a sort of literary lesion, 
 patriotically incurred. But he was under no 
 obligation whatever to go on reading the page. 
 The healthy inner violence of the writers did not 
 take an adequate outward form, and the fact that 
 their hearts were eminently in the right place, 
 afforded a moral, not a literary gratification. It 
 showed how vain are the current recipes for the 
 amelioriation of belles-lettres. Passion and a high 
 purpose, and freedom from the least taint of com- 
 mercialism, a great subject and a stirring time — 
 all the ingredients recommended by American 
 magazine critics for twenty years in the recon- 
 struction of trhe world's literature — went to the 
 making of the very worst volumes that these au- 
 thors had as yet achieved. 
 
 Scorn has been highly valued as a literary mo- 
 tive, but the scorn of the satirist was no longer 
 beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip, 
 and when he dipped his pen in gall — a proceeding 
 much esteemed by literary commentators — the gall 
 
ioa THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 turned out to be the very thinnest of writing fluids. 
 Consecrate a litterateur and to your astonishment 
 you cannot read him. Put him in a battle mood 
 and he gives you nothing to think about, no ex- 
 ploding thought of any use whatever, except per- 
 haps to throw at some enemy whom probably it 
 will not hurt. The lesson of the war seems to be 
 adverse to all the current theories of inspiration 
 in literature. If you inspire light literature too 
 much, apparently, there is merely a blow-out. 
 
 This, by the way, must dishearten the group of 
 critics and novelists who, at intervals these past 
 twenty years, have been telling other critics and 
 novelists what is the matter with them. The 
 amount of disagreeable contemporary reading 
 these devoted men have forced themselves to do for 
 this purpose is prodigious. One of them said that 
 after having gone through all the contemporary 
 writings of France, Russia and Germany, and 
 found them rather bad, he read everything at all 
 tiresome in America, and found it worse yet. An- 
 other not only knows the exact difference between 
 Mr. Harold McChamber and Mr. Curtis Lane — 
 which of itself is rather a subtle matter — but he 
 can tell to a dot why and how much they both fall 
 short of genius. 
 
 Mr. Barton Worcester says the hovels of Mr. 
 Harold McChamber are "shams;" mere "puddles 
 of words," "stale, distorted" and full of "mil- 
 
LITERARY WAR LOSSES 103 
 
 dewed pap," but he can pass the stiffest sort of 
 examination in them all, and will quote you page 
 after page of the longest, evidently having learned 
 them by heart. He knows why Mr. Harold Mc- 
 Chamber is so much worse than Mrs. Pauline 
 McHenry Donald — he even knows why each of 
 them exists — and he has solved a hundred other 
 just such knotty problems. You cannot help ad- 
 miring these conscientious, indefatigable men, 
 going on and on against their wills, borrowing 
 novels from the cook; following up the elevator 
 boy and becoming learned in the subject of his 
 literary contemplations. But you cannot help 
 rather pitying them. 
 
 Now, the result of all this hard labor and liter- 
 ary anguish may be summed up quite simply. The 
 faults of American writings, according to these 
 critics, all arise from the lack of proper motives 
 in the writer. They do not say it in so many 
 words, but they plainly imply a genuine belief that 
 if they could substitute some of their own better 
 moral and artistic purposes for the present motives 
 of any novelist, however silly, that novelist would 
 soon become quite sensible. 
 
 One critic is certain that if the American novel- 
 ist would stop caring so much about old women 
 and little boys he would surely be considered a 
 much better artist. 
 
 A second critic believes that if authors would 
 
104 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 be less anxious to appear orthodox and cease con- 
 spiring to suppress all mention of the sexual re- 
 lation they would improve. A third critic thinks 
 inner freedom is the certain cure. And one thing 
 follows from the arguments of all of them as 
 absolutely certain : Extract the commercial mo- 
 tive from any author, however bad, and he will 
 be bettered. 
 
 There is not the slightest foundation for any 
 one of these beliefs, as the lesson of the war re- 
 minds us. Too many gifted authors were, with a 
 lofty purpose for a splendid cause, writing com- 
 plete nonsense. Too plain was it, even among 
 writers at one time quite remarkable, that moral 
 exaltation is often followed by literary decay. As 
 to the harmless, ordinary American author, over 
 whom the critics above cited have toiled so hard, 
 there is no help for him from their methods. On 
 the contrary, if they had their way with him, they 
 would simply make him uncomfortable without 
 benefiting the reading public in the least. Why 
 free the inner life of Mr. Harold McChamber, 
 when in all aesthetic probability none of it could 
 escape? Suppose Mr. Harold McChamber gave 
 himself up utterly to Mr. Worcester; went to a 
 lonely place with him and listened every day, and 
 Mr. Worcester really interested him in Shake- 
 speare or Mr. Ezra Pound, and tugged and 
 heaved him toward the higher plane, Mr. Mc- 
 
LITERARY WAR LOSSES 105 
 
 Chamber in no wise resisting; suppose finally that 
 the white flame of Mr. Worcester actually passed 
 over into Mr. McChamber. Mr. McChamber's 
 artistic substance being the same, there would be 
 no change in his manner of writing, and the small, 
 discerning class of readers whom Mr. Worcester 
 has in mind would probably never know that Mr. 
 McChamber was burning bright inside. It simply 
 would cost Mr. McChamber five million readers 
 and fill him with a violent emotion which he lacked 
 completely the ability to express. 
 
 In fact, it is a rash man who in view of the 
 lesson of the war, will recommend any definite 
 external or internal crisis for the amelioration of 
 any author — good or bad. The most agreeable 
 authors of t!he time went monotonously insane un- 
 der conditions which, on the principle of a great 
 body of current literary comment should have im- 
 proved them. 
 
ON BEHALF OF MR. HAROLD MC- 
 CHAMBER 
 
 In those exalted circles where the condition of 
 American popular novelists is regarded with grave 
 concern, it is assumed that certain of them have 
 stooped to conquer. It is assumed that they were 
 at one time capable of a higher class of work but 
 deliberately turned away from it to pander -to 
 the public. It would almost seem from some of 
 these articles that the novelist before becoming 
 popular has a battle with his conscience, saying to 
 himself in so many words, "Shall I pander?" and 
 then after a brief struggle answering "Yea." 
 Then he sells one hundred thousand copies and 
 is lost to Art. 
 
 I have sometimes; become quite sentimental 
 about him on reading these articles for it would 
 appear from them that the poor creature really 
 knows how low he is and must suffer a good deal 
 from remorse, even while outwardly cheerful. 
 Yet the situation cannot be so bad as that. Indeed 
 there is evidence that the situation does not exist 
 at all, outside the minds of these critics. Let us 
 take the following instance, for which a parallel 
 can be found by any one who looks for it : 
 
 106 
 
HAROLD McCHAMBER 107 
 
 Mr. Harold W. McChamber, of stout com- 
 mercial stock crossed now and then with a Baptist 
 clergyman, was born at South Bend, Indiana, in 
 1873, graduated at Cornell University, wrote for 
 no matter what newspaper and no matter where, 
 and achieved his first literary success, a very mod- 
 est one, some twenty years, ago, with the publica- 
 tion of Sally of the Bogs. This was an intensive 
 study in ashen grey realism, which won immedi- 
 ately a succes d'estime for the extraordinary ver- 
 acity of its local color. Not one serious reviewer 
 failed to remark on its "atmosphere" or to say 
 that it was "convincing" or to discern unmistak- 
 able "signs of promise" in the author. 
 
 Miss Edna Ladell in the New York Times 
 Saturday Supplement after saying that it at once 
 made her "sit up" declared: "The reality of it 
 all grips, compels, fascinates, overmasters. 
 Everywhere the great devouring, permeating, ob- 
 sessing bog. You see it, smell it, taste it. Every- 
 where the suck of the mud, the splash of the frog, 
 the cry of the bittern, the glint of twilight on the 
 pools, blackened stumps, moss, dank leaves, 
 turtles, the smell of decaying roots and wet shoe- 
 leather. And the lives of the simple characters 
 are bog-driven, bog-confined. With supreme 
 artistry he has given us an actual slice of raw drip- 
 ping, oozy bog-life. A veritable masterpiece." 
 
 Except for a writer in the New York Sun who 
 
io8, THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 called it an "unpleasant story of mud and rheuma- 
 tism" almost every other reviewer seemed grate- 
 ful for the way it brought the bog home to him; 
 and the late Mr. W. D. Howells in a cordial let- 
 ter to the author said that as an authentic por- 
 trayal of an Indiana bog community it was un- 
 paralleled in American fiction. He compared it to 
 Miss Edith Bamborough's picture of mid-Tennes- 
 see mill-town life, to Mrs. Buxby's powerful grasp 
 of the southern Georgia sand-hill country, to Miss 
 Amy Barton's mastery of northwestern Connecti- 
 cut upland farm society, and to Mr. John D. Pott's 
 remarkable realization of the atmosphere of the 
 Erie Canal. He applauded Mr. McChamber's 
 courageous break with the cheap traditions of con- 
 ventional romance, and urged him to continue 
 as he had begun, saying in conclusion, " You 
 have made that little corner of the land your 
 own." 
 
 Mr. McChamber did not, as is well known, con- 
 tinue as he had begun, but on the contrary within 
 less than two years produced one of the six best- 
 selling historical novels of the period and from 
 that time to this has repeated that success at sur- 
 prisingly short and regular intervals. Also, as is 
 well known, in gaining this vast new audience he 
 lost that penetrating old one which had discerned 
 the beauty of Sally of the Bogs; and henceforth 
 if serious reviewers noticed him, it was to contrast 
 
HAROLD McCHAMBER 109 
 
 his early artistic endeavor with his present com- 
 mercial achievement. 
 
 In literary circles his work was soon taken as 
 typical of those broad, low levels that a discrimin- 
 ating taste will instinctively avoid. When one said 
 the "Harold McChamber sort of thing," it was 
 sufficient. Whenever one American writer de- 
 plored in a serious American magazine the in- 
 feriority of all other American writers he almost 
 always included Harold McC'h amber's novels 
 among the things that made him sad, and in every 
 article in the Atlantic Monthly on the commercial 
 squalor of contemporary novelists Mr. McCham- 
 ber's name was on the list of those whom money 
 had depraved. 
 
 To read Harold McChamber was equivalent to 
 saying "pants," tucking a napkin in the collar, 
 vocalizing sneezes, vocalizing yawns, chewing 
 gum, naming a child Gwendolen, having a popper 
 and a mommer and a parlor with the "September 
 Morn" hanging in it, and a husband who is always 
 "he," a wife who is always "she," and children 
 who always are the "little tots" or "kiddies." 
 
 Not that the people who read Harold McCham- 
 ber necessarily did these things. On the contrary 
 a great many of his readers were precisely of the 
 clas9 that would scorn them die most. But had 
 their social discernment remained on the same 
 level as their literary taste, as evidenced by this 
 
1 1 o THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 liking for Harold McChamber they would have 
 done these things and worse. 
 
 As to Mr. McChamber these critics would not 
 admit that he might have fallen by accident to 
 this low plane of vulgar entertainment, or that by 
 natural abilities and inclination he might have sim- 
 ply gravitated to it. They clearly implied that 
 Mr. McChamber had deliberately, guiltily de- 
 scended to it, stopping his ears to the divine voices 
 that bade him stay on high. 
 
 Now Mr. Harold McChamber, whom I may 
 say, in passing, I have known intimately for many 
 years, is the last man in the world to have had 
 any such complication in his inner life. In writing 
 his books he never passed consciously from a high 
 plane to a low one, or stifled an artistic impulse or 
 battled with his higher self or lowered his stand- 
 ard to suit the taste of other people. 
 
 The simple truth about Mr. McChamber is that 
 his own taste and that of an enormous number of 
 other people turned out to be just alike. He never 
 had to study the people's demand, because he de- 
 manded what they did. He, too, liked Ruritanias 
 at the same time that other people liked them 
 and with real enthusiasm he made one. He, too, 
 liked to read about a corrupt man who ran for 
 office, so he made one run. 
 
 When people were fond of strong, primitive 
 heroes in wild places, he, too, was fond of them. 
 
HAROLD McCHAMBER in 
 
 He did not in a spirit of low commercial cunning 
 compound those iron-backed creatures with four 
 moral qualities and the love of nature in their 
 souls. The call of the wild really called him also. 
 And the democratic "urge" really did urge him 
 when its turn came round, and as soon as religious 
 unrest appeared in the magazines he, too, became 
 religiously unrestful just in the nick of time. 
 
 Knowing Mr. McChamber personally, I deny 
 absolutely that an attempt on his part to climb 
 a -high and steep artistic acclivity would have had 
 any advantage whatsoever. It would have re- 
 sulted in dislocation, not ascent. It is not true 
 that the fidelity of the local color in Sally of the 
 Bogs made it, from an artistic point of view, re- 
 markable. The only remarkable thing about it 
 was the thoroughness with which the local color 
 was laid on. Reviewers at that time, hospitable to 
 good intentions in that field, always mistook pho- 
 tography for description. It was their habit, too, 
 to find signs of promise. Hardly any of their 
 coming writers ever came. And that was the best 
 that even tihls little group could say for him — that 
 he was coming — whereas within a month after the 
 publication of Captain Bludstone, Mr. McCham- 
 bers received fifteen hundred letters from de- 
 lighted readers who believed he had already come, 
 and he had a keener pleasure in producing it. 
 
 "When I wrote Sally," he said, "I toiled over 
 
1 1 2, THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 it; when I wrote Bludstone I really felt inspired." 
 He said he could not get that scene between the 
 hero and the wounded tiger out of his mind for 
 days. He considered it as strong as anything he 
 had ever written, except that one in The Boiling 
 Vat, where the poor young man, with the square 
 jaw and the honest grey eyes that seemed to look 
 you through, faces the powerful president of the 
 Big Three System and says just what he thinks of 
 him, knowing that it will cost him his place and 
 destroy his chance of marrying the president's 
 daughter — slightly above the middle height, brown 
 eyes with a glint of gold in them, color that came 
 and went, tawny hair with a trick of straying over 
 the tips of the delicate ears, a light carriage as if 
 poised for flight, and a rippling laugh. In short, 
 Mr. McChamber has never had to study the arts 
 of popularity. He has what may be called a rep- 
 resentative nature. I have seen in his morning's 
 mail after a new novel letters from an ex-President, 
 two Senators, two relatives of the Vanderbilt fam- 
 ily, five elevator boys, two out of the forty im- 
 mortals in our National Academy, and one brake- 
 man on the Elevated Railway. And in achieving 
 this he has never swerved a hair's breadth from 
 the path of his literary inclinations. His mind 
 spontaneously contains the very thoughts that 
 would have been elected to it, had the people 
 voted on its contents. 
 
SUBSIDIZING AUTHORS 
 
 I have never been able to understand the reason- 
 ing of those kind-hearted people who from time 
 to time recommend, seemingly in all seriousness, 
 the subsidizing of the deserving poor among 
 American authors. As a writer my mouth waters 
 at the thought of it, but I cannot with a clear 
 conscience urge it. One's humanity would be torn 
 in two by the problem presented in its application. 
 To clothe a naked author would be an act of per- 
 sonal kindness; it would also be, very likely, an 
 act of public cruelty. If, for example, a commit- 
 tee of the Academy of Arts and Letters were to 
 set out regularly to rescue all the mute, inglorious 
 Miltons, the result while pleasing to the Miltons 
 might be exceedingly disagreeable to everybody 
 else owing to the committee's probable taste in 
 Miltons. How do these wise men know that a 
 committee for saving more authors from starva- 
 tion would really be any better for the literary 
 situation than a committee for causing more au- 
 thors to starve, or that a committee for endowing 
 authors to continue writing would work out more 
 desirably than a committee that endowed them to 
 stop ? 
 
 113 
 
1 14' THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 I say committee, of course, because we always 
 carry out by committee anything in which any one 
 of us alone would be too reasonable to persist. 
 Alone, after a few trials, one would probably come 
 to his senses, but in a committee we come to one 
 another's senses, which is merely a convivial man- 
 ner of going out of our own. It is not that the 
 plan looks merely to the preservation of an author 
 as a man. It looks to his continuance as an author. 
 Mad decisions of this sort could be taken only in 
 committee. 
 
 It is different with other occupations. Toward 
 bank-clerks, for instance, one could be cooperatively 
 humane without endangering to any great extent 
 the mental lives of other people. A "nation-wide" 
 bank-clerk life-saving service would be no more 
 invidious or unreasonable than many other civic 
 bodies now existing, and it might perhaps with 
 safety go further than simply pulling bank-clerks 
 out of water and drying them. In might even 
 take measures to aid them to return to bank-clerk- 
 ing. Even a committee could probably tell not 
 only whether a bank-clerk ought to live but 
 whether he ought to be a bank-clerk. 
 
 But suppose seven novelists, while looking for 
 a democratic "urge," fall into the Harlem River, 
 and are drawn out by some committee on the con- 
 servation of deserving fiction. Beyond the work 
 of complete resuscitation the committee obviously 
 
SUBSIDIZING AUTHORS 115 
 
 has no right to go. To restore those novelists 
 warmed and comforted to their respective fami- 
 lies, without regard to the quality of their literary 
 work, is defensible on grounds of common human- 
 ity. It pertains to the preservation of human life. 
 But one step beyond that point, one single measure 
 for aiding and abetting any or all of them in the 
 writing of novels would carry the committee into 
 a subtle and dubious domain requiring fine, far- 
 seeing discriminations such as no American com- 
 mittee on any subject has ever been known to pos- 
 sess. It pertains to the preservation of a literary 
 life. 
 
 The bodies of those seven novelists, whirling in 
 the tide underneath the arches of High Bridge, 
 would be, I admit, a pathetic sight, no matter 
 what they had written. But only so long as they 
 were regarded merely as men. If they were re- 
 garded exclusively as novelists and from a strictly 
 literary point of view, the occasion might be al- 
 most joyous. So little can one say in any long 
 view of the matter whether their survival as active 
 novelists would do more good than harm to the 
 human spirit. One man's life may be dearly pur- 
 chased at the price of ten thousand ennuis. I do 
 not deny that the committee might do literature a 
 service by hitting once and again on the right 
 novelist to conserve; but so might a lightning- 
 stroke by killing the right one. Why add one 
 
1 1 a THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 blind chance to another in the hope of coming out 
 straight in this ratiher delicate affair? 
 
 Or take a case which would seem to me wholly 
 deserving and in which I ought certainly to sym- 
 pathize with the subsidizing point of view. Hav- 
 ing nearly finished my book on "The Religion of 
 Inexperience," a constructive work in moral eradi- 
 cation, written with energy and vision, seizing pos- 
 terity's thought by the forelock but transcending 
 somewhat the mental powers of my contempo- 
 raries, I appear one morning with my six starving 
 children at the Anne Street Headquarters of the 
 Rockefeller Committee on Indoor Literary Relief. 
 It turns out better than I could have hoped. Not 
 only am I tided over my present difficulties, but 
 three weeks later there is a meeting of two college 
 presidents, a professor of sociology, a writer of a 
 successful novel, an historian, and the director of 
 a bank, and out of the confluence of these six 
 intellects there comes, as indeed anything might 
 come, a decision in my favor. 
 
