Bethlehem, U. S. A., August 5, 1917.
When a number of gentlemen form themselves into an organization the object of which is the production of munitions of warfare, it is obvious that their customers will be nations, not mere individuals. A nation is distinctly immobile. It cannot come over to a plant and order its goods so it chooses from amongst its people representatives of more or less intelligence who settle themselves upon the organization and form themselves into a thing called a "commission," whose object is inspection. As representatives of a foreign nation, they are treated with much courtesy by the elders of the city, mostly steel magnates, and have no end of a good time. They are put up at the best clubs and if their nation still retains the ornamental practice of having kings they are usually suspected by the dowagers (local) of being dukes and viscounts in disguise. This is enjoyable for all concerned. These gentlemen naturally have no need and little desire to climb socially; upon their arrival they are placed on the very top of the local social pinnacle. I will admit that they do topple off sometimes, but generally they are received inquite the best society. They consist often of an extremely interesting and delightful crowd of people.
An American seems to like a title, not in himself perhaps, but in others, and so Sergeant Aristira, becomes Captain Aristira, and, after getting exhausted contradicting the promotion, finally believes himself to be a general in embryo.
In the main office of a big steel plant there are several dining rooms where the foreign commissions lunch. If the commission is a large one its members generally dine alone, except for the presence of certain lesser, though important, steel officials who sit at the same table and exhibit quite stately manners. When I arrived first, I thought my own countrymen's dining room interesting and savouring of an officer's mess at its worst; so, accepting the invitation of a steel company friend, I decided to dine with him. It was a good move and I have never regretted it.
In our dining room we are distinctly mixed. Often there are representatives of at least six different lesser countries. The smaller nations, especially during these times of stress when the warring nations form the big customers, are generally represented by but one man each. He has, however, his attendant steel official so one gets a kind of sandwich made up of many strata. For instance, Sweden is represented by one man, and Eddy Y—— looks after him. Great Britain's production departmentand France's inspection department are looked after by Captain L——. We had Greeks for a time. Then there are Chileans, Russians, Peruvians, Argentineans, Spanish, Italian, and men of all kinds from the regions about the Amazon River. The whole thing is interesting and one sighs for the gift given to the apostles when they spake with tongues.
In addition to these foreigners there sit at our table steel officials of sufficient importance to be kept within call of a telephone. The very big men of the steel company dine alone except when someone very important calls upon them.
But let me tell you about our dining room. At the beginning we had a wonderful girl to look after us called Sadie. She was priceless and worked automatically. People with more courage than decency sometimes said thrilling things to her but merely received a kindly gentle smile in return, which was very effective. We were all very fond of her, but she married and left us. Now we have Mary to wait on us. Mary has been a waitress in the steel company for five years. She is, I should think, about twenty-six years old. Why she has never married I am unable to state. I have seen many beautiful women in my day on the stage, on Fifth Avenue, in the park in London, but never have I seen anyone quite so good looking as Mary; she is a perfect type of Madonna-like beauty. She wears a simple blue frockand a large white linen apron which ends at her throat in a starched collar. I suggested to her that she should train as a hospital nurse, for she would work wonders with sick persons of both sexes. The idea did not strike her favourably.
As the representatives of some of the smaller nationalities sometimes go to New York and other diverting resorts, there are often but four steel men, one Frenchman, a Chilean, a Swede and myself. This presents possibilities and we have a wonderful time. The representative of Sweden is a ripping chap. He is about six and one-half feet tall, and if he has to engage an upper berth in a sleeper he has no difficulty in persuading the person occupying the lower to change places—the lower person obviously having for his or her motto "safety first." From this you will gather that my friend is a little large. I remember that when I first met him at the club, we chatted about international relations, and he remarked that if a man were a gentleman it did not matter a damn whether he came from Paraguay or