 "The Religion of Inexperience" is achieved, 
 published in four volumes, respectfully considered. 
 I find people polite and not unwilling to admit 
 that I may be passing on to posterity. As I have 
 the reputation of writing over everybody's head, 
 giants arise from time to time and say they under- 
 stand me and from my own point of view and 
 that of several others the world has gained a 
 
SUBSIDIZING AUTHORS 1 1 7 
 
 great deal. Yet if I apply in an unselfish spirit 
 the law of literary probabilities the odds seem to 
 run the other way. The other things I might 
 have done better are so numerous. At no stage 
 of the whole affair, for example, has there been 
 the slightest indication that God did not really 
 mean me for a plumber or that that was not the 
 true reason why I almost starved. Had I starved 
 a little longer, I might in desperation or moved 
 by some wayward impulse have begun to plumb, 
 discovered a real passion and talent for the art, 
 earned my own living by it instead of by puzzling 
 people to no purpose, and so the ending would 
 have been much happier all around. Misplace- 
 ments of this sort are always occurring in letters, 
 and committees do not readjust them. 
 
 We seem to be as much at sea in this matter 
 as they were about 120 A.D., when the critic 
 cursed the town for keeping alive so many poets 
 and cursed it again for starving so many of them; 
 wanted to know how a man could behold the 
 horses of the chariot of the sun if he had to grub 
 for a living, and wanted to drive most poets back 
 to grubbing for a living as soon as he observed 
 their manner of beholding the horses of the 
 chariot of the sun; said you ought to fatten poets 
 to make them sing, and became violently angry 
 the moment a fat poet began singing; blamed a 
 rich man for feeding a pet lion instead of sub- 
 
1 1 8! THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 sidizing some author at much less expense, and 
 was all for feeding the author to the lion on read- 
 ing what he wrote. He wanted authors protected, 
 but the literary choices made by the protector 
 almost drove him mad. Juvenal, of course, was 
 wholly unreasonable, but his state of mind cor- 
 responded quite exactly to the confusion of the 
 case, and the confusion is still with us. He had 
 no solution but the lame one that Caesar should 
 select and subsidize the author, and he had al- 
 ready completely damned the average Caesar. 
 But Caesar certainly seemed to be just as good 
 a solution as any of those modern monsters with 
 five respectable pairs of legs under a round table; 
 those headless decapods that we call upon nowa- 
 days as committees to do our dubious jobs. 
 
INCORPORATED TASTE 
 
 When college commencement coma or old- 
 alumni-sleeping-sickness stole over the senses at 
 a meeting of the American Corporation of Let- 
 ters not long ago, the audience had no just grounds 
 for complaint. 
 
 No one of course had a right to expect that a 
 meeting of so respectable a body would be either 
 inflammatory or gay, and it may seem invidious 
 to commemorate it here as an occasion of more 
 than usual dullness. Yet the pulse and temper- 
 ature of that dignified public body did seem a 
 little subnormal, even from the standard of digni- 
 fied bodies generally. How could that charming 
 and impulsive writer so subdue the seductions of 
 his own mind as to sink for the time being into 
 an utter presiding officer ? Why need that learned 
 professor have read a literary paper prepared 
 presumably by a member of the Sophomore class? 
 And how could that busy public official contrive 
 to give so strong an impression that nothing, abso- 
 lutely nothing, was going on inside him? 
 
 Grant the necessity of every unimpeachable 
 sentiment and every platitude. Allow for that 
 
 119 
 
1 2a THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 American platform change whereby an individual, 
 clearly distinguishable in private life from the 
 social scenery around him, melts, spreads out, 
 is personally obliterated, coalesces with the homo- 
 geneous mass of leading citizens, irreproachable, 
 featureless, placid, fluent, explanatory, and null. 
 Still there are those who whisper that no man 
 could so completely and for so long a time con- 
 ceal his intellect, if he had one; that an active 
 mind would surely at some moment kick the cover- 
 ing off. Decorum carried to a certain point breeds 
 horrid passions in the human breast and the gen- 
 tlest platitude pushed too far may drive men in 
 the desperation of their ennui to deeds of inhum- 
 anity. That is a peril against which dignified civic 
 and academic bodies would do well to guard on 
 such occasons. These scenes of excessive public 
 calm might breed a violence that would blow a 
 perfectly innocent, middle-aged gentleman clean 
 out of the wages of Who's Who? 
 That was the danger as I saw it and the only 
 danger. Yet that was not at all the point of view 
 from which the critics blamed it. This very meet- 
 ing called forth strange rebukes. Some said it 
 was fastidious, undemocratic; others that it made 
 vile concessions to the public taste. There was no 
 coherence in their remarks upon it but there was 
 as usual an undercurrent of dislike. Whenever 
 the annual meeting of the Corporation of Letters 
 
INCORPORATED TASTE 1 2 1 
 
 comes around there is always an ardent hope that 
 it will misbehave. The comment of clever out- 
 siders is usually ironical. One is supposed to be 
 amused every year when someone else refers to 
 its members as "immortals," and if one can not 
 annually make the same remark about people who 
 take themselves too seriously, one must at least 
 seem to take pleasure in hearing it. People proud 
 of their sense of humor insist in precisely the 
 same words each year that there is something 
 funny about it, and if there is any falling off in 
 the vivacity of your annual assent, they snub you. 
 
 Newspaper reporters attend each meeting of 
 the Corporation of Letters in the hope that this 
 time the members will appear in togas with bay 
 leaves in their hair, or at least in court dress 
 carrying swords. And although nothing of a 
 broadly comic nature has ever occurred, the out- 
 ward effect of this infant, and, to my mind, in- 
 nocent institution, is still to set people to winking 
 at one another once a year, without a word of 
 explanation as to why they wink. 
 
 To be sure, you do hear comments from time to 
 time on the taste shown by the Corporation in the 
 selection of its members, but they are not es- 
 pecially significant. People are too familiar with 
 the casualties of club membership to think that 
 any group of men can add to their number reason- 
 ably. Strange creatures sift into any club. The 
 
122 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 best of committees on admissions can no more ex- 
 clude them altogether than the best of housekeep- 
 ers can exclude house flies. There is always a 
 certain number of club members who have bred 
 from eggs laid in the walls or under the carpets; 
 it is impossible that any one should have let them 
 in on purpose. 
 
 Principles, standards, and the intelligence of the 
 persons who make the choice, are no safeguards 
 in this perilous domain. Had the nine muses been 
 obliged, in committee, to nominate a tenth, luck 
 would have had it that she s'hould turn out an 
 idiot. No reasonable person can blame the Cor- 
 poration for a certain proportion of mishaps in 
 membership. 
 
 As to the true source of this undercurrent of 
 hostility, I can only make a guess. I should say 
 that it springs from the feeling that the Corpora- 
 tion is itself a mistake, rather than that it some- 
 times makes one. The critics seem to think that 
 any such institution in an English-speaking com- 
 munity would be likely to be made up of merely 
 leading citizens, and they feel that from the point 
 of view of everything essential to letters leading 
 citizens are as a rule injurious. They believe it 
 would always encourage what is respectable and 
 never by any chance encourage what is more than 
 respectable, and that respectability in letters is too 
 much encouraged as it is. They think that when 
 
INCORPORATED TASTE 123 
 
 art or literature achieves anything permanently 
 desirable it is something that no committee of suc- 
 cessful American citizens would have antecedently 
 recommended or would be likely to discover after- 
 wards inside of two generations from the date of 
 its occurrence. To the chaos of public taste they 
 believe it contributes only an element of pomposity 
 leaving the chaos just where it was. In short, they 
 loathe institutionalism in taste, having a horror 
 not of standards, but of any corporation that 
 would tell them what they are. 
 
 I may not do justice to this point of view be- 
 cause it is not one with which I sympathize, but 
 I should imagine that the argument of its uphold- 
 ers would run about like this: There are two 
 classes of literary and artistic workers : the trans- 
 muters and the transmitters. The transmuters 
 are those whose minds leave an impression on 
 what passes through them. They survive by a 
 force that is elemental and beyond analysis, and 
 often unpleasant to the most eminent of their con- 
 temporaries. They could no more be a poet 
 laureate than could Shelley. They could no more 
 get into an academy than could Flaubert. By 
 eminent, shining, contemporary civic bodies they 
 are usually left aside. An academy is an institu- 
 tion for honoring the people who could get along 
 without it. An academy is always rich in members 
 of the other type ; that is to say, the transmitters. 
 
124 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 These are the men who leave all things, both in 
 art and in literature, precisely where they find 
 them. They are of immediate social value for 
 purposes of repetition. They are the active, in- 
 dustrious, socially blameless individuals, who write 
 most of the books that are sold, hold most of 
 the good positions, are the soonest known, and 
 the soonest forgotten, being wholly of the sub- 
 stance of their hour and their place, and the ma- 
 jority in every institution. 
 
 In society these people may be useful as a bal- 
 last; in art they are always a dead weight. Band 
 them together and you add one more to the al- 
 ready too large number of organizations for the 
 suppression of human diversity. Suppose, they 
 say, an academy had existed at the middle of the 
 last century. By the time Longfellow was receiv- 
 ing more encouragement than he deserved it would 
 have encouraged him still more. On the other 
 hand, it would have discouraged Poe either nega- 
 tively or positively. Very likely there would have 
 been a fine row with Poe, and another sore spot 
 carried to the grave by that unhappy mortal. 
 Take it all in all, an academy organized for the 
 deliberate purpose of discouraging all that a ma- 
 jority of its members most approved in con- 
 temporary literature would probably work out just 
 as well as, or better than, the other kind. A 
 learned body actuated by malevolence towards 
 
INCORPORATED TASTE 125 
 
 literature has never been tried. Perhaps it might 
 accomplish something. 
 
 All of which seems rather high-flown and in- 
 consistent with the probable attitude of these 
 critics in their daily lives. They are probably 
 themselves members of some humdrum institution 
 and are not worried lest it crush out brilliant 
 eccentricity. Such a body has to do with letters, 
 not as a divine calling, but as a profession w'herein 
 men earn their bread. It has to do> with levels, 
 and is not to blame for guessing wrong on peaks. 
 People do not blame a university for withholding 
 the degree of bachelor of arts from anybody but 
 a prophet. University decisions are as a rule 
 stupid, and universities muddle along on the whole 
 usefully. A group of authors is of course a de- 
 pressing sight, authors being too much alike as it 
 is, but a grouping of authors is no more likely to 
 snuff out a genius than a genius is to snuff out the 
 group. It is moreover so analogous to other com- 
 binations that if a man set out to attack it, he 
 would be involved in too vast a crusade. If one 
 obeyed an impulse altogether artistic, one would 
 go up and down the land pillaging. 
 
BARBARIANS AND THE CRITIC 
 
 As I remember it, at the Athenian Club that 
 evening there had been a meeting of our Com- 
 mittee on House Management in which the ques- 
 tion of buying awnings for the north windows 
 was debated from nine o'clock till half-past ten, 
 when it was unanimously referred to a sub-com- 
 mittee without power consisting of the chairman, 
 the treasurer and the secretary, who were to make 
 recommendations at the next meeting. 
 
 Then came supper and after that Mr. Harbing- 
 ton Dish read a paper on American verse reform 
 in which, while deprecating the radical views of 
 certain writers, he insisted fhat tlhe situation was 
 very serious and that something ought to be done. 
 I recall only two of his suggestions: First, that 
 rhymes if retained at all in the new era that was 
 now upon us should always be at the beginning 
 and never at the end of the line ; and, second, that 
 the verse form once popular under the Anglo- 
 Saxon Heptarchy ought to be revived. There was 
 much applause, but after it the meeting broke up 
 rather suddenly, the members slipping away so 
 quietly that Jarman and I who were seated in the 
 
 126 
 
BARBARIANS AND THE CRITICS 127 
 
 two big armchairs by the fire did not realize at 
 first that we were alone. 
 
 "It's the worst thing he ever wrote," Jarman 
 was saying about a writer of our acquaintance, 
 "and it's by all odds the most successful — and not 
 merely in sales, either. You should see his letters, 
 from people really distinguished, people you'd 
 never suppose would be taken in by it. And all 
 that talk about his vision, keen social criticism, 
 sense of the underlying forces of modern life, 
 breadth, depth, audacity ! Why the whole thing's 
 nothing but a compilation of the ideas in the air, 
 without a single individual, distinctive, " 
 
 Jarman's feet were on the fender, precisely in 
 my line of vision and I remember noticing that he 
 wore tan shoes. I closed my eyes for a few mom- 
 ents and when I opened them again the shoes had 
 changed to a kind of bath-slippers and as I glanced 
 up I saw he was now clothed in a thin, white, 
 •sleeveless garment of strange cut. 
 
 "Why Jarman, what in the world " said I. 
 
 "Mr. Jarman went out ten minutes ago," said 
 the person in white, in a low-pitched voice, and 
 at the same time bent forward, revealing a 
 swarthy wrinkled face, with prominent curved 
 nose, and dark eyes of extraordinary brilliance — 
 a man over sixty^five, I should say, lean but vigor- 
 ous. 
 
 "May I ask to whom I have the pleasure" — 
 
1 28i THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 said I, edging my chair to a point from which I 
 could reach the fire-tongs if necessary. 
 
 "The man of Aquinum," he said "the Aquinas, 
 not that upstart Christian dog, Thomas, I believe 
 you call him. What right has that corruptor of 
 my own tongue to the name of my own birthplace 
 when my claim is prior to his by eleven centuries? 
 But that's the justice of you barbarians to an 
 honest man of letters. Who was the Aquinas for 
 a thousand years before the jargon of the tiresome 
 Thomas was ever read by anybody, I'd like to 
 know. Just answer me that." 
 
 "I am not acquainted in Aquinum," I said, "and 
 I am sorry to say I know nothing about the 
 Aquinas family, but perhaps if you mention your 
 entire name " 
 
 "Oh, well," said he, "if your modern thoughts 
 can travel back any further than last week 
 Wednesday, perhaps you will recall one D. Junius 
 Juvenalis." 
 
 "Juvenal?" said I. "Why, yes; it was you, 
 wasn't it, who said children should be treated 
 with the greatest reverence and then wrote a lot 
 of things that had to be cut out of every edition 
 that was likely to fall into the hands of young 
 people. Oh, and let me see, there was Dr. John- 
 son's poem London and the one on Vanity, and 
 "Slow rises worth by poverty oppressed" and that 
 sort of thing. You're in the dictionaries of 
 
BARBARIANS AND THE CRITICS 129 
 
 familiar quotations — nearly half a page. I always 
 get you mixed up with Oliver Goldsmith, I don't 
 know why; but I believe people generally do get 
 you mixed up with somebody else. If you will 
 pardon my saying so, I think the prevailing im- 
 pression of you at present is rather indistinct, 
 and still fading perhaps, especially here — the war, 
 you know, and electricity, aviation, submarines, 
 motion pictures, breathless progress of the social 
 sciences, new education, new woman, new poetry, 
 the referendum and recall, world federation, 
 eugenics, the rights of labor, and the democratic 
 push. It seems rather an unfortunate time to 
 choose for spending your — your outing, if I may 
 call it that. I should have supposed that Oxford 
 in 1760, say, would have been about the latest 
 occasion. In short you will find us, I fear, a 
 
 little distrait, forgetful " 
 
 "Be quiet for a little while, barbarian, and I 
 will try to explain. It is precisely because I am not 
 forgotten that I am here. My name, of course, is 
 seldom mentioned and I have not heard for fifty 
 years a correct quotation of any of my words, 
 but my thoughts go on among you. They go on 
 damnably. It is not for the pleasure of meeting 
 them that I am come. Quite the contrary. I am 
 sent back here in punishment like other poets that 
 have sinned. Race hatred was my undoing. I 
 called it my Roman patriotism, and I cursed those 
 
13Q THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 absurd Hebrews and the 'esurient Greekling' and 
 those outlandish Egyptians and sneered at the 
 Gauls and railed at all those ill-bred Eastern fel- 
 lows that overran the town, and I felt quite virtu- 
 ous in doing so. And for helping to perpetuate 
 the great race lie and the geographical inhumani- 
 ties which are still your curse, I am damned to 
 revisit my own thoughts as they float about in the 
 world through the ages, the same old thoughts, 
 dressed up in barbarous foolish phrases, passed 
 from one silly mouth to another, turned into tink- 
 ling rhymes by the worst series, of imitators that 
 ever a man had — 
 
 Let observation with extensive view 
 Survey mankind from China to Peru. 
 
 Great poetry, that! That man Johnson had no 
 word-sense. I never said anything of the sort. 
 What I said was 
 
 Omnibus in terris quae sunt a Gadibus — " 
 
 "Wait a minute," said I, "I don't quite — " 
 "Well, what I said didn't sound in the least like 
 his pedantic, mincing, repetitious stuff, or Dry- 
 den's either for that matter, or Chapman's or that 
 series of Oxford dons. Why can't they let me 
 alone? That's the curse of my thoughts. They 
 are never forgotten. Not a day passes without 
 some one's spinning them out in a literary essay 
 
BARBARIANS AND THE CRITICS 131 
 
 for a magazine all about the discerning few and 
 the undiscerning rabble or in tedious conversation 
 at some club, like yours. Take, for instance, the 
 talk of your critical friend, Jarmanus, what's his 
 name, about the mean rewards of merit and the 
 triumph of mediocrity. You'll find the whole of 
 it in Sat. VII, line 9 to 99 — 
 
 Qui nihil expositum soleat deducere, nee qui 
 Communi feriat — " 
 
 "Yes, yes," I interrupted, "but please don't talk 
 Yiddish or whatever it is. I am a modern New 
 York man and I agree with our most progressive 
 educators that any classic sentiment which cannot 
 be adequately expressed in the English language 
 is not worth reading. You were saying?" 
 
 "I was merely repeating something I said about 
 the best selling fiction of my day. I thought I 
 had put it rather better and more compactly than 
 your Mr. Jarman did or that man in the Atlantic 
 Monthly a while ago who spread four sentences 
 of mine over eight pages, -or any of the fifteen 
 others within the last six months. Is there ever 
 a moment when commercialism is not being 
 lamented by your cultured critic of the day, who 
 in a literary sense is no wise distinguishable from 
 your cultured critic of the day before? Writing 
 on this theme, they are as like as the white sow's 
 litter, and I have to read them all. By the Great 
 Girl's bow and quiver, by the salsipotent fork, by 
 
132 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 the javelin of the Wise Lady, by the Cirrhaean 
 spikes, by the boiled head of my own baby served 
 in Egyptian vinegar, I curse the whole insanable 
 cacoethical cohort of scriptitating " 
 
 "Hold on! What — what's the matter?" 
 
 "I. was just thinking that I should have to read 
 in the next number of the Edinburgh Review or 
 the Nineteenth Century the self-same things, only 
 ill expressed, that I said to Umbricius at the 
 Capene arch that evening in the summer, I think, 
 of 120, when he was moving his furniture out of 
 town. Queer that I who wrote Occidit miseros 
 crambe repetita " 
 
 "There you go again." 
 
 "I say it's queer that I of all people should be 
 condemned throughout all time to stuff myself 
 with the warmed-over cabbage of my own com- 
 monplace. I didn't mind coming back for Shake- 
 speare when he stole that thing about 'Imperial 
 Caesar, dead and turned to clay,' but I haven't 
 had an afternoon in Hades since Matthew Arnold 
 wrote about Philistines, and nowadays with every 
 dull person writing about the money-god there is 
 no rest. Why, once when I 'hoped to pass the 
 week-end in Hell I was called back to read Mr. 
 Upton Sinclair on the sin of paying a thousand 
 dollars for a toothbrush — a matter which I had 
 settled finally in Sed plures nimia congesta " 
 
 "Please don't do that." 
 
BARBARIANS AND THE CRITICS 133 
 
 "And what with the constant reappearance of 
 my ideas on mothers-in-law, the newly rich, suc- 
 cess, waste, s'how, luxury, gambling, graft, the 
 social climber, divorce, woman from the point of 
 view of the anti-suffragist, woman as the target 
 for brightly cynical remarks, alcoholism, prosti- 
 tution, country life, subsidization of authors, high 
 cost of living and forty other burning modern 
 questions, it looks as if I should never — . And 
 the hideous uniformity of your vapid writers in 
 their common delineation of our thoughts; the 
 large wastes of identical language. Forty novels 
 in a row with the thoughts all dating from the 
 reign of Domitian and all expressed alike. Belles- 
 lettres produced by machinery. But though the 
 monotony of the modern manner is terrible, that 
 is not the worst of it. What I can't stand is the 
 stench — " 
 
 "Stench?" I asked. 
 
 "Smell of decaying reputations. Nothing worse 
 to a fairly immortal nose than the smell of a pass- 
 ing modern reputation. Impossible to stay within 
 a mile of your national capital, and the literary 
 people are almost as bad. I tried to drop in on 
 a group of Imagist poets on my way here just 
 now, but I nearly fainted." 
 
 "I hope," said I, drawing my chair away, "I 
 haven't been too — " 
 
 "Oh, no, not you. That's why I chose you in- 
 
134 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 stead of a celebrity. People without any reputa- 
 tion to decay are comparatively odorless." 
 
 At that moment the room turned upside down 
 and spilled him out of it and I was tossing about 
 in space till I heard Jarman say, "I've been shak- 
 ing you for fully five minutes. If you want to 
 catch the i 32, you'll have to hurry." 
 
REVIEWER'S CRAMP 
 
 One would think that the most dogged of fire- 
 side defenders would be satisfied with the moral 
 purport of a novel that I read some years ago. 
 Nearly all the characters in it who offend against 
 the marriage bond — and there are quite a lot of 
 them — come to a bad end. In fact, in the interest 
 of literary variety it would seem that sudden 
 death, delirium, blasted hopes, social perdition, 
 and the wages of sin in one form or another were 
 distributed with an almost too perfect moral pre- 
 cision. From the birth of the first illegitimate 
 infant in an early chapter down to the moment 
 in the final pages when the last illicit lover has 
 his skull crushed in, the mills of God are made 
 to grind in a manner that ought seriously to dis- 
 courage the carnally minded. Yet instantly there 
 were many commentators who denounced the book 
 as dissolute. 
 
 One of them said he was shocked by the "de- 
 liberate devotion of such a pen as the author's to 
 the defiance of the social conventions and ideas 
 of duty and morality." Another wanted to know 
 how "parents and guardians can prevent young 
 people from reading such horrid low class tales." 
 
 135 
 
i3<S THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 They called it "dangerous" and "depraved." 
 They said that the author had set out malevolently 
 to "undermine all respect for marriage and par- 
 enthood." 
 
 Why reviewers pick out certain books as dang- 
 erous is one of the mysteries of literary journalism. 
 You can no more tell what will frighten reviewers 
 than what a horse will shy at. A reviewer will 
 pass the same familiar object twenty times and 
 then of a sudden rear at the sight of it as in the 
 presence of a monster never before beheld. If 
 one could gather all the books and plays de- 
 nounced as dangerous in the last twenty years, 
 what a splendid object lesson it would be in the 
 inutility of moral apprehension. Even so sensitive 
 a moral being as a New York City politician prob- 
 ably would not seek to suppress to-day another 
 "Mrs. Warren's Profession." 
 
 Reviewers are of course aware of this when 
 they stop to think of it. Every reviewer really 
 knew that all the ideas, situations, and emotions 
 presented in that novel had been thumbed and 
 dog-eared in nearly every circulating library for 
 a generation. For as a matter of fact it was 
 about the most conventional book that the author 
 had ever written and it seemed almost a compila- 
 tion from the fiction of our time. The homes 
 that it could undermine must all have been long 
 since blasted. 
 
REVIEWER'S CRAMP 137 
 
 Perhaps it is due to temporary loss of memory, 
 whereby one modern novel suddenly looms up to 
 the reviewer's mind, alone and terrible, devoid of 
 relation to any other modern novel in the world. 
 Perhaps if you had forgotten completely what a 
 modern novelist was like, the sight of one would 
 be shocking. Even Mr. Harold McChamber 
 might seem peculiar if encountered by a mind en- 
 tirely blank. Or it may be that certain reviewers 
 are constrained at intervals to utter moral noises 
 without regard to the occasion, just as a watch- 
 dog will sometimes bark at a wheelbarrow, not 
 because there is danger in the wheel-barrow, but 
 because there is bark in the dog. Perhaps the re 
 viewers above quoted could not have held in at 
 that moment no matter what novelist had passed 
 by and it happened to be this one. Neither he nor 
 they were really to blame for it. They fidgetted 
 merely because they felt fidgety and long months 
 followed in which, with Arnold Bennett up to 
 something passionate, H. G. Wells at his wicked- 
 est, Bernard Shaw in eruption, new bad words 
 coming out in each installment of the Oxford 
 Dictionary, and the air thick with volumes of the 
 most terribly lucid sexual explanations, they faced 
 equally grave moral perils with entire composure. 
 Then just as you were dozing off over some quite 
 ordinary bedside compound of matrimonial mis- 
 calculations and rebellious hearts, they would ring 
 
i38t THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 out the wild alarm again — seized by the same old 
 unaccountable spasm over the duality of the two 
 sexes, and the usualness of the usual novel, and 
 and the contemporaneousness of their contempo* 
 raries. 
 
 I believe, however, I can offer a better explana- 
 tion based on my personal experience as a re- 
 viewer. Such seizures as the one above men- 
 tioned and they often take widely different forms, 
 are the result, I think, of reviewer's cramp. 
 
 At all events I myself, after reviewing books 
 for five years, was obliged to desist on account 
 of reviewer's cramp. I may say for the enlight- 
 enment of those who are not familiar with the 
 malady that it is purely mental, having none of 
 the physical symptoms of the nervous affection 
 which sometimes jerks a writer's pen-hand in 
 the air. My hand was not jerked in the air, 
 but my mind was, and from that time to this 
 I have never started to write a review that my 
 mind did not immediately fly away from it and 
 rivet itself on something else ; and when detached 
 with difficulty from that particular object it would 
 rivet itself on another, equally remote from the re- 
 view. It is no mere lack of interest in writing a 
 review, for that might be overcome— is overcome 
 daily and hourly — and besides you see reviews 
 being written everywhere by people who obviously 
 could have had no interest in writing them. It 
 
REVIEWER'S CRAMP 139 
 
 is the passionate interest in something else that 
 constitutes the gravity of my case — the more so 
 because the things that then awaken it do not 
 normally attract me. I have been enchanted for 
 a long time by an ordinary penwiper from the 
 moment of starting to write a review. When a 
 bee has entered the room, although I am not in 
 the least entomological in my inclinations, I have 
 become a Fabre. 
 
 Recently I gave the thing one more trial, think- 
 ing that after a long interval the condition might 
 have passed. I took five novels that had enter- 
 tained me and determined to stir them all together 
 in four or five pleasant pages round the central 
 notion that, after all, each showed in one way or 
 another the tendency of the contemporary novel 
 to be contemporary, in spite of the fact that from 
 the pages of one you would not know that the war 
 had existed and from the pages of another you 
 would see plainly that but for the war the book 
 would not exist. I should express surprise at a 
 writer who showed no traces of the war, but I 
 should admit that he was nevertheless contempo- 
 rary. I read dozens of those articles every month; 
 I like them; and I started to make one. This 
 time it was sealing-wax. I rolled six balls of 
 sealing-wax, making them rounder and rounder. 
 It is wonderful how round you can make balls of 
 sealing-wax, if you give your whole soul to it. 
 
140 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 Most reviewers sooner or later have some 
 form of reviewer's cramp, but the victim of my 
 form of it is not only permanently disabled; he 
 is under the illusion of righteousness. He be- 
 lieves he is justified in behaving in that way. Not 
 only that, but he believes other reviewers ought 
 to behave as he does. I felt nobler after rolling 
 those wax balls than I should have felt after writ- 
 ing the review, and so far as I have read the re- 
 views of those novels, I believe almost every 
 writer if he had applied himself to sealing-wax 
 instead would be feeling nobler too. For I can- 
 not believe that they meant a word they said or 
 that they wanted to say it — I mean in regard to 
 the quality of the books, not of course their mere 
 outlines of the stories. 
 
 I cannot believe, for example, that a man per- 
 haps fifty years of age and a reviewer of novels 
 by the hundred can become ecstatic often. I be- 
 lieve he will go a whole year at his occupation 
 without being ecstatic once. I do not believe that 
 after reading Miss Fanny Wilson's Apple Blos- 
 soms, he meant any one of the following words: 
 "From her seasoned but joyous throat the old 
 melody ripples forth fresh and free, full of 
 delicious whims and sly laughter, reminiscent of 
 the Vie de BohemeP I insist also that those five 
 reviewers, each of whom implied that on reading 
 the The Torment he was shaken like a reed by the 
 
REVIEWER'S CRAMP 141 
 
 wind knew perfectly well either that he was not 
 shaking at all or that he was making himself 
 shake. 
 
 Nothing stood out from the general situation 
 as they implied that it did in all of these reviews. 
 In short, these reviewers were subdued to the iron 
 law of reviewing, and this iron law ordains that 
 reviewing shall be the perpetual announcement of 
 differences that are not perceived and of astonish- 
 ments for good or for evil that are not experi- 
 enced, and that it shall be accompanied by a con- 
 strained silence as to the sense of monotony that 
 undoubtedly always pervades the reviewer's 
 bosom. There is stiff compulsion in it. Such 
 things could not happen in a free and private life. 
 
 If, for example, a man in private life had for 
 one day a puree of beans, and the next day hari- 
 cots verts, and then in daily succession bean soup, 
 bean salad, butter beans, lima, black, navy, Bos- 
 ton baked, and kidney beans, and then back to 
 puree and all over again, he would not be in the 
 relation of the general eater to food or in the 
 relation of the general reader to books. But he 
 would be in the relation of the general reviewer 
 toward novels. He would soon perceive that the 
 relation was neither normal nor desirable, and he 
 would take measures, violent if need be, to change 
 it. He would not say of the haricots verts when 
 they came round again that they were quite in 
 
1421 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 the vein of the Vie de Boheme but ever fresh and 
 free, and he would not say on his navy bean day 
 that they were as brisk and stirring little beans of 
 the sea as he could recall in his recent eating. He 
 would say grimly, Beans again, and he would take 
 prompt steps to intermit this abominable preces- 
 sion of bean dishes, however diversely they were 
 contrived. 
 
 If change for any reason were impossible — if 
 owing to a tyrant wife and the presence of a 
 monomaniac in the kitchen we could imagine him 
 constrained to an indefinite continuance, — then he 
 would either conceive a personal hatred toward 
 all beans that would make him unjust to any bean 
 however meritorious, or he would acquire a mad 
 indiscriminateness of acquiescence and any bean 
 might please. And his judgment would be in 
 either case an unsafe guide for general eaters. 
 
 This I believe is what happens to almost all 
 reviewers of fiction after a certain time, and it 
 accounts satisfactorily for various phenomena 
 that are often attributed to a baser cause. It is 
 the custom at certain intervals to denounce review- 
 ers for their motives. They are called venal and 
 they are called cowardly by turns. They are 
 blamed for having low standards or no standards 
 at all and for not having the slightest sense of 
 anything of a permanent value in literature, and 
 for using the language of the advertising page. 
 
REVIEWER'S CRAMP 143 
 
 I think their defects are due chiefly to the nature 
 of their calling; that they suffer from an occupa- 
 tional disease. 
 
 I do not see why they should be blamed for 
 not applying to their contemporaries a scale based 
 on the permanent values of literature. They are 
 not engaged in an occupation that admits of such 
 a thing. No one in their situation could judge 
 fairly his contemporaries, even if it be assumed 
 that contemporaries can ever be fairly judged. 
 They are wedged in so tight with contemporary 
 minds that they cannot even get a square look at 
 them. But they persist in employing words that 
 imply a permanent value in some merely momen- 
 tary thing and they mislead a general reader, 
 who, as he is not devouring current fiction in such 
 quantities as they are, has more space in his 
 thoughts for perspective. Hence they always 
 seem in any proportionate view of the thing 
 profuse and niggardly by turns — arms out to-day 
 to a Mr. Merrick or a Mr. Walpole, backs turned 
 perhaps to-morrow on some poor American, just 
 as good as they, who is naturally thinking, How 
 about me ? They are to blame rather for misusing 
 the words of literary criticism. In the circum- 
 stances they should not be used at all. It is a 
 journalistic subject and requires a journalistic 
 treatment, but there is such a fidgetting with liter- 
 ary terms that somehow they always mislead you. 
 
i 4 4 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 It is not speaking ill of fiction of this class to 
 call it merely journalism, as. critics for a genera- 
 tion past have been doing; it is speaking well of 
 journalism. It has a wider liberty than other 
 kinds of journalism and a somewhat longer hold, 
 but it does not last long and what is more, the 
 makers of it do not expect it to last long. Essen- 
 tially it is on the exact level of dozens of respect- 
 able periodicals, as everybody concerned in it or 
 about it is aware. Yet reviewers who never speak 
 of the appearance of the last month's magazines 
 with any literary emotion, will report almost any 
 novel as a literary event, or condemn it because 
 it is not one. It seems as if they might avoid 
 extremes in the one case as well as in the other. 
 Surely this situation has lasted long enough for 
 familiarity to supervene. If I saw a man while 
 reading the London Spectator fall from his chair 
 in a fit of laughter, if I saw some elderly gentle- 
 man throw the Atlantic Monthly up in the air with 
 shouts of joy, I should suppose of course that 
 each of them was out of his mind. When review- 
 ers of fiction behave as they constantly do in this 
 same manner over events that are no whit more 
 significant, it is not necessary, perhaps, to take so 
 serious a view of their condition of mind; but it 
 is natural to suppose that they are the unconscious 
 victims of the malady that I have described. 
 
HOW TO HATE SHAKESPEARE 
 
 When I read M. Georges Pellissier's book on 
 Shakespeare some years ago I could not see why- 
 he should have lashed himself to Shakespeare in 
 that hostile intimacy. Probably no other English 
 poet could have been found, except perhaps 
 Browning, who would so essentially offend his 
 modern, Gallic intelligence, and one would think 
 M. Pellissier, after yawning through a half- 
 dozen of the plays, would have smiled or cursed 
 according as his impulse prompted, and thrown 
 the rest of them away. Instead of that he 
 dragged his incompatible mind not only through 
 the whole length of Shakespeare's dramas, but 
 over a large area of the dullest Shakespearean 
 criticism as well. It seemed heroic but singularly 
 unnecessary. It was as if, on meeting a woman 
 whom he particularly disliked, he had straightway 
 married her and then taken notes for the next 
 ten years in corroboration of his disagreeable first 
 impressions. Never was a man more diligent in 
 the accumulation of ennui. He turned the plays 
 inside out for evil instances and he gathered them 
 
 145 
 
146I THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 in awful heaps — bad puns, platitudes, pleonasms, 
 contradictions, incoherencies, bombast, mixed 
 metaphors, and bungled plots — in short, every 
 fault of style, structure, character analysis or 
 moral teaching that a life-long, conscientious 
 hater of the bard could lay his hands on — and as 
 they were all rendered in perfectly commonplace 
 modern French, they presented a sorry spectacle. 
 It was as honest and thorough a job in damnation 
 as had been done in many a year, and for that 
 reason very interesting. Any one who really 
 hated a poet could find there an admirable illustra- 
 tion of the way to go about it. 
 
 First of all there were the outrageous liberties 
 which Shakespeare takes with the sacred unities 
 of time and place and action. M. Pellissier pro- 
 fessed to be more liberal than Aristotle in that 
 matter, but his nerves went all to pieces amidst 
 the riotings of Shakespeare. Why, there are 
 seven changes of place in the second act of "The 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona," and six in the first 
 act of "Coriolanus," and thirteen in the third act 
 of "Antony and Cleopatra," ranging over three 
 continents, all that was then known of the surface 
 of the globe ! And as to time, in some plays the 
 action is supposed to run for years, which is 
 manifestly incredible, while in others it is tele- 
 scoped into so tight a compass that villainy has 
 no chance to germinate or passion to expand. 
 
HOW TO HATE SHAKESPEARE 147 
 
 How is a character to develop in three hours? 
 How could the events of "Measure for Measure" 
 squeeze themselves into a week? Fancy M. 
 Hervieu doing such a thing, or Donnay, Mirbeau, 
 Brieux, Capus, or even Rostand. Macbeth could 
 not have become so ambitious as he was in four 
 days, or Othello so jealous. In "The Tempest" 
 Prospero puts Ferdinand to the trial by making 
 him carry logs and finally releases him and re- 
 wards him with the hand of Miranda in these 
 words : 
 
 All thy vexations 
 Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
 Hast strangely stood the test. . . . 
 Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition 
 Worthily purchased, take my daughter — 
 
 But says M. Pellissier, watch in hand, how long 
 has Ferdinand actually been at this log business ? 
 He did not lift a single log till after the close of 
 the first act, and he left off logging immediately 
 before the beginning of the fourth. Thus his 
 logging activities could have lasted no more than 
 a single hour ! Considering what the Charity Or- 
 ganization demands of a tramp in return for a 
 night's lodging, Ferdinand was grossly overpaid. 
 
 Although he found the logs very heavy, would an hour 
 of that work suffice, as his father-in-law said, for the 
 "worthy purchase" of Miranda? 
 
1481 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 The matter seemed all the more unpardonable 
 when Prospero's lines were rendered in such 
 words as these — 
 
 Les tourments que je t'ai infliges devaient eprouver ton 
 amour; tu les as merveilleusement supportes, etc. 
 
 On the other hand, the action of the "Winter's 
 Tale" skips sixteen years and the figure of Time 
 appears on the stage and "without any scruple" 
 tells the audience what has happened. Yet in this 
 very play Shakespeare rushes the King into a 
 jealous fit more suddenly than M. Pellissier has 
 ever seen a jealous fit come on. 
 
 Then many of the plays tell several stories at 
 once. "Cymbeline" tells three, and so does "The 
 Taming of the Shrew;" "King Lear" tells not 
 only the tale of the old King betrayed by his 
 daughters, but that of Gloucester betrayed by his 
 son; "Timon of Athens" breaks off when it is 
 about half-way through, and takes Alcibiades for 
 its new hero; "The Merchant of Venice" spins 
 two yarns which essentially have nothing in 
 common. 
 
 So M. Pellissier ran on, with mounting indig- 
 nation. 
 
 And in "The Merchant of Venice" Shakespeare 
 does not even respect the rules of simple arithme- 
 tic, for when Jessica tells Portia that she has over- 
 heard Shylock say that he loves the pound of 
 
HOW TO HATE SHAKESPEARE 149 
 
 Antonio's flesh more than twenty times three thou- 
 sand ducats, Portia offers at first to pay him six 
 thousand ducats, and later says she will double 
 it if necessary and even triple that result. But 
 says Pellissier, this is by no means the right 
 amount. "Twenty times the sum due is sixty thou- 
 sand ducats, and 6,000x2x3, is only thirty-six 
 thousand, a little more than half." He finds 
 "The Merchant of Venice," indeed, very objec- 
 tionable from almost every point of view: Its 
 moral teachings are bad, as when Bassanio wins 
 Portia's hand in the casket test, though he de- 
 served no better than either of the other suitors; 
 it tells two stories instead of one; and above all 
 it drags along through an utterly worthless fifth 
 act, when a few words added to the fourth would 
 have supplied all that was necessary. The fact 
 that this same worthless fifth act contains some of 
 the finest and most familiar lines in all Shakes- 
 peare's writings does not concern him, if indeed 
 he ever observed it. Punctuality, not poetry, is 
 the thing. 
 
 He is shocked by the shameful waste of time 
 on light characters and hates all those non-essen- 
 tial clowns, court fools, pedants, drunkards, 
 thieves, eccentrics. What is the use of Dogberry 
 and Verges? We find them first giving their tire- 
 some instructions to their men; again, when they 
 make their report to the governor, who is naturally 
 
i5o THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 much irritated by their sottise; again, in prison, 
 questioning the accused; again before the gover- 
 nor; and once more after that. Even if these 
 "two stupid police officers" were as amusing as 
 Shakespeare probably thought them, they would 
 still be absolutely useless ; but as a matter of fact 
 they are dull buffoons fit only for a vulgar street 
 show. And what a waste of time are the fooleries 
 of Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Touch- 
 stone, Lancelot Gobbo, Speed, Lance, Bottom, the 
 Dromios, Poor Tom, the grave-diggers and play- 
 ers in "Hamlet," Mercutio, Trinculo, Stephano, 
 and the rest. Like Mr. Bernard Shaw, he has an 
 especial aversion for the melancholy Jaques — 
 
 Jaques. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made 
 yesterday in despite of my invention. 
 Amiens. And I'll sing it. 
 Jaques. Thus it goes: 
 
 If it do come to pass 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leaving his wealth and ease 
 A stubborn will to please. 
 
 Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame. 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 Gross fools as he, 
 
 And if he will come to me. 
 
 Amiens. What's that "Ducdame"? 
 
HOW TO HATE SHAKESPEARE 1 5 1 
 
 Jaques. 'Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a 
 circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against 
 all the first-born of Egypt. 
 
 What philosophy is there in this? asks M. 
 Pellissier. 
 
 From these citations I think it will be plain to 
 anyone who at any period of his life has found 
 pleasure in reading Shakespeare that M. Pellissier 
 has by an accident of birth been for ever debarred 
 from sharing in it. Therein he resembles the 
 Shakespeare commentators. To him, as to the 
 commentator, Shakespeare is not a source of pleas- 
 ure, but a task. Among us common, careless folk, 
 Shakespeare is not necessarily a sad matter, but 
 on the strange assiduous tribe who live in foot- 
 notes he has laid a cruel burden. Nothing can 
 persuade a layman that the Shakespeare scholars 
 are not men who privately loathe Shakespeare. 
 Otherwise, why their amazing marginal irrele- 
 vancies ? 
 
 Act I., Sc. II., Line 20, Note 56. "Biting." Often 
 used metaphorically by Shakespeare. So of "nipping." 
 Cf. "a nipping and an eager air." 
 
 They write their notes, like schoolboys marking 
 up their text-books' margins. In Shakespeare's 
 company and longing for escape, they pass the 
 time in queer, superfluous labors, memory exploits, 
 
1 5 % THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 and verbal divagations, sometimes quoting all the 
 passages that resemble a little the one in hand, 
 sometimes all the lines they can think of that do 
 not at all resemble it, not knowing what to do, yet 
 bound to seem busy, hence elucidating, collating, 
 emending, bickering with some other commentator 
 fifty years dead, expounding prepositions, ex- 
 pounding anything, merely to relieve the awful 
 tedium of being alone with Shakespeare. Hating 
 poetry, they collect adverbs, or explain discrep- 
 ancies in the time of day, or quote the moral re- 
 flections of some tired predecessor. I have seen 
 a sentiment from Dr. Johnson which no free-born 
 Anglo-American reader would remember for five 
 minutes hoarded by these forlorn sub-Shakes- 
 pearean Crustacea for five generations. And they 
 are under no compulsion. That is what puzzles 
 every care-free person — why this especially un- 
 sympathetic class of men should have ever gone 
 into the business at all, when there are chess, 
 stamp-collecting, autographs, numismatics, golf, 
 peace movements, book-plates, gardening, pressed 
 flowers, social welfare work, taxidermy, solitaire 
 — so many perfectly respectable occupations, at a 
 safe distance from the hated bard. 
 
 And the best thing in M. Pellissier's book is 
 the vengeance it takes on them. The same sort 
 of reasons that they have hypocritically presented 
 for a hundred years as ground for loving Shakes- 
 
HOW TO HATE SHAKESPEARE 153 
 
 peare are here presented with greater force as 
 ground for hating him. So he strips the mask 
 from the other unimaginative scholars who pre- 
 ceded him and reveals their sullen faces. 
 
CONFESSIONS OF A GALLOMANIAC 
 
 I have no idea what Mr. George Moore meant 
 by saying in one of his literary discussions that 
 Americans write better than Englishmen because 
 they are safer from French influence. It seems 
 quite obvious to me that Americans write worse 
 than Englishmen, and that one of the reasons for 
 it is that they are under English influence. Per- 
 haps if they went by way of France there might 
 be a chance of their escape from the prolonged 
 colonialism of American letters and there would 
 at least be the benefit of variety. Our writers are 
 a timid people, like the conies, and in all prob- 
 ability they would still be imitating something but 
 they would at least be imitating something further 
 off. I could pick out twelve rather important 
 American novelists on whom the experiment could 
 have been tried without the least danger to current 
 literature. And take the case of Mr. George 
 Moore himself. Having but little power of self- 
 analysis he would probably not know what had 
 been best for him, but even he would hardly wish 
 to have escaped his French experience. He is 
 better, not worse, for his resemblance to Flaubert. 
 
 154 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 155 
 
 Not to imply that he has taken Flaubert as a 
 model; I do not even know whether he has given 
 him a thought; but his style in English is the pre- 
 cise equivalent of Flaubert's — delicate, flexible, in- 
 evitable. One may not like what Mr. George 
 Moore says but one cannot easily imagine, espe- 
 cially in his earlier novels, that there could be any 
 other way of saying it. That, I believe, is a 
 French and not an English characteristic. 
 
 However, I am not concerned here with the train- 
 ing of Mr. George Moore or with the redemp- 
 tion of American novelists, but with my own small 
 affairs. How to expose myself sufficiently to that 
 same French influence which he considered so 
 disastrous to the English language had been my 
 problem during the entire period of the war. 
 Down to the outbreak of the war I had no 
 more desire to converse with a Frenchman in 
 his own language than with a modern Greek. 
 I thought I understood French well enough 
 for my own purposes, because I had read it off and 
 on for twenty years, but when the war aroused 
 sympathies and sharpened curiosities that I had 
 not felt before, I realized the width of the chasm 
 that cut me off from what I wished to feel. Nor 
 could it be bridged by any of the academic, natural, 
 or commercial methods that I knew of. They were 
 were either too slow or they led in directions that 
 I did not wish to go. I had not the slightest de- 
 
1 5 & THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 sire to call taxis, buy tickets, check trunks and 
 board sleeping-cars all through Europe, since I 
 doubted if I should go there. Neither did I wish 
 to draw elaborate comparisons at some boarding- 
 house table between Central Park and the Bois de 
 Boulogne. I tried a phonograph, and after many 
 bouts with it I acquired part of a sermon by Bos- 
 suet and real fluency in discussing a quinsy sore 
 throat with a Paris physician, in case I ever went 
 there and had one. I took fourteen conversation 
 lessons from Mme. Carnet, and being rather well 
 on in years at the start, I should, if I had kept 
 on diligently, be able at the age of eighty-five to 
 inquire faultlessly my way to the post-office. I 
 could already ask for butter and sing a song writ- 
 ten by Henry IV — when my teacher went to 
 France to take care of her half-brother's children 
 by his second wife, their father having been killed 
 in the trenches. I will say this for Mme Carnet. 
 I came to understand perfectly the French for all 
 her personal and family affairs. No human being 
 has ever confided in me so abundantly as she did. 
 No human being has ever so sternly repressed any 
 answering confidences of my own. Her method 
 of instruction, if it was one, was that of jealous, 
 relentless, unbridled soliloquy. 
 
 Thrown on the world with no power of sustain- 
 ing a conversation on any other subject than the 
 members of the Carnet family, I nevertheless re- 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 157 
 
 solved to take no more lessons but to hunt down 
 French people and make them talk. What I 
 really needed was a governess to take me to and 
 from my office and into the park at noon, but 
 at my age that was out of the question. Then be- 
 gan a career of hypocritical benevolence. I 
 scraped acquaintance with every Frenchman whom 
 I heard talking English very badly, and I became 
 immensely interested in his welfare. I formed 
 the habit of introducing visiting Frenchmen to 
 French-speaking Americans and sitting, with open 
 mouth, in the flow of their conversation. Then 
 I fell in with M. Bernou, the commissioner who 
 was over here buying guns and whose English 
 and my French were so much alike that we agreed 
 to interchange them. We met daily for two weeks 
 and walked for an hour in the park, each tearing 
 at the other's language. Our conversations, as I 
 look back on them, must have run about like this : 
 
 "It calls to walk," said he, smiling brilliantly. 
 
 "It is good morning," said I, "better than I had ex- 
 tended." 
 
 "I was at you yestairday ze morning, but I deed not 
 find." 
 
 "I was obliged to leap early," said I, "and I was busy 
 standing up straight all around the forenoon." 
 
 "The book I prayed you send, he came, and I thank, 
 but positively are you not deranged?" 
 
 "Don't talk," said I. "Never talk again. It was 
 
1581 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 really nothing anywhere. I had been very happy, I re- 
 assure." 
 
 "Pardon, I glide, I glode. There was the hide of a 
 banane. Did I crash you?" 
 
 "I noticed no insults," I replied. "You merely gnawed 
 my arm." 
 
 Gestures and smiles of perfect understanding. 
 
 I do not know whether Bernou, who like myself 
 was middle-aged, felt as I did on these occasions, 
 but by the suppression of every thought that I 
 could not express in my childish vocabulary, I 
 came to feel exactly like a child. They said I 
 ought to think in French and I tried to do so, 
 but thinking in French when there is so little 
 French to think with, divests the mind of its ac- 
 quisitions of forty years. Experience slips away 
 for there are not words enough to lay hold of it, 
 and the soul is bounded by the present tense. The 
 exigencies of the concrete and the immediate were 
 so pressing that reflection had no chance. Knowl- 
 edge of good and evil did not exist; the sins had 
 no names ; and the mind under its linguistic limita- 
 tions was like a rather defective toy Noah's ark. 
 From the point of view of Bernou's and my vocab- 
 ulary, Central Park was as the Garden of Eden 
 after six months — new and unnamed things every- 
 where. A dog, a tree, a statue, taxed all our 
 powers of description, and on a complex matter 
 like a policeman our minds could not meet at all. 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 159 
 
 We could only totter together a few steps in any 
 mental direction, but there was a real pleasure in 
 this earnest interchange of insipidities and they 
 were highly valued on each side. For my part I 
 shall always like Bernou, and feel toward him as 
 my childhood's friend, and I hope, when we meet 
 again, I at sixty, he at fifty-five, we may stand 
 together on a bridge and pluck the petals from a 
 daisy and count them as they fall into the river, 
 he in English, I in French. I wonder if Bernou 
 noticed that I was an old, battered man, bothered 
 with a tiresome profession. I certainly never sus- 
 pected that he was. His language utterly failed 
 to give me that impression. 
 
 Why should Seneca say it is an utterly ridiculous 
 and disgraceful thing to be an elementary old 
 man? Unless a man, as he grows old, gains his 
 second simplicity, he is either already dead or 
 damned. There is but one right passion for ad- 
 vancing years and that is curiosity, and curiosity 
 implies the acceptance of one's mental inferiority 
 toward an insect, toward a language, toward a 
 man. Curiosity is never gratified in conversations 
 as I hear them at my club or as I recall them at 
 successful dinner-parties, long since mercifully 
 gone by. Talk among respectable middle-aged 
 New Yorkers is either an alternate pelting with 
 opinions or a competitive endeavor to shine. 
 When old Foggs, throwing down his newspaper, 
 
1 60 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 bears down on me with his views on labor unions, 
 which I have known for seven years, it is not from 
 any wish to talk with me. He regards me as his 
 mental pocket-handkerchief. In revenge I blow 
 my views of Wilson on him and off he goes. Each 
 of us really hates to receive all that the other 
 has to give him. After conversing thirty years 
 in New York in the English language, I have 
 found that, if I am to preserve an interest in my 
 species, I must begin again in another tongue. 
 One must begin again at something in middle life, 
 back in the woods, back on the farm or in the 
 garden, or down at the bottom of the French 
 language. Otherwise one will fall among those 
 dreadful and anachronistic fogies; galvanized 
 spectators of sports they cannot share in; trailers 
 of youth to whom they are a nuisance ; ever freshly 
 Harvard or freshly Yale. Seneca was true to his 
 theory of sophistication to the end, and so very 
 properly bled himself to death in the bathtub. 
 
 After I lost Bernou I fastened upon an un- 
 frocked priest who had come over here and gone 
 into the shoe trade, a small, foxy man, who re- 
 garded me, I think, in the light of an aggressor. 
 He wanted to become completely American and 
 forget France, and as I was trying to reverse the 
 process, I rather got in his way. He could talk 
 of mediaeval liturgies and his present occupation, 
 but nothing in between, and as he spoke English 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 161 
 
 very well, his practical mind revolted at the use 
 of a medium of communication in which one of us 
 almost strangled when there was another available 
 in which we both were at ease. I could not pump 
 much French out of him. He would burst into 
 English rather resentfully. Then I took to the 
 streets at lunch-time and tried newsdealers, book- 
 shops, restaurants, invented imaginary errands, 
 bought things that I did not want, and exchanged 
 them for objects even less desirable. That kept a 
 little conversation going day by day, but on the 
 whole it was a dry season. It is a strange thing. 
 There are more than thirty thousand of them in 
 the city of New York, and I had always heard that 
 the French are a clannish folk and hate to learn 
 another language, but most of my overtures in 
 French brought only English upon me. The more 
 pains I took the more desirable it seemed to them 
 that I should be spared the trouble of continuing. 
 I could not explain the situation. I was always 
 diving into French and they were always pulling 
 me out again. They thought they were humane. 
 After all, hunting down French people in the 
 city of New York who spoke English worse than 
 I spoke French, was as good an exercise as golf, 
 and it took less time. One reason why a good 
 deal of skill is required is because they hate broken 
 French worse than most of us hate broken English. 
 Then there is of course that natural instinct to 
 
1 6a THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 alleviate apparently needless suffering, and my 
 object was to stave off rescue as long as possible. 
 When dragged out into the light of English I tried 
 to talk just as foolishly in order that they might 
 think it was not really my French that was the 
 matter with me. Sometimes that worked quite 
 well. Finding me just as idiotic in my own lan- 
 guage they went back to theirs. It certainly 
 worked well with my friend M. Barter, a para- 
 lytic tobacconist in the West Thirties near the 
 river, to whom my relation was for several months 
 that of a grandchild, though, I believe we were 
 of the same age. He tried to form my character 
 by bringing me up on such praiseworthy episodes 
 of his early life as he thought I was able to grasp. 
 
 Now at the end of a long year of these persist- 
 ent puerilities I am able to report two definite 
 results : In the first place a sense of my incapacity 
 and ignorance infinitely vaster than when I began, 
 and in the second a profound distrust, possibly 
 vindictive in its origin, of all Americans in the city 
 of New York who profess an acquaintance with 
 French culture, including teachers, critics, theater 
 audiences, lecture audiences and patronesses of 
 visiting Frenchmen. 
 
 It was perhaps true, as people said at the time, 
 that a certain French theatrical experiment in New 
 York could not continue for the simple reason 
 that it was too good a thing for the theatre-going 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 163 
 
 public to support. It may be that the precise 
 equivalent of the enterprise, even if not hampered 
 by a foreign language, could not have permanently 
 endured. Yet from what I saw of its audiences, 
 critics, enthusiasts, and from what I know of the 
 American Gallophile generally, including myself, 
 I believe the linguistic obstacle to have been more 
 serious than they would have us suppose — serious 
 enough to account for the situation without drag- 
 ging in our aesthetic incapacity. It was certainly 
 an obstacle that less than one-half of any audience 
 ever succeeded in surmounting. 
 
 I do not mean that the rest of the audience got 
 nothing out of it, for so expressive were the play- 
 ers by other means than words, that they often 
 sketched the play out in pantomime. The physical 
 activities of the troupe did not arise, as some of 
 the critics declared, from the vivacity of the Gallic 
 temperament; nor were they assumed, as others 
 believed, because in the seventeenth century French 
 actors had been acrobats. - These somewhat ex- 
 aggerated gestures were occasioned by the percep- 
 tion that the majority of the spectators were be- 
 ginners in French. They were supplied by these 
 ever-tactful people as a running translation for a 
 large body of self-improving Americans. 
 
 But while no doubt almost everybody caught, 
 as he would have said, the gist of the thing, though 
 not quite understanding all the words, very few, 
 
i6 4 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 I believe, were in any condition to judge of the 
 play as a play. This seemed particularly true 
 When reading the published commentaries. The 
 players deserved all the eulogies they received, 
 but if they could have beheld the inner state of the 
 eulogists they would not have felt in the slightest 
 degree buoyed up. 
 
 La Fontaine's Enchanted Cup, for example, as 
 produced by these players, was admirable, and a 
 certain New York play reviewer was entirely justi- 
 fied in speaking of it in the highest terms, but the 
 fact that he thought the words for an "enchanted 
 cup" really meant an "exchanged coupe" detracted 
 a little from the value of his testimony. 
 
 This may have been rather an extreme instance 
 among the commentators, but there were approxi- 
 mations to it on all sides and particularly among 
 those people who adored, as they said, the French 
 drama, French art, the fine, frank simplicity of 
 the French character, and above all the incompar- 
 able lucidity of the French language and the in- 
 imitable manner that the French have of saying 
 things. For though we Gallophiles may some- 
 times get a little bit mixed up; though we may 
 mistake a bad player for a good one, and prose for 
 poetry, and a commonplace for a shining epigram; 
 though we may confound a horse-cab with a crystal 
 vessel, and humor with obscenity; though, as we 
 would say, these nuances may to a certain extent 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 165 
 
 be lost upon us, it does not follow that our love 
 of French things is any less intense, and it cer- 
 tainly is no less panegyrical. But it does follow, 
 I believe, that at that particular moment we were 
 not quite ripe for a serious encounter with the 
 French drama when rendered in actual French; 
 and its discontinuance was no reflection on our 
 artistic taste. We had not reached the stage at 
 which artistic taste emerges. We were far away 
 from the intimacies of art, battling in the outskirts 
 of comprehension. 
 
 "Messieurs et mesdames : During my six weeks' sojourn 
 in your wonderful country I have realized that America 
 is one thing above all others. It is the land of oppor- 
 tunity." — Enthusiastic applause. 
 
 The welcome accorded to certain French lec- 
 turers by our great universities, society leaders and 
 women's clubs during the war made no unfair 
 distinctions. It was not withheld merely because 
 the lecturer through no fault of his own, had 
 nothing to say; nor was the applause reserved for 
 the better portions of his discourse, or even for 
 those portions which were intelligible. One of 
 the most successful lectures ever delivered before 
 a woman's club in New York City was given by a 
 Frenchman, who, having taken a severe cold, was 
 entirely inaudible from beginning to end. The 
 applause was almost continuous. In the warmth 
 
i661 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 of our ardor for France one Frenchman was as 
 good as another, just as after the first intoxication 
 any brand of wine will do. The one French con- 
 ferencier from whom all good Gallophiles should 
 immediately have fled was, by a strange mischance, 
 precisely the one that riveted their attention. 
 Three of our leading universities and huge bands 
 of our socially important womanhood succumbed 
 instantly to his charm. It is to the honor of the 
 French nation that it sent over to us as a rule 
 only perfectly sensible persons; but it really was 
 not necessary. It might have sent over imbeciles 
 and in the very centre of our American French 
 culture no one would have noticed anything amiss. 
 In the present state of our knowledge subtle dis- 
 tinctions of this sort are thrown away on us. 
 
 We can pay Frenchmen every compliment in 
 the world except that of telling them apart. Even 
 our most cultivated critics, having it on good au- 
 thority that a gifted French author has a brilliant 
 style, will generally quote by a strange fatality the 
 rare passages in his writings that are entirely 
 commonplace. 
 
 I do not blame other Americans for dabbling in 
 French, since I myself am the worst of dabblers, 
 but I see no reason why any of us should pretend 
 that it is anything more than dabbling. The usual 
 way of reading French does not lead even to an 
 acquaintance with French literature. Everybody 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 167 
 
 knows that words in a living language in order 
 to be understood have to be lived with. They 
 are not felt as a part of living literature when you 
 see them pressed out and labeled in a glossary, 
 but only when you hear them fly about. A word 
 is not a definite thing susceptible of dictionary ex- 
 planation. It is a cluster of associations, reminis- 
 cent of the sort of men that used it, suggestive 
 of social class, occupation, mood, dignity or the 
 lack of it, primness, violences, pedantries or plati- 
 tudes. It hardly seems necessary to say that words 
 in a living literature ought to ring in the ear with 
 the sounds that really belong to them, or that 
 poetry without an echo cannot be felt. Poetry if 
 it rings in the ears of the usual American reader 
 of French literature must inevitably make a noise 
 that in no wise resembles any measured human 
 sound; it is merely a punctuated din. But prob- 
 ably it does not sound at all; it is probably read 
 as stenographic notes. 
 
 It may be that there is no 1 way out of it. Per- 
 haps it is inevitable that the colleges which had 
 so long taught the dead languages as if they were 
 buried should now teach the living ones as if they 
 were dead. But there is no need of pretending 
 that this formal acquaintance with the books re- 
 sults in an appreciation of literature. No sense of 
 the intimate quality of a writer can be founded on a 
 verbal vacuum. His plots, his place in literature, 
 
1 68 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 his central motives, and the opinion of his critics 
 could all be just as adequately conveyed, if his 
 books were studied in the language of the deaf 
 and dumb. Of course, one may be drawn to an 
 author by that process but it would hardly be the 
 artistic attraction of literature; it is as if one 
 felt drawn to a woman by an interest exclusively 
 in her bones. Elementary as these remarks may 
 seem I offer them to Gallophiles without apology. 
 On the contrary I rather fear that I am writing 
 over their heads. 
 
 Of course nobody realizes how far away he is, 
 for the pursuit of the French language in this 
 country is invariably accompanied by the belief 
 that it has been overtaken. One hardly ever meets 
 an American who knows any French at all who is 
 not filled with a strange optimism as to the amount 
 of it, for the learning of French is a sort of 
 course in progressive hallucination, everybody be- 
 lieving, both teacher and taught, that he is further 
 along than he is. 
 
 I have heard it said that some day there might 
 be such a change in the system of teaching as 
 would enable a careful student, after seven years, 
 to face an actual French person without stuttering, 
 without wild and groundless laughter, without 
 agony of gesture, and without gargling his throat. 
 I have heard reformers say that the American 
 expert in the French language really must be saved 
 
A GALLOMANIAC 169 
 
 from the sort of embarrassments he now under- 
 goes. He ought not to be obliged, for example, 
 they say, to leave a house by the fire-escape because 
 he cannot ask his way to the door; or to be served 
 four times to potatoes because he cannot say, 
 "Je n'en veux plus; or to go about insulting peo- 
 ple whom he has no desire to insult; or to use 
 language to his hostess which he finds afterward 
 to have been highly obscene; or to tell a story in 
 a mystic tongue, known only to himself, com- 
 pounded of the ruins of two languages, or in the 
 deaf-and-dumb alphabet supplemented by gym- 
 nastic feats, or in words so far apart that every- 
 body in the room listens to the ticking of the clock 
 between them. 
 
 I know nothing about the chance of future 
 changes, but I have observed very often the pres- 
 ent results; and I will reproduce here as accurately 
 as I can the table-talk of a serious and by no 
 means unintelligent man, a finished product of the 
 present system. He begins, of course, almost in- 
 variably by telling the French person that sits next 
 to him that he is a woman or that he is not a 
 woman. He will then say that he is in the rear 
 because a long time ago he was held underneath 
 the city; that he tilled the soil of his office slowly; 
 that he did not jump till six o'clock, though he 
 usually jumps at five; that he likes cats and oaks 
 and that he had a cat and an oak once who would 
 
170 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 eat in the cup together; that his aunt had a cat 
 who killed six smiles in one day; that he had 
 dropped a piece of bread on the ceiling; that it is 
 a good time though the paper promised tears; that 
 he swims better in dirty water than in cool because 
 it throws him up in the air. And he will ask for 
 the following objects, all of which he believes can 
 be found on the table or easily obtained: A sad- 
 dle — he wants to put some of it in his soup; a 
 hillside; a little more of the poison; a pear-tree; 
 a bass wind instrument full of milk; the hide of 
 any animal; a farmer's daughter of shameless 
 character; and a portion of a well-set, thick, short- 
 backed horse. 
 
 Now this sort of thing will happen not only to 
 almost any student under the present system, but 
 to the majority of the teachers themselves, and as 
 a rule they do not know that it is happening. 
 Many Americans will talk French at intervals all 
 through their lives without ever finding out that 
 they are not saying a word in French; so great 
 are the powers of divination among the gifted 
 people with whom they converse. And again and 
 again you will see persons who have not emerged 
 from the condition of the young man whose con- 
 versation I have quoted chosen as French teachers 
 in institutions of learning. It is compatible with 
 present standards of scholarship. One may be- 
 have in this manner and publish an intelligible 
 
A' GALLOMANIAC 171 
 
 monograph on the Felibrige. One may curl up in 
 some corner of Romance philology where he will 
 never be disturbed, or range through five centuries 
 of French literature, putting authors in their 
 places, or make those unnecessary remarks beneath 
 a classic text which constitute the essence of foot- 
 note gentility; in short, one may be Teutonically 
 efficient all around and about the French language 
 — over it and under it and behind it — and never 
 once be in it, never once be able to enter into the 
 simplest human relation with any one who uses it. 
 And if he is a true product of the system he 
 will be perfectly satisfied. He will say that chat- 
 tering with French people is only a pleasant ac- 
 complishment, after all, and can easily be acquired 
 at any time by living with them ; that it has nothing 
 in common with the aims of serious scholarship; 
 that it is not to be compared in importance with 
 the ability to read and appreciate books; that 
 there is no room for it in the present system and 
 that it would not be desirable if there were. He 
 will add lightly that some time he means to brush 
 up his French conversation. He will say this with- 
 out a qualm, without a trace of pity for the peo- 
 ple he means to brush it on. He does not know 
 that an American brushing his French in a room 
 bears the same relation to any peaceful conversa- 
 tion that may be going on in it at the time as is 
 borne by a carpet-sweeper in action. He does 
 
1721 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 not know that an American when brushing his 
 French ought to be kept out of rooms. He does 
 not know that if in the future the relations be- 
 tween this country and France should unhappily 
 become strained it will be largely due to Ameri- 
 cans brushing French. The system not only with- 
 holds from us the means of understanding the 
 French language; it encourages us to misunder- 
 stand it. It fills us with the assurance that we are 
 doing easily what we are not doing at all. It 
 seems as if American instruction in French were 
 designed for the frustration of civilized inter- 
 course. 
 
 I cannot really blame that French lady who, 
 after long association with the American function- 
 aries in Paris during the war, pronounced the 
 opinion that at their best Americans are children 
 and at their worst they are brutes; nor can I 
 blame the Americans. I have no doubt that a 
 large part of the unpleasantness was linguistic. 
 It is probable that every one of those Americans 
 was trying to say something very agreeable to the 
 lady, but when put into language it turned out 
 the other way. It is probable that many of them 
 cursed the lady and never knew. 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 
 
 In one of those good, solid British papers, 
 where, time out of mind, correspondents have 
 flashed Latin quotations at the editor, or written 
 long letters on "What constitutes a gentleman?" 
 they were still, even in war-time, debating in their 
 usual way, the question of the classics, and they 
 are as busy with it as ever to-day. 
 
 The argument on each side is always very 
 simple. One tells you that with Latin and Greek 
 he would never have been the man he now is. 
 The other says that he would never have been 
 the man he now is without them. They sometimes 
 vary it by saying that they would have sooner be- 
 come the men they now are, with (or without) 
 the classics. Stripped to its bare bones, the debate 
 seems to be a contest between self-satisfactions. 
 Why each is so pleased with his present condition 
 is never explained. 
 
 Yet that is obviously of the first importance. 
 Who cares how a mind was nourished if he can 
 see no reason why he should place any value on 
 the mind? When "Doctor of Divinity" writes 
 at great length on behalf of his humanities, he 
 
 173 
 
174 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 does not appear particularly humane, and if 
 "Biologist" is glad to be without any humanities 
 at all, there is nothing about "Biologist" per- 
 sonally that tends to make you glad as well. On 
 the contrary, you would often like to take the 
 classics out of "Doctor of Divinity" and thrust 
 them into "Biologist," just by way of shifting 
 things about a bit on the chance of improving the 
 situation. 
 
 "Philonous" and "Scientificus" come out about 
 even in dullness, and when old "Philomathicus" 
 writes from Warwickshire about all that Vergil 
 has done for him, everyone with a grain of good 
 taste is sorry Vergil did it. To the mind of an 
 impartial witness it always ends in a draw. If 
 they did not brag about it, you could no more tell 
 which of them had had the classics and which had 
 not, than you could tell which was vaccinated, if 
 they did not roll up their sleeves. The only thing 
 you can make out of the affair, with scientific cer- 
 tainty, is that in every case either the education 
 was wrong or the wrong man was educated. 
 And that must be precisely the impression that is 
 left on any anxious British parent who seriously 
 observes the usual culture squabble as it comes out 
 in the magazines. He must long to save the 
 child from the ultimate fate of either party to it. 
 He would hate in after life to have the child ex- 
 plode like the gentleman who is so proud of his 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 175 
 
 classic contents; he would hate to see the child 
 some day cave in like the gentleman who is so 
 proud to be without them. For that unsatisfac- 
 tory termination is almost the rule in these violent 
 culture contests. Each combatant before he can 
 reach his adversary seems to go to pieces all by 
 himself. Never by any chance does one kill the 
 other, though you would suppose on the first in- 
 spection of each one of them that nothing could 
 be easier to do. 
 
 It is the same way with the discussion of the 
 question in this country though it is here more 
 likely to turn on considerations of practical utility. 
 The practical utility argument, for or against the 
 study of Latin and Greek, seems to me to break 
 down for the same reason that the German effi- 
 ciency argument broke down during the war. 
 That is to say, it does not take into consideration 
 the imponderables. From a good many articles 
 setting forth to what extent Latin and Greek have 
 helped or hindered the respective writers in their 
 careers it would appear that the only test that 
 they apply is that of contemporary social im- 
 portance. 
 
 If I were to say, for example, that but for 
 my firm grasp at the age of twelve on the exact 
 difference between the gerund and the gerundive, 
 I should not have risen to what I have risen to, 
 it would not be accounted an argument for the 
 
176 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 classics, but rather as a warning against them. 
 People would look me up and find that I had not 
 risen to anything. 
 
 But if I should stand splendidly forth as presi- 
 dent of the All-Columbian Amalgamated Boot and 
 Shoe Concern and attribute my well-known or- 
 ganizing talent to the mastery at an early age of 
 Xenophon's Anabasis, there would be instant 
 cheering in the classical ranks; whereas if I said 
 that had it not been for Xenophon's Anabasis, I 
 should have got ahead much faster, should, in fact, 
 have fairy whizzed into my presidency of the shoe 
 business, shouts of triumph would at once ascend 
 from the Modern School. 
 
 There you have the sort of test that is regarded 
 as really practical — what the classics actually did 
 to some large, perfectly substantial and hard- 
 headed shoe man. It is a test much valued in this 
 debate. 
 
 If I were a classical scholar I would not rest 
 my case on these arguments from practical life, 
 as the term practical is understood in these dis- 
 cussions. It may be gratifying if one can cite a 
 dozen bank presidents who approve of Latin and 
 Greek, but it is a short-lived pleasure. Some one 
 is soon citing two dozen who disapprove of them. 
 I have just finished reading the fifteenth article 
 published within the last two years, which pro- 
 ceeds on the same assumption in respect to a prac- 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 177 
 
 tical life. The writer rounds up in defense of the 
 classics a considerable number of the politically, 
 commercially, and scientifically successful persons 
 of the moment. There are one President, two 
 ex-Presidents, two Secretaries of State, and a 
 handsome showing of administrators, bankers, 
 heads of trust and insurance companies, engineers, 
 mathematicians, electricians, economists, botanists, 
 zoologists, psychologists, physicists, and chemists. 
 This may have been a more bountiful and seduc- 
 tive list than any anti-classical man had produced 
 at that moment, but it is not a more bountiful one 
 than he could produce, if you gave him time. It 
 contains fifty professors of science, both pure and 
 applied. The man who could not within a week 
 produce fifty-five on the other side would not be 
 worth his salt as an anti-classical debater. Then 
 the unfortunate writer of the first article would 
 have to find five more, and thus the debate would 
 resolve itself into a mad competitive scramble for 
 botanists, engineers, business men, and the like, 
 to which, so far as I can see, there would be no 
 logical conclusion till they had all been caught and 
 tabulated. And after this was all done, we should 
 be just where we were when we started. For the 
 success of these successful persons is not a suc- 
 csful test. 
 
 If the majority of them knew, what they never 
 could know — that is to say that they presided, 
 
1 7 81 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 banked, administered, engineered, insured, botan- 
 ized, and psychologized no better for their study 
 of the classics, the question of the classics would 
 still be as open as before. As human beings they 
 were probably engaged during a considerable 
 portion of their lives in doing other things than 
 climbing into presidencies or directng banks or 
 building bridges or organizing other human 
 beings. If not, they were forlorn creatures whom 
 it is not desirable to reproduce. As human beings 
 their leisure was probably a matter of some prac- 
 tical concern to them. Statistics of success cannot 
 decide a question that pertains to their personal 
 leisure. I doubt if statistics of success can decide 
 any question at all, when the standard of success 
 is the vague, unstable, arbitrary thing implied in 
 these discussions. Nobody wants his own life 
 regulated by the way a chance majority of these 
 successful persons happen to feel about theirs. 
 Still less would he want his children to be brought 
 up only to resemble them. Every plain person 
 realizes that there is a vast domain of thought, 
 feeling, and activity, including religion, music, 
 poetry, painting, sport, dancing, among many 
 other things that subsists quite independently of 
 the good or bad opinions of any motley group of 
 persons picked out by educators as successful at 
 this day. 
 
 When they tell you that some railway manager 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 179 
 
 thinks that Latin has helped him in his labors and 
 that he still reads Horace for pleasure, they are 
 telling you nothing either for or against the study 
 of Latin. Prove that the study of Latin and 
 Greek so sapped a man's vitality that he lost five 
 years in getting to the top of his gas company, and 
 you have really proved nothing against it. Prove 
 that tlhe extraordinary mental energy acquired by 
 the perusal of Hoedus stans in tecto domus lupum 
 vidit praetereuntem shot him into the United 
 States Senate at thirty^six and you have not said 
 one word in its favor. This seems fairly obvious, 
 but the contrary assumption underlies a vast area 
 of educational printed matter on the subject — all 
 based on a standard of momentary success, that 
 is to say, a standard of momentary public toler- 
 ation. 
 
 Yet even an educator would not be any more 
 eager to have his daughter learn to dance, if he 
 knew that the chief justice of the Supreme Court 
 had danced regularly all through his career for 
 its beneficial effects upon his profession, and was 
 now dancing almost every moment of the day just 
 for the pleasure of it. He does not want the 
 doings of the chief justice to mould his daughter's 
 life in all particulars. He probably would just as 
 lief she did not resemble in many ways that un- 
 doubtedly respectable person. 
 
 And the question of the classics is in this outside 
 
1 8a THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 domain, whatever their casual relation may be to 
 a random group of professional, business, and 
 scientific activities. It is true, for example, that 
 the best poetry in the English or any other lan- 
 guage is detested by the one thousand ablest 
 executives in this country at this moment. But 
 that is not supposed, even among educators, to 
 have any relevance to the question of its value. 
 Even in the wildest educational articles of the 
 month, you do not find this fact advanced as a 
 conclusive argument from practical life for the 
 promotion of the detestation of poetry. Nobody 
 takes the child aside and says: "Hate poetry and 
 up you go to the very top of the drygoods 
 business." 
 
 These arguments assume that any influence was 
 harmful if it delayed these not very interesting 
 persons in blossoming into the sort of beings they 
 afterwards became. From reading the testimony 
 of these persons it is impossible to discern any 
 reason for that belief. Each one implies that if 
 he had had his way, he would have become the 
 man he is much sooner. But how does he know 
 that he did not become the man he is too soon? 
 Writers on the subject find an argument for a 
 course of study in the mere fact that it has 
 speeded miscellaneous successful persons along 
 the way they went toward the places where you 
 happen to find them, when so far as any sensible 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 181 
 
 man can see, they might just as well be somewhere 
 else. 
 
 But perhaps educators do not really attach any 
 importance to this nonsense. They are, no doubt, 
 more sensible than they seem. There is no use in 
 taking the malign view of educators that their 
 personalties resemble their usual educational arti- 
 cles. They probably do not believe any more 
 than I do in a neat hierarchy of success with the 
 better man always a peg above the worse one, or 
 that if you skim the cream of contemporary cele- 
 brites you will have a collection of more practical 
 lives than if you had taken the next layer or the 
 layer below that. Practical lives, as led in Ger- 
 many during the last forty years or so, must begin 
 to seem to them now somewhat visionary. And 
 they can hardly retain a sublime confidence in the 
 standards of success of their own generation, 
 which, though equipped with the very latest 
 modern efficiency tests and appliances, neverthe- 
 less reverted overnight almost to a state of can- 
 nibalism. They probably would admit that in- 
 stead of compelling the next generation to re- 
 semble the sort of persons that society has often 
 permitted to become uppermost in this, it might 
 be only humane to give it a fair chance of not 
 resembling them. When you read the language 
 of educational disputes tradition begins to seem a 
 reasonable thing. Educational debaters argue 
 
1 821 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 with an air of mathematical certainty, as if work- 
 ing out an equation, and then produce a solution 
 containing such hopelessly unknown quantities as 
 the value of the opinion of fifty-seven more or 
 less accidentally important persons as to the sort 
 of lives all the rest of the world should live. 
 
 Of course, these speed tests of education ap- 
 plied to public careers are unconvincing, simply 
 because the larger part of life does not consist in 
 publicly careering. And distrust of the middle- 
 aged successful man on the subject of his own edu- 
 cation is justified, because he is an instinctive 
 partisan of his own success. It would be a cruel 
 thing to entrust writers on education with their 
 own education. If they had been brought up on 
 their own writings many of them would never 
 have pulled through. 
 
 Take for instance, the illustrious case of Mr. 
 Bernard Shaw. Mr. Shaw favored a system of 
 education which began by abolishing almost every- 
 thing and which would certainly have resulted in 
 abolishing Mr. Shaw. It was a good, clean, con- 
 sistent sweep of every tradition. It abolished 
 homes, marriage, fathers, mothers, schools, rules, 
 text-books, settled residence, settled convictions, 
 moral, social and religious preconceptions or con- 
 trols; it rid the child of family ties, personal affec- 
 tions, local customs and every other narrowing 
 influence, and turned him out to roam and learn 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 183 
 
 and so have a chance of free development; every- 
 body's children to be brought up by everybody 
 else, and thus escape the danger of spoiling and 
 all to be kept in constant motion all over the 
 British Isles lest they contract a local prejudice — 
 each to be perfectly free in all respects except that 
 he must not entertain a settled principle or meet a 
 relative. 
 
 Now I do not criticize this system, nor do I 
 deny that it may be just as sensible as the ideas 
 of modern educational writers generally. But I 
 do contend that if Mr. Shaw had been brought 
 up under it the modern English and American 
 stage would have lost its brightest light. He 
 curses all restraints on his development. I am 
 grateful to them, for I am quite sure they saved 
 his life. A Shaw more Shavian than he actually 
 became would have been hanged at the age of 
 twenty. 
 
 And I should take tradition rather than the word 
 of Mr. G. H. Wells in those two novels of his 
 on the subject of education. I believe the classical 
 tradition had more to do with the making of Mr. 
 H. G. Wells than any treatise on biology that he 
 ever read. Mr. Wells has more in common with 
 Plato than he has with Herbert Spencer, and it 
 is because he writes more in the style of the 
 Phaedo than he does in the style of The Principles 
 of Sociology that we read him. If Mr. Wells con- 
 
1 84 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 siders Plato a dull old fool, as he probably does, 
 that has nothing to do with it. He has absorbed 
 since his nativity a literature that has been steeped 
 for many centuries in the writings of these old 
 fogies he despises. In a sense they own him, so 
 far as there is anything in him that is worth per- 
 manently possessing. Mr. Wells is essentially a 
 very ancient person, but, being incapable of self- 
 inspection, he does not know how he came by a 
 large part of his incentives and suggestions. That 
 is why he has so often moved in circles rediscover- 
 ing old thoughts that antedate the Christian era, 
 and thinking they were new. If an archeologist 
 examined Mr. Wells, he would find him full of 
 the ruins of ancient Rome, and he is much the 
 brisker writer for containing them. Nobody 
 would be reading Mr. H. G. Wells to-day if he 
 were a mere product of contemporary science. If 
 he could have applied his theory of education to 
 his own bringing-up he would have committed 
 literary suicide. 
 
 I mention these writers as the most conspicuous 
 examples of failure to take into account the im- 
 ponderables. I believe that it is these imponder- 
 ables which account in a large measure for any- 
 thing in them that is likely to prove to be perma- 
 nent; in short that they are the product of the 
 humanism that they disown. I believe that so far 
 as they or any other exceptional living writers are 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 185 
 
 in a permanent sense lively, they are in reality 
 dancing to tunes played by persons who died be- 
 fore the Christian era. 
 
 A better instance than either of these typical 
 contemporaries is that of one of their immediate 
 ancestors. Samuel Butler in "The Way of All 
 Flesh" is almost as ferocious toward Latin and 
 Greek as he is toward fathers and mothers. He 
 suggests no substitute for Latin or Greek any 
 more than he suggests a substitute for fathers and 
 mothers, but he implies that all four should be 
 abandoned instantly on the chance that substitutes 
 may turn up. Now I know that the radicalism 
 of Samuel Butler in respect to these and other 
 matters is what mainly interests the modern com- 
 mentator. But it has nothing to do> with his per- 
 manent interest. Dozens of more radical writers 
 may be found everywhere who are exceedingly 
 dull. The value of "The Way of All Flesh" is in 
 its texture — the weaving together of a thousand 
 small things — and not in a few large, central 
 thoughts. Essentially it is in the best tradition of 
 the English novel. Also it is hopelessly entangled 
 with the classics. He had to make his hero take 
 honors in them at the university in order to get 
 the muscle to attack them. He is a prize-fighter 
 who knocks out his own boxing-masters in his in- 
 dignation at having learned nothing from them. 
 
 But I suppose the arguments I have been quot- 
 
1 86 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 ing are merely the little missiles of debate. I 
 doubt if any one really thinks it is a matter to be 
 settled by the points at which persons happen to 
 be perching in society at the present moment. I 
 suppose these writers would admit that the classics 
 are not and never have been chiefly valuable as 
 the means of success. They are obviously valued 
 as the means of escaping its consequences. They 
 are not esteemed for getting one on in the modern 
 world, but for getting one pleasantly out of it — 
 that is to say for the exactly opposite reason to 
 that which social statistics, psychological measure- 
 ments of mental growth, testimony of engineers, 
 educational specialists, chemists and bank directors 
 always emphasize. 
 
 Men turn to the classics in the hope of meeting 
 precisely the sort of people who would not write 
 these articles on the classics. Men turn to the 
 classics to escape from their contemporaries. Cur- 
 rent arguments do not affect the central point, 
 namely the wisdom of breaking with a tradition 
 that has bound together the literatures of the 
 world for twenty centuries and has vivified a large 
 proportion of the greatest authors in our own. 
 
 'But I do not believe that any muddle of present- 
 day educational policy can do any lasting damage. 
 Suppose it goes from bad to worse. Suppose after 
 ceasing to be required, the study of Latin and 
 Greek ceases even to be admitted. Suppose this 
 
CLASSIC DEBATE 187 
 
 is followed by another plunge of progress that 
 would dazzle even Mr. Wells and a mere parsing 
 acquaintance with a Latin author is regarded as 
 not merely frivolous, or eccentric, like fox-trotting 
 or button- collecting, but as downright heinous, 
 like beer-drinking in the teeth of a Prohibition 
 gale. 
 
 Imagine even graver changes — imagine the era 
 of scientific barbarism dawning in 1925 as the un- 
 scientific era of barbarism dawned in 476 and 
 Soviets set up everywhere in America, and paper 
 scarce as everything would be under Bolshevism, 
 and Latin and Greek books turned again into 
 palimpsets and obliterated and replaced with 
 strange dark Bolshevik texts presumably all writ- 
 ten in the Yiddish language. Nevertheless, at the 
 blackest moment of black Bolshevism they would 
 still be read just as they were still read at the very 
 darkest moment of the ages which we call dark. 
 
 The Bolshevists could be no worse for them 
 than were the German tribes. Here and there 
 half-human Bolhevists would preserve a text just 
 as here and there the less fanatical monks did, 
 and there would be a vast deal of subterranean 
 scholarship at work, all the keener on account of 
 persecution. Probably Bolshevist suppression 
 would do no more harm than the teaching of 
 American Germanized college professors did dur- 
 ing the last generation. In fact, it might actually 
 
1 8 8! THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 be a great deal better if we were to persecute the 1 
 classics than to teach them as we do. When 
 you read the notes in the usual school Vergil, 
 simple illiteracy takes on a certain charm. 
 
 Make Latin and Greek illegal, and caves in the 
 mountains will gradually fill up with refugees bear- 
 ing dictionaries — refugees from the great sprawl- 
 ing documentary modern novel, from modern 
 philosophies gone stale in ten years, from new 
 thoughts better expressed twenty-four hundred 
 years ago, from the yearly splash of new poets 
 swimming along in schools, from religions of 
 good digestion, competitions for public astonish- 
 ment, the shapeless solemnity of presidential mes- 
 sages and serious magazines, in short, from all the 
 incoherency and formlessness of the tremendous 
 opinions of the too familiar present moment which 
 somehow for the life of him nobody can manage 
 to remember the next moment. It may not be a 
 bad experiment. It will inevitably be followed by 
 a renaissance. 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 
 
 An Englishman's burdens are hard enough to 
 bear without a London writer's insisting that from 
 this time on he shall expand into "warmth and 
 cordiality" at the first meeting with a stranger; 
 and the writer, though right in his view of the 
 importance of Anglo-American goodwill, is wrong 
 in saying that the chill of the British introduction 
 causes suffering in this country. The grimness 
 of that first moment has already become tradi- 
 tional and it is now expected by every people in 
 the world. There is no hardship in the long 
 silence and the leaden eye when you are prepared 
 for them and know they mean no harm. On the 
 other hand an encounter with a suddenly expand- 
 ing Englishman would be shocking, in its sharp 
 reversal of all precedents. . There is no reason 
 why the Englishman, like other solids, should not 
 have his melting point. If he unbent on first 
 acquaintance, he would seem like a ramrod that 
 melted in the sun. Smile after the first handshake, 
 says this writer, and be natural — as if anything 
 could be less natural to a well-bred Englishman, 
 than any such wild social turbulence. No one ex- 
 
 189 
 
1 9a THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 pects warmth from him out of hand any more 
 than one expects a hen to lay a soft-boiled egg 
 for him; and a wise man will blame the one no 
 more than the other. After all, why is their way 
 worse than ours? There is no greater hardship 
 in having to dig conversation out of an English- 
 man than in having to dig yourself out of the con- 
 versation of your fellow citizens. 
 
 But there does seem to be a misunderstanding 
 between those two small classes in the two coun- 
 tries who are mainly concerned with the outward 
 gentilities. And in regard to the true nature of 
 snobbery, they are certainly at odds. I think our 
 side has the right of it — my patriotic bias, perhaps. 
 
 "How the Americans do love a Duke!" is a 
 frequent comment in certain British journals, and 
 they then proceed to the sober generalization that 
 "the United States is a nation of flunkies and of 
 snobs." Whoever will be at the pains to follow 
 British weekly journalism will find this sentiment 
 repeated every little while. He will observe 
 among this class of writers that vulgarity is a 
 matter of geography, being reckoned from Pall 
 Mall as time is from Greenwich. 
 
 Now as to snobs, New York's streets are of 
 course often choked with them. A duke, an 
 elephant, a base-ball pitcher on Fifth Avenue, 
 may at any time be the center of a disproportion- 
 ate and servile attention from both the American 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 191 
 
 people and the press. Yet the cult of the egreg- 
 ious and the greatly advertised has never the deep 
 devotion of sound snobbery. 
 
 Take the American newspaper view of "so- 
 ciety," for example. You would certainly have to 
 call that snobbery. A friend of mine once became 
 quite indignant on the subject and wrote about it 
 bitterly. According to the newspapers, said he, 
 all the blessings and misfortunes of life fall only 
 on people who are "in society." He wanted to 
 know why in Heaven's name they print such 
 "arrant nonsense," and he asked, "If we are not 
 all snobs, why try so hard to make us so ?" 
 
 Now of course this country is full of climbers. 
 No one here is content with that station in life 
 to which it has pleased God to call him; and if 
 he were, some female relative would surely push 
 him along. And since we are all trying to "get 
 on," with a pretty fair chance of it, for our dullest 
 people are always at the top, it is not strange that 
 we should value all the little symbols of on-getting, 
 and being "in society" is one of them. What if 
 "society" does stretch as far as the wives of six 
 plumbers at a luncheon? What if the term itself 
 fades into a mere newspaper gesture or habit 
 and a society reporter at a scene of South African 
 carnage would probably, by mere reflex action, 
 write, "Hottentot Society Girl Spears Five?" 
 That does not turn readers into snobs. On the 
 
i9Z THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 contrary, it confuses the snobbery they had before, 
 and leaves them without a social chart or compass. 
 A snob cannot tell from an American newspaper 
 what to be snobbish about. The acreage of our 
 newspaper snobbery is of course enormous. Even 
 England, the Sinai of top-hat commandments, land 
 of Turveydrop, George Osborne, and Sir Wil- 
 loughby Patterne, England itself shows not so 
 wide and foolish an expanse of newspaper snob- 
 bery. But the true measure of snobbery is not 
 in area, but in depth. At the bottom of a true 
 snob his snobbery is united with his religion. Re- 
 spectable British papers do not, like our own, mix 
 up all sorts of people under "society" and chatter 
 about them every day; to them it is a real thing 
 and holy. Our papers confound snobbery; theirs 
 treat it with respect. Try as we will, we cannot 
 really tell who's who; we know that we are guess- 
 ing. At the root of American snobbery is the 
 cruel canker of distrust. "Society," as an Ameri- 
 can newspaper concept, includes any member of 
 the Caucasian race not necessarily rich or even 
 well-to-do, but better off than somebody else some- 
 where. If interest in it is snobbish, it is one of 
 the broadest, least invidious forms of snobbishness 
 ever known, approximating, one might say, a 
 pretty general brotherly love; for it draws the 
 mind to a Harlem sociable, and attracts the human 
 soul to the strange, wild doings of Aldermen's 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 193 
 
 wives at their tea-tables in Brooklyn, probably 
 clad in goatskins. 
 
 It is not for an upstart and volatile people to 
 dispute the calm supremacy of authentic snobbery. 
 Your true snob is not inquisitive at all, for he has 
 no sense of any social values not his own. He 
 does not flourish in a sprawling and chaotic con- 
 tinent. It is among the tightly closed minds of 
 tight little islands that he is seen at his best. Our 
 snobbery is not a sturdy plant, for its vigor is 
 sapped by that social uncertainty at the root of 
 it; and what is taken for it here usually springs 
 from quite alien qualities — curiosity, a vast social 
 innocence, and a blessed inexperience of rank. 
 To be sure, if King George came to New York 
 some one might clip his coat-tails for a keepsake ; 
 and it is quite probably that Mrs. Van Allendale, 
 of Newport, if asked to meet him, would be all 
 of a tremble whether to address him as "Sire" or 
 "My God." But what has this in common with 
 the huge assurances of true snobbery — its enorm- 
 ous certainty of the Proper Thing, in clothes, peo* 
 ple, religion, sports, manners, and races, and its 
 indomitable determination not to guess again? 
 
 I wish I could do justice to the type of British 
 literary journalism in which this sort of thing ap- 
 pears. I have tried many times in the twenty years 
 of my observation but never to my satisfaction. 
 I suppose it will do no harm to try again. I shall 
 
i 9 4 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 have to typify it under the imaginary title of The 
 Gentleman's Review, because to pick out a single 
 one of the several competitors- would be invidious. 
 The essential point of The Gentleman's Review 
 is that it is written by persons of the better sort 
 for persons of the better sort. And not only 
 must the writer be a better sort of person; he 
 must constantly say that he is a better sort of 
 person, and for pages at a time he must say noth- 
 ing else. I have read long articles which when 
 boiled down told the reader nothing else. I have 
 read articles on socialism, patriotism, labor pro- 
 grammes, poetry, the vulgarity of America and 
 of the Antipodes, and on divers other subjects 
 which did literally tell nothing else to the socialist, 
 laborer, poet, or American or Antipodean outcast 
 who read them. The gentility of the writers is 
 never merely suggested; it is announced, and 
 usually in terms of severity. A coal-heaver read- 
 ing The Gentleman's Review would be informed 
 in words of unsparing cruelty that he is low. In- 
 deed, it seems the main purpose — at times the only 
 purpose — for which the Review exists — to tell 
 coal-heavers and other outside creatures that they 
 are low. And by outside creatures I mean almost 
 everybody. I mean not only all Americans, all 
 Canadians, and other inhabitants of a hemisphere 
 which, to say the least, is in the worst possible taste 
 as a hemisphere, besides being notoriously ex- 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 195 
 
 ternal to the British Isles. I mean almost every- 
 body in the right kind of hemisphere. I mean 
 almost everybody in the British Isles, or even on 
 the better streets of London. Only a handful of 
 people can read the typical article of The Gentle- 
 man's Review without feeling that they are at 
 the bottom of a social precipice. 
 
 The ideal of the true-born Gentleman's Re- 
 viewer is not only social exclusiveness, but mental 
 exclusiveness. He does not argue against an idea 
 of which he disapproves; he shows that idea to 
 the door. In a long paper on some form of 
 radicalism he will say at the start that he must 
 really refuse to speak of radicalism. The right 
 sort of people do not speak of radicalism. They 
 have dismissed it from their minds. And he de- 
 votes his paper to developing the single point that 
 the only way to deal with radicals is to expunge 
 them from your list of acquaintances the moment 
 you find out that they are radicals, and thereafter 
 not to say a single word to them beyond conveying 
 the bare information that they have been expunged. 
 I recall just such a paper as this, and I recall the 
 impression it made on seven extremely dignified 
 persons whose successive letters to the editor, all 
 dated from respectable London clubs, declared 
 that in the opinion of the writers the danger of 
 radicalism could not be averted in any other way : 
 Gentlemen must dismiss radicals from their com- 
 
igQ THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 pany just as they had dismissed radicalism from 
 their minds. That done, radicalism would perish. 
 A writer on a Labor-party programme in The 
 Gentleman! 's Review would no more think of meet- 
 ing the arguments for the Labor-party programme 
 than he would think of meeting the laboring-man 
 himself. Why bother to prove a Labor-party 
 programme unsound in face of the towering ab- 
 surdity that there should be such a thing as a 
 Labor party and that it should have such a thing 
 as a programme? There are social certitudes 
 that gentlemen do not discuss. When Labor raises 
 a question, the Gentleman's Reviewer, if he is true 
 to type, will simply raise an eyebrow. When 
 woman's progress was blackening the sky, I read 
 dozens of article in The Gentleman' 's Review on 
 woman's suffrage from which I am sure no reader 
 could make out anything whatever except that a 
 shudder was running through some gentlemanly 
 frames. At the threat of a revolt of the working- 
 class some time ago, The Gentleman's Review 
 became speechless almost immediately as to the 
 nature of the revolt. It could only say that some 
 labor leader had been impolite to a member of 
 the upper class, and that it feared the lower 
 classes might, if they kept on in their present 
 courses, become impolite to the upper ones. The 
 thought of other perils more horrible than that 
 shocked it to silence. But perhaps it could not 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 197 
 
 think of other things more horrible than that. 
 There are things in this world that minds of this 
 gentlemanly quality really must decline to meet. 
 They are most of the things in this world. 
 
 It is at its best in rebuking other people's man- 
 ners while unconsciously displaying its own. Take 
 American manners, for instance. Forty years ago 
 it was saying we were rude because we were young. 
 It is still saying so. "Centuries of polite interna- 
 tional tradition" — we are to understand that it 
 took at least that much to make a Gentleman's Re- 
 viewer — are not behind us Americans. "Instinc- 
 tive delicacy and sympathy with the feelings of 
 others" — such as is displayed in the pages of the 
 Review — "are not commonly possessed by the 
 very young" — meaning, of course, possessed by 
 Americans. Why, then, aspire to the courtesy and 
 tact of ripe old world-wise Europe? 
 
 As a rude young thing I should not think of 
 aspiring to it, if I did not read on the very next 
 page, perhaps, that the whole share of the United 
 States in the late war, from the very beginning 1 
 of it to the very end of it, was merely a "military 
 parade." Then the "delicacy" and the "sym- 
 pathy" and the "polite international tradition" of 
 this fine old world-wise representative are sud- 
 denly brought not only within my reach, but within 
 easy reach of almost any one. The cook and the 
 bootblack and the garbage-man and I, and every 
 
19& THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 sort of low American, including colored people, 
 may now burst out spontaneously and joyously and 
 unashamed with all the crudities inherent in our 
 natures, knowing that we can go no farther in 
 manners of this type than the writers quoted have 
 already gone — for the simple reason that there is 
 no farther to go. If that is the degree of "tradi- 
 tional international politeness" required by the 
 rich and mellow culture of an older world, why 
 need a Ute or a Yahoo despair of it? Raw man 
 from Oklahoma though I am, utterly unfinished, 
 confined almost exclusively to the companionship 
 of cows, backgroundles's, uncouth, and in social ex- 
 perience a tadpole, even I can be as delicately 
 urbane as these exponents of an Old World 
 culture. 
 
 Now I confess I have idealized the situation in 
 representing this element as the sole constituent 
 of any single periodical. It may constitute only 
 a part of a magazine or newspaper, and it may 
 appear only sporadically. Several magazines 
 which it pervaded largely at one time have since 
 died of it, and others seem about to die. But it 
 is still to be found in reassuring quantities, though 
 scattered, and one could at any time, by judicious 
 selection, make up a Gentleman's Review. 
 
 I believe it is not only harmless, but desirable. 
 It is not representative of the English people or 
 of any English class. It is the unconscious bur- 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 199 
 
 lesque — often a very good one — of insularity, and 
 the world is the better for a good burlesque. It 
 is no more like the courteous and witty English- 
 man one meets in life or in books or in the news- 
 papers than is James Yellowplush. If Major Pen- 
 dennis or Podsnap came to life again and turned 
 into literary persons, they would write like The 
 Gentleman' s Review. And it is pleasant to meet 
 again the Pendennises and Podsnaps. Finally it 
 has supplied many objects of entertaining satire to 
 the best English writers of plays and fiction during 
 our own generation. There is only one bad thing 
 about it and that is entirely the fault of my fellow- 
 countrymen. Owing to the unfortunate colonial- 
 ism of the American literary class, there are quart- 
 ers in which this sort of thing is taken seriously. 
 I believe when that happens it is a surprise, even 
 to the Gentleman's Reviewer himself. I believe 
 even he is secretly aware that, whatever nature's 
 reason for presenting him to a patient world may 
 be, it cannot be for any such purpose as that. 
 
 In regard to American manners, by the way, 
 what nonsense we ourselves are in the habit of 
 writing; why these serious articles every now and 
 then on the decline of American manners? One 
 appeared only the other day in a New York 
 magazine. Declined from what, I wonder. We 
 have no manners now, to be sure, but there is not 
 a sign that at any moment of our past history we 
 
2oa THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 ever had any. One would suppose that the prim 
 people who tell us from time to time that the 
 "subtle note of real distinction is fading from so- 
 ciety" would be at some pains to ascertain when 
 and where it had bloomed. The "graceful civil- 
 ities of our grandfathers have vanished," they say. 
 But do they mean literally grandfathers? If so, 
 that would take us back to about the era of Mr. 
 Potiphar and the Reverend Cream Cheese and 
 ormolu and universal drunkenness. If they mean 
 great-grandfathers, one has a notion that about 
 that time the Hon. Lafayette Kettle and Hannibal 
 Chollop were not uncommon types. If they insist 
 on the eighteen-thirties, the "subtle note of real 
 distinction" must have been extremely hard to 
 find, to judge from de Tocqueville and Mrs. Trol- 
 lope, while in the decade before that, Stendhal 
 and the younger Gallatin had never found a trace 
 of it. Sometimes they wave the hand in a general 
 sort of way to the "gentle courtesies of a hundred 
 years ago," but it was at about that date, I believe, 
 that Tom Moore was complaining that our man- 
 ners were rotten before they were ripe, while at 
 the close of the eighteenth century we find that 
 very agreeable French gentlman, M. Moreaud de 
 Saint-Mery, remarking the singular brutality of 
 the gentle families of Philadelphia — not in a very 
 exacting temper, either, for he merely insisted that 
 people ought to show more of a spirit of social 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 201 
 
 helpfulness than to go on skating while their 
 friends were falling through the ice and drowning. 
 And these being merely the haphazard recollec- 
 tions of extremely desultory readings, one natur- 
 ally infers that the bibliography of bad manners 
 must be enormous and that the dates in it, as the 
 history of the country goes, would probably be of 
 quite respectable antiquity. I do not deny that 
 there may have been "graceful civilities" at some 
 time or other, possibly at Plymouth Rock; I merely 
 say that these writers never by any chance produce 
 the proof of it, despite one's pardonable skeptic- 
 ism. These decorous little lamentations on de- 
 cline do, indeed, boil down to nothing. It is as if 
 one should say, the "subtle note of real distinction" 
 has within the last five years faded from the sub- 
 way, or manners are no longer courtly on the 
 uptown evening car. 
 
 The frequent appearance of these articles brings 
 out an important point of difference between 
 French manners and our own. An Englishman 
 might write such articles, but a Frenchman, I 
 believe could not. Sensible Americans go to 
 France for the purpose of escaping the type 
 of mind that produces them. They have 
 nothing to do with manners, but are merely 
 treatises on toothpick orthodoxy. One of them 
 begins with an anecdote of a "distinguished 
 foreigner" who, when asked what he thought was 
 
2oz THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 the most striking American characteristic, replied, 
 "Your lack of respect for your superiors." After 
 rubbing that in for the proper hygienic interval, 
 the writer advances to a series of salutary reflec- 
 tions like these: "Notching can be further from 
 the truth than the conception that personal delicacy 
 means personal weakness," and the "unmannered 
 man adds nothing to the picture of life." Why 
 add to the national stock of uneasy self-conscious- 
 ness? Surely there is no country on the face of 
 the globe where so many people to the square mile 
 are fidgetting over some perfectly worthless pro- 
 priety. Silent prayer is the only recourse for any 
 honest writer of this type, The moment he 
 preaches manners to us he puckers us up still more. 
 And there is this further peril in the thumping 
 hortatory evangel on the need of being personally 
 delicate and refined, delivered by people who from 
 their manner of writing seem as much alike and 
 rudimentary as doughnuts. If they keep it up 
 they will surely start a Movement. We can or- 
 ganize for politeness just as well as for mother- 
 hood or for reading poetry, and a Federation of 
 Clubs of Gentlemanly Endeavor may be even now 
 in the wind. The very next writer of this article 
 might in the natural order of things find himself 
 president of a "nation-wide" organization for the 
 promotion of personal delicacy, or at least chair- 
 man of his State committee on drawing-room 
 
THE CHOICE OF BAD MANNERS 203 
 
 charm. I can hear the speech at the founder's din- 
 ner, for, of course, the thing would begin with a 
 dinner: 
 
 "Gentlemen, the mark of this era of social 
 awakening is, as you well know, the spirit of or- 
 ganized social service. People have organized in 
 our day even in order to chew their own food, 
 and the associations for digestion, for child-rear- 
 ing, for controlling child-birth, for eating bran, 
 going barefoot, reading prose, keeping healthy, 
 and looking at birds are innumerable. What the 
 individual used formerly to attempt in a feeble 
 manner on his own account he now does efficiently 
 by co-operative endeavor. Things that in the old 
 days no one supposed could be organized are now 
 discharged by thoroughly competent societies. 
 For example, as you probably know, American 
 poetry was organized not long ago, with head- 
 quarters at Boston, the secretary being some mem- 
 ber of the Lowell family, I believe ; and every one 
 of you is doubtless familiar with the practically 
 complete organization of posterity under eugeni- 
 cal auspices. Now, if after two and a half centur- 
 ies personal delicacy, and that subtle something 
 which distinguishes the manners of other peoples, 
 notably the French, from our own cannot be had 
 by individual initiative, it is high time we employed 
 the measures already so successful in other fields. 
 It is unreasonable to protest against our pro- 
 
204 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 gramme on the ground that personal delicacy can- 
 not be organized. The same argument was ad- 
 vanced against the organization of agricultural 
 credit several years ago. Nor is there any force 
 in the argument that at intervals of three months 
 for twenty years articles of equal merit have ap- 
 peared in American magazines, each pointing to 
 perfect breeding without apparently doing any 
 good. Our propaganda involves the printing of 
 five such articles every month, to say nothing of 
 the leaflets, folders and newspaper paragraphs 
 tKat will pour in a steady stream into every corner 
 of the country. It is a campaign of education that 
 we have in mind. To any one who objects that 
 no scheme for the promotion of personal delicacy 
 has ever yet succeeded, I reply always with the 
 simple question: "How many well-printed, attrac- 
 tive folders were sent out?" and he always sub- 
 sides immediately." 
 
TAILOR BLOOD AND THE ARISTOC- 
 RACY OF FICTION 
 
 Although, as is well known, tailoring ran for 
 three generations in the family of George Mer- 
 edith, it would seem from a recent biography that 
 his own blood was nearly free from it at the age 
 of two. At that age when another boy (aged 
 four) came to visit him, he showed, according to 
 his biographer, such a marked hauteur of manner 
 that the other boy left the house, never to return. 
 The aristocratic element in the blood had, he 
 thinks, even then overcome the tailor corpuscles. 
 
 Though hauteur at the age of two seems to this 
 biographer incompatible with tailor origin, he 
 does not on that account reject the tailor origin. 
 He does not, like other writers on Meredith, in- 
 vent a noble father for Meredith, or omit his birth 
 altogether, or call it "mysterious," or dismiss it 
 with the usual gasp: "Born of a tailor; who 
 would have thought it!" On the contrary, he 
 decides to make the best of this whole bad tailor 
 business. They were fashionable tailors, at any 
 rate, he says, and they may have fitted clothes to 
 admirals in the Royal Navy; and the grandfather, 
 the 'Great Mel,' had associated on equal terms 
 
 205 
 
206 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 with county families — was quite the fine gentle- 
 man, indeed; and George had inherited the gentle- 
 man part of this grandfather, while escaping every 
 trace of the tailor portion. 
 
 I am not a syndicalist and I have no especial 
 sympathy with a tailor soviet. I certainly should 
 no more care to live under a tailor dictatorship 
 than under that of any other labor union. But 
 if the tailor revolution had to come, and the 
 bombs were flying and the streets flowing with 
 the blood of customers, I should be happy to see 
 certain writers on George Meredith fall into the 
 hands of the infuriated mob. 
 
 A reasonable view of the relation between tail- 
 oring and aristocracy has been quite beyond the 
 power of Meredith commentators — most of them 
 having gone all to gooseflesh at the bare thought 
 of it. And yet Meredith could never have written 
 about upper classes as he did, if he had not been 
 the son of a tailor. Only as the son of a tailor 
 could he have imagined so many of those radiant 
 beings among the daughters of earls. As the son 
 of an earl, he would probably have imagined them 
 among the daughters of tailors. At all events, 
 we should not find them among the daughters of 
 earls in any such proportion as we now find them 
 in his novels. Tailor-distance from an aristocracy 
 in our day is the only safe distance for purpose 
 of enchantment. 
 
ARISTOCRACY OF FICTION 207 
 
 And I wonder if our own "best society" would 
 not have stood a better chance in fiction if Ameri- 
 can novelists had been sons of tailors. Not of 
 course that tailor birth would have made up for 
 the lack of certain other qualities that Meredith 
 possessed, but it might at least have helped a little. 
 
 There has never been enough illusion about our 
 upper class, especially among the talented. In 
 fact the more talented people are, the less enthusi- 
 astic they seem to be about our upper class. Gifted 
 novelists who know our upper class will die in exile 
 rather than go on knowing it. Bare acquaintance 
 with our upper class drove Henry James from 
 this country for ever; better acquaintance with it 
 made him the most loyal subject of the British 
 Crown. Others have rebounded from contact 
 with our upper classes into the mountains of Ver- 
 mont. A gifted writer who has once met the 
 better sort of people in New York will often re- 
 main for ever after rooted in the Middle Ages. 
 Nothing seems to kill so quickly all enthusiasm 
 for our upper class as contact with it. Even the 
 chance of contact checks the flow of fancy. 
 
 It is possible that a really interesting figure in 
 our upper class could be created only in the back- 
 woods by a writer of great talent who had never 
 once emerged. But tailor-distance from our upper 
 class might have done something. It is conceiv- 
 able that a glamour might be cast over our lead- 
 
2o8 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 ing families at tailor-distance, by a strong novelist 
 who was naturally good at glamour-casting. A 
 cook could not write a good American novel of 
 caste, being in too close contact with the family, 
 but a tailor might. 
 
 No American novelist of the first rank, I be- 
 lieve, has ever taken American social distinctions 
 with a tailor seriousness. Something of a tailor 
 seriousness in that matter will be found of course 
 among many good American story-writers, but 
 they are not of the highest rank. Tailor-birth, 
 for example, would hardly have enabled the late 
 Richard Harding Davis to improve on his New 
 York heroes and heroines, probably would not have 
 have resulted in any change at all. Tailor-birth 
 would not have enabled Mr. Robert W. Chambers 
 to throw more of a glamour over the golden few 
 than he has thrown without it. But the fiction of 
 well-bred people in this country has never had the 
 benefit of that Meredith combination of tailor- 
 birth and great talent. 
 
 Suppose Mr. Howells had been tailor-born 
 while remaining equally gifted, for example. He 
 might have turned on that upper class of Boston 
 a kindling and imaginative eye. He might have 
 imagined Meredithian aristocrats in Boston — in- 
 teresting people who did as they pleased. High 
 birth in Boston need not have been the unpleasant 
 thing he describes — making everybody feel what 
 
ARISTOCRACY OF FICTION 209 
 
 a blessing it is to be born low and elsewhere. 
 High birth in Boston, seen through the social haze 
 of tailor-distance, might have seemed to him desir- 
 able. At all events he would not have learned that 
 every well-bred Boston person must be undesir- 
 able. He would not have made it a law of his 
 fiction that, whereas interesting people who do as 
 they please are imaginable, they are not even by 
 the wildest riot of the fancy ever to be placed 
 among the upper class of Boston. Tailoring 
 would have mitigated these rigorous results of a 
 too close observation. 
 
 Despite the confusion of classes in our time 
 when you never can guess what people will be 
 like from the sort of families they are found in, 
 Meredith could still believe that Blood will tell. 
 And he believed blood told delightfully and in 
 the most minute detail. He believed that aristo- 
 cratic noses were found on women of the higihest 
 class instead of belonging as they generally do to 
 shop girls. He believed in a noble bearing 
 peculiar to lords which is really common to police- 
 men. He imagined in earls the magnificent and 
 aristocratic poise and the beauty of Italian day 
 labourers. He believed duchesses walked like 
 duchesses, when, if we may judge from photo- 
 graphs, they must, rather, have tumbled around; 
 and he believed that people were as stately as he 
 thought they ought to be when he looked at the 
 
210 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 dignified and imposing castles that they lived in. 
 
 And wit ran in direct ratio to the good birth 
 of his characters, and not inversely. That was the 
 final touch of tailor sublimity. Meredith not only 
 made aristocrats witty in their homes; he made 
 polite society dine out wittily. Brilliant talk, such 
 as is carried on by Jews, and tolerated nowhere 
 in the best society, was attributed by Meredith to 
 the class of people by whom the dullest things in 
 the world have been said and about whom the 
 dullest books in the world have been written. 
 
 Henry James, born in a Harlem tailor-shop 
 and never straying far away, Henry James, with 
 three tailor ancestors looking down from the walk 
 upon him, might have imagined five divinely com- 
 plicated women east of Central Park, — at least he 
 would not have absolutely refused even to try, on 
 the ground that they were unimaginable. Henry 
 James might have worked wonders of aristocratic 
 subtlety even here, had he remained innocent 
 enough, and tailoring was one of the few remain- 
 ing guarantees of social innocence. 
 
 I do not say that glorious creatures like Laura 
 Middleton, or Diana, or Aminta, or the other 
 goddesses of George Meredith could have been 
 freely sprinkled in our upper class by any imagina- 
 tion short of Meredith's, even with Meredith's 
 three-fold tailor start. But I do say that much 
 migiht hiave been done for our upper class in fiction 
 
ARISTOCRACY OF FICTION 211 
 
 by an imagination raised to the third tailor^power 
 by inheritance. It never has* had this supreme 
 literary chance. What are known as social ad- 
 vantages in this country have been fatal to any- 
 thing like a poetic conception of our upper class. 
 Never show a gifted novelist above the basement 
 stairs, if you wish him to retain an exciting sense 
 of social altitudes. Keep the better sort of liter- 
 ary men away from anybody of the slightest social 
 importance, if you wish any glamour to be cast. 
 Aristocracies of fiction will never be perceived 
 so long as the eyes are open. 
 
 In spite of the Saturday Review, and parliamen- 
 tary speeches, and the London Times, and Justin 
 McCarthy's Reminiscences, and the vast volume 
 of aristocratic British memoirs published by the 
 score every year in Meredith's lifetime and our 
 own, he created by sheer force of genius, guided 
 by an inherited inclination, the illusion that the 
 very highest families in England could be amus- 
 ing in their homes. Meredith successfully em- 
 bodied such a vision of aristocracy as nowadays 
 can be confidently entertained only by three old 
 maids washing dishes in a farm house. It is ab- 
 surd to imagine, as the biographer does, whom I 
 have quoted at the beginning of this article, that 
 there was no tailor in the blood. 
 
 In the present muddle of a changing social 
 order, with the upper class being slowly educated 
 
2 1 2 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 by the classes below, and getting the little wit it 
 has from them, and all the clever people in one 
 class flying immediately into another, up or down, 
 with blood telling the wrong story and usually a 
 very dull one ; with people everywhere turning out 
 to be just what they ought not to be from their 
 antecedents and surroundings, and with the most 
 remarkable of public characters commonly the 
 most deadly objects to the private gaze — in these 
 conditions of our generation, a feat such as Mere- 
 dith achieved becomes increasingly difficult. It 
 requires, at the least, the advantage of a tailor 
 ancestry. 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 
 
 I do not object to that excellent lady who is 
 to be found at intervals in the literary columns of 
 a serious magazine wondering sweetly what the 
 May-fly thinks in June. On the contrary, a May- 
 fly is a good enough excuse for wonder and 
 wonder is a good enough excuse for the most 
 exciting kind of imaginative exercise. There is 
 no reason why the intimations of immortality con- 
 veyed to ladies by May-flys should not be a perma- 
 nent part of every serious magazine on earth, 
 
 I do not object, that is to say, to the situation 
 itself. I object only to one appalling circumstance. 
 It is always the same lady and she is always say- 
 ing exactly the same sweet things, and the lan- 
 guage she says them in is not a living human 
 language. The objectionable thing is the awful 
 iterativeness of its subhuman literary propriety. 
 
 And it is the same way with all those other 
 things expressive of literary refinement, expressive 
 of nothing else, but recurring with a deadly cer- 
 tainty, weekly, monthly, perennially, and perhaps 
 eternally. Those pious papers on the comic spirit, 
 by American professors of English; those happy 
 
 213 
 
2i 4 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 thoughts on the pleasure of reading good books 
 rather than bad; on the imperishable charm of 
 that which is imperishably charming; on the su- 
 periority of the "things of the spirit" over other 
 things not mentioned but presumably gross, such 
 as things on the dinner table ; humorous apologues 
 of Dame Experience conceived as a school-anis- 
 tress; tender souvenirs of quaint great-uncles; 
 peeps at a sparrow, nesting — it would be a sin 
 to blame them from any other point of view than 
 that of the future of the English language, for the 
 subjects are irreproachable and the motives that 
 actuate the writers on them are as pure as the 
 driven snow. But they are the mimetic gentilities 
 of what may be called our upper middle literary 
 class and they are not expressed in any living 
 language. Indeed they tend to rob a language of 
 any hope to live. 
 
 Not, of course, that English style is a mere 
 matter of vocabulary or that the most rollicking 
 use of the American vernacular in utter Shakes- 
 pearean defiance of propriety would bring Shakes- 
 pearean results. But distinguishable writing does 
 after all derive from an immense catholicity and 
 a freedom of choice, not only from among words 
 that are read but from among words that are 
 lived with. Nor can it possibly dispense with what 
 the French call the "green" language — least of all 
 in this country where the "green" language has 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 2 1 5 
 
 already acquired a vigor and variety that is mot to 
 be found in the books. 
 
 Take for example a passage from almost any 
 serious article in an American magazine, say in 
 regard to the reconstruction of American educa- 
 tion after the war, for nobody had the slightest 
 notion what he was writing about when he was 
 writing on that subject, and there is never any 
 idea in the article that might distract attention 
 from the words. 
 
 "It can scarcely be denied that the vital needs of the 
 hour call for something more than the disparate and 
 unco-ordinated efforts which were unhappily often the 
 mark of educational endeavor in the past. That looms 
 large in the lesson of the war. If it has taught us nothing 
 else the war has at least taught us the necessity of a 
 synthetic direction of educational agencies toward a defi- 
 nite and realized goal, humanistic in the broad and per- 
 manent sense of the term, humanistic, that is to say, with 
 due reference to the changing conditions of Society. 
 The policy of drift must be abandoned once and for all 
 and for it must be substituted a policy of steadfast, 
 watchful — etc." 
 
 Not that I have seen this particular passage in 
 •an article on the reconstruction of education, but 
 it might be found in any of them. It is exactly in 
 the vein of all that I have happened to read; and 
 jn the best American magazines you will sorne- 
 itimes find four pages of eight hundred words 
 apiece all made up of just such sentences. 
 
2 1 6 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 Compare it for imaginative energy, ingenuity, 
 humor, any literary quality you like, with the fol- 
 lowing selections from a recent volume on Ameri- 
 canisms and slang : 
 
 "See the elephant, crack up, make a kick, buck the 
 tiger, jump on with both feet, go the whole hog, know 
 the ropes, get solid, plank down, make the fur fly, put a 
 bug in the ear, haloo, halloa, hello, and sometimes holler 
 get the dead-wood on, die with your boots on, horn- 
 swoggle, ker-flap, ker-splash, beat it, butt in, give a show- 
 down, cut-up, kick-in, start-off, run-in, and jump off, put 
 it over, put it across, don't be a high-brow, road-louse, 
 sob-sister, lounge-lizard, rube, boob, kike, or has-been." 
 
 The style of this paragraph is by no means so 
 good as would have resulted from a more careful 
 selection, for the words are taken at random and 
 most of them are stale. Moreover, the words are 
 not nearly so imaginative or vigorous as seven- 
 teenth century terms, since forgotten by the minc- 
 ing generations. The text, for example, is not 
 for a moment to be compared with that of Sir 
 Thomas Urquhart's "Rabelais." But even as it 
 is, it is immeasurably better than my educational 
 extract and it is just as pertinent to the subject of 
 education — probably more so. The substitution 
 of these lists for the usual university president's 
 magazine contribution on educational reconstruc- 
 tion problems would have helped just as much, if 
 not more, to the solution of the problems, besides 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 2 1 7 
 
 being pleasanter to read. Such lists might, I 
 think, replace with advantage much of what is 
 called "inspirational literature." "New Thought," 
 for example, might have spared itself thousands 
 upon thousands, of its pages by simple repetition 
 of these lists. 
 
 There were many barkeepers — in better days, 
 of course- — who, if they could have learned the 
 literary language without losing grip on their own, 
 might have made good writers. There are no 
 professors of English literature who could learn 
 to write the language even if you gave them all 
 the advantages of barkeepers. They lack the bar- 
 keeper's line, reckless imagination in the use of 
 words. They cannot appropriate a word, or 
 stretch it, or make it do something it had not done 
 before, or still less create it out of nothing. They 
 could not even interest themselves in the "green" 
 language ; their interest arises only when it is dry. 
 Never, like a washwoman, or a poet, could they 
 'add to the capacities of human speech. Their 
 lives are spent in reducing them. Language would 
 never grow if ruled by the American upper middle 
 literary class. It would stiffen and die. Our college 
 chairs of English and our magazines for "cul- 
 tured" persons probably do more to prevent the 
 adequate use of our common speech than any other 
 influences. 
 
 Distinguishable English sometimes may be 
 
2 1 8 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 found in an American newspaper ; it is never found 
 in an American literary magazine. In some cor- 
 ner of a newspaper you may find a man writing 
 with freedom and -a sort of natural tact, choosing 
 the words he really needs without regard to 
 what is vulgar or what is polite. People are apt 
 to read it aloud to you without knowing why; 
 they like the sound of it. That never happens in a 
 literary magazine. Nobody in a literary magazine 
 fits words to thought; he fits his thoughts to* a 
 borrowed diction. Nobody in a literary magazine 
 cares a hang about the right word for the ex- 
 pression of his thought but he is worried to death 
 about diction. All the best contemporary literary 
 essays are written in diction and there is no> more 
 telling the writers apart, so far as their style is 
 concerned, than if they were all buried in equally 
 good taste by the same undertaker. 
 
 Diction is the great funereal American literary 
 substitute for style. Indeed that is what they 
 mean when they praise an author's style. They 
 do not mean that he has his own style of writing; 
 they mean that he is in the style of writing. 
 
 Measured by the vitality of masterpieces, news- 
 paper English is sometimes fairly good; literary 
 magazine English is never good. Bad English is 
 English about to die, such as you see in the maga- 
 zines ; the worst English is English that has never 
 lived — it is the English of American belles-lettres. 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 219 
 
 That is one of the reasons why I hate the self- 
 improved, traveled American whom I meet in 
 books and periodicals. I hate him also for what 
 seems to me the servility of his spirit in the pres- 
 ence of other people's past. I dare say it may be 
 because I envy him his advantages. That is what 
 the cultivated person always implies, and he wond- 
 ers how any one, in view of the national crudity, 
 can have the heart to find fault with these mis- 
 sionaries of taste from a riper culture who have 
 learned the value of artistic milieux and literary 
 backgrounds. After all, he says, what Henry 
 James would call the "European scene" may still 
 be commended to Americans, and surely It is just 
 as well that they should be reminded now and 
 then of what Professor Barrett Wendell used so 
 admirably to term their "centuries of social in- 
 experience." Nevertheless as he goes on I not 
 only feel that I am coarse, but I like the feeling of 
 it; and for the sake of other people of my own 
 coarse type I will present -here the excuses- of 
 vulgarity. 
 
 I have never been in Paterson, N. J., and I 
 have never been in Venice, and so far as direct 
 esthetic personal consequences to myself of golden 
 hours of dalliance in the two places are concerned, 
 I am therefore unable to offer a comparison. But 
 during my life I have met many returned travelers 
 from Venice and from Paterson and I have read 
 
220 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 or listened to their narratives with as much atten- 
 tion as they could reasonably demand. Theoretic- 
 ally, I accept the opinion of enlightened persons 
 that Venice is superior, in respect to what edu- 
 cators call its "cultural value," to Paterson. Prac- 
 tically, and judging merely from the effects upon 
 the respective visitors, I am all for Paterson. I 
 have never met a man who returned from Pater- 
 son talking like the stray pages of a catalogue, 
 of which he had a complete copy before he started. 
 Paterson never took away part of a man's mind 
 and replaced it with a portion of an encyclopedia. 
 Nobody ever came back from Paterson damaged 
 as a man and yet inferior as a magazine article. 
 For the careless person I should recommend Ven- 
 ice; for the culture-seeker, Paterson. Overstrain, 
 that misery of the conscientious self-improving 
 man, with its disagreeable effects upon other peo- 
 ple, could be avoided in Paterson. Out of ten 
 essays on Venice that I have read, nine were writ- 
 ten by fish out of water who might have swum 
 easily and perhaps with grace in the artistic cur- 
 rents of Paterson. 
 
 !A self-improved American delivered an apolo- 
 getic discourse the other day on the American de- 
 ficiency in backgrounds. Culture cannot take root, 
 he said; families float; everybody dies in a town 
 he was not born in; art bombinates m a vacuum; 
 literature gathers no moss; manners, when they 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 22 1 
 
 exist at all, are accidental; history is clean gone 
 out of our heads, while every Englishman is 
 familiar with Bannockburn ; poetry cannot be writ- 
 ten, and it is foolish to try, on account of the 
 dearth of venerable circumstance; no traditions, 
 no memories, no inheritance — in fact, no past at 
 all; not even a present of any consequence, but 
 only a future; and into this future every man, 
 woman, and child in the whole foolish country is 
 moving — though it is not through any fault of 
 theirs for the unfortunate inhabitants really have 
 no other place to go to. 
 
 I bear no grudge against the author of this 
 discourse as an individual, but only as a type. In- 
 deed, I am not sure that he is an individual or 
 that I have reported him correctly, for no sooner 
 does any one begin in this manner than his words 
 run into the words of others, forming a river of 
 sound, and I think not of one man, but of strings 
 of thern — all worrying about the lack of back- 
 grounds, like the man who cast no shadow in the 
 sun. I deny that it is any one's voluntary attitude ; 
 it is a lockstep that began before I was born, and 
 I have no doubt it will continue indefinitely. Seven 
 centuries after Columbus's injudicious discovery 
 they will still be complaining, with a Baedeker in 
 their hands, of the fatal youth of North America. 
 For they live long, these people, because, as in 
 certain lower orders of animal life, apparently, 
 
222 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 there is hardly any life worth losing, and the 
 family likeness they bear to one another is aston- 
 ishing. The very ones that George William Cur- 
 tis used to satirize as shining in society are still 
 to be found among us at this moment, but tney are 
 engaged for the most part in contributing to the 
 magazines. In one respect they seem more the 
 slaves of other people's backgrounds even than 
 Mrs. Potiphar was. Mrs. Potiphar only believed 
 that the right sort of liveries were not produced in 
 this country, whereas they swear that the right 
 sort of literature can never be produced in this 
 country — or at least not till our backgrounds are 
 ever so many centuries thicker than they are now. 
 I am unable, looking back, to see any value what- 
 ever in these decades of sheer sterile complaint of 
 ■sterility, because no ruins can be seen against the 
 sky, because no naiads are dreamed of in the 
 Hudson or mermaids in Cape Cod Bay, and be- 
 cause most people who are born in Indianapolis 
 seem glad to get away from it when they can. 
 
 For one sign that we have changed too fast I 
 can produce two signs that we have not changed 
 half fast enough. If there is no moss here on 
 the walls of ancient battlements there is plenty 
 of moss in our heads, and, so far as tenacity of 
 tradition is concerned, I can produce a dozen 
 United States Senators who are fully as pic- 
 turesque, if only you will regard them internally, 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 223 
 
 as the quaintest peasant in the quaintest part of 
 France. Backgrounds are not lost here just be- 
 cause we move about; backgrounds are simply- 
 worn inside, often with the ivy clustering on them. 
 Who has not talked with some expatriated Boston 
 man and found him as reposeful, as redolent of 
 sad, forgotten, far-off things, as any distant pros- 
 pect of Stoke-Pogis ? In fact, it seems as if these 
 pale expositors of backgrounds had merely visited 
 the monuments they praise — inside some Boston 
 man — and that, I confess, is the most irritating 
 thing to me about them. They have never really 
 looked at anything themselves, but only learned 
 from others what they ought to seem to see. And 
 it is absurd to tax us with a lack of memory, when 
 in some of our most exclusive literary circles there 
 is notoriously nothing but a memory to be seen. 
 There is too much Stoke-Pogis in a Boston man, 
 if anything, in proportion to other things. Even 
 the casual foreign visitor has noticed it. 
 
 I have great respect for the religion of the 
 Quakers, whose name, I understand, comes from 
 the phrase of a founder about quaking and shak- 
 ing in the fear of the Lord. And if that is the 
 real reason why they quake I believe they are 
 justified not only in their quaking, but in trying 
 to make other people quake. But these Delsartean 
 literary quakers correctly tremulous in the pres- 
 ence of antiquity, these "cultured" minds, not only 
 
224 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 palsied by their own advantages, but intent on 
 palsying others, bring back no good report to any- 
 body in regard to the good things in the world. 
 
 I do not know whether a poet, like a sugar 
 beet, requires a soil with peculiar properties; and, 
 in regard to the poet, I do not know what the 
 peculiar properties ought to be. Zoning of verse, 
 comparative literary crop statistics, mean annual 
 density of ideas, ratio of true poetry to square 
 miles and population within a given period, are 
 all outside my limitations. The theory that bone- 
 dust fertilizers are the things for poets does not 
 always seem to work, even when the bone-dust is 
 that of the Crusaders, and I have read lyrics from 
 cathedral towns which, though infinitely more 
 decorous than the brass band of my native village, 
 were equally remote from literature. Still there 
 may be something in it. But I do know, even 
 better than I wish I did, two generations of writ- 
 ers on the theme, who have been saying, with 
 hardly any deviation in their phrases, that this is 
 the land where poets cannot grow; and I know 
 them for the sort of persons who, if by chance a 
 poet should grow in defiance of their theory, 
 could not tell him from a sugar beet. They are 
 unaware of any growing thing which stands be- 
 fore them unaccompanied by bibliography. Un- 
 less there were antecedent books about an object 
 they would not know that the object was a poet. 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 225 
 
 As the words culture and refinement have been 
 applied and as they have been exemplified in 
 American letters they have come to carry a curse 
 for all save little bands of unpleasant and self-con- 
 scious persons who are themselves fidgetting about 
 it. "Culture" is not absorbed, but packed in, al- 
 ways with a view to being taken out again with- 
 out a wrinkle in it, and it does nothing to the man 
 who gets it, but he means to do a lot with it to 
 you. It is absurd to suppose that the human con- 
 tainer of it takes any personal interest in his 
 contents. 
 
 Of course I am not speaking of the essence of 
 the thing, but only of the implications of the word 
 as they have been seared into our social experi- 
 ence. I do not mean that humane learning blasts 
 an American, but I do mean that among those 
 who are known as cultured Americans learning 
 is not humane. And I am not condemning the 
 present moment. It has nothing to do with the 
 rudeness of young people, jazz bands, the corrup- 
 tion of the English language, the cut of gowns 
 down the back, war psychology, the Bolshevism 
 of college professors, fox-trotting, the neglect of 
 the classics, movies, commercialism, syndicalism, 
 indecencies on the stage, popular novels, femin- 
 ism, or any other of the unheard-of horrors that 
 the middle-aged mind associates with the break- 
 down of civilization. There is no sign that Amer- 
 
226 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 ican civilization is breaking down in this respect, 
 for the simple reason that there is no sign that 
 American civilization in this respect ever existed. 
 There is no- sign that among any considerable 
 body of cultured Americans learning was ever 
 humane, and it is lucky for us that vivacious men 
 at every period of our national life have revolted 
 from it. Ten years of Greek study would not 
 have hurt Mark Twain, but ten years' contact 
 with the sort of persons who studied Greek would 
 have destroyed him. Historical studies would not 
 have suffocated Walt Whitman; even after read- 
 ing Bishop Stuibbs he might have remained our 
 poet of democracy. But association with modern 
 historians would have done for him. Had Walt 
 Whitman taken the same course that I did at a 
 school of political science, he would have gone 
 mad or become a college president. 
 
 What was it that so pinched the mind of Henry 
 Adams, readers of the Education of Henry 
 Adams are always asking, though one would think 
 the answer could not be missed. It was Boston 
 and Cambridge in the eighteen-fifties and an acute 
 personal consciousness of membership in the 
 Adams family. It was a lucky thing for both 
 Jews and Christians that Moses was not a cul- 
 tured Boston man, for the Ten Commandments 
 would not only have been multiplied by fifty, but 
 a supplemental volume of thousands of really 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 227 
 
 indispensable gentilities would have come out 
 every year. No man knew better than the 
 late W. D. Howells the Sinaitic rigor of the social 
 scruple when the descendant of the Puritans once 
 turned his conscience away from God and bent 
 it upon culture. The genial tale of The Lady of 
 the Aroostook might well have been a tragedy. 
 Indeed, the passion of a man bred in the right 
 Boston set and immensely conscious of it — a man 
 who read the right books in the ri^ht way, knew 
 the right people, visited the rig>ht places abroad — 
 the passion of such a man for a girl who not only 
 said "I want to know," but who had never heard 
 of a chaperon — there is a situation not only tragic 
 in itself, but close to the edge of violence, termin- 
 able, one would say, only by accidental death, 
 murder, or suicide. Desdemona was smothered 
 for less. That Mr. Howells should see it to a 
 comparatively cheerful end without calling down 
 the lightning proves merely the magic of his 
 hand. But Mr. Howells did not conceal one 
 painful consequence. Hero and heroine both 
 were outcasts from culture for evermore. Never 
 again did they enter the doors of the right people 
 of Cambridge. "He's done the wisest thing he 
 could by taking her out to California. She never 
 would have gone down here." This was the doom 
 that culture pronounced in the final chapter. For, 
 although at nineteen years of age Lydia ceased 
 
228 THE MARGIN OF HESITATION 
 
 to say she wanted to know, the early stain re- 
 mained. She bore it to the grave. And this end- 
 ing was entirely just and Mr. Howells did not ex- 
 aggerate in the slightest degree the rigors of the 
 law, for, though Lydia as he made her was the 
 most natural and adorable creature imaginable, 
 he was right in saying that in the cultured circles 
 of the time and place she would not have gone 
 down. 
 
 The taboo of culture is of course no new thing, 
 but dates from a comparatively ancient grudge in 
 our brief literary history. People are ashamed of 
 their culture nowadays, a friend of mine was say- 
 ing, and he went on to oite instances of the ex- 
 clusion from human intercourse of all those mat- 
 ters of general interest which make intercourse 
 human. And why are you so afraid of general 
 ideas? one visiting Frenchman after another has 
 asked me, and I have never yet been able to think 
 of a suitable reply. And they go back to France 
 on no better terms with the English language than 
 when they came. It is impossible to arouse any 
 enthusiasm for our spoken language in a French- 
 man, for he does not believe that conversation in 
 his sense of the word is ever carried on in it. 
 And he is certainly right. The range of a quite 
 ordinary Frenchman's every-day talk is not gen- 
 erally permitted in this country. Religion may 
 be discussed with a French chauffeur on a footing 
 
OUR REFINEMENT 229 
 
 of naturalness absolutely out of place at an 
 American authors' club. You may confess a 
 literary taste to a French washwoman, but not to 
 a New York banker. The philosophic specula- 
 tions of French barber shops would be shockingly 
 pedantic at our dinner tables. 
 
 Of course the main reason why the conversa- 
 tion of a novelist does not differ from that of a 
 shoe manufacturer is simply because as a rule 
 there is no real difference between them. But 
 there is sometimes another side to it. The man 
 of letters who excludes letters from his talk is 
 not necessarily ashamed of them. But he knows 
 the traditional association in this country of 
 culture with ennui, and he knows that it is amply 
 justified. Acquaintance with the personalities of 
 cultured groups naturally disposes a sensitive 
 mind to the cultivation of an appearance of 
 illiteracy. Thought is not a social nuisance in 
 this country, but thinkers generally are. Hence, 
 when seized by an irresistible impulse to express 
 any sort of an idea, a well-bred man will always 
 leave the room, just as he would do if seized by 
 an uncontrollable fit of coughing. 
 
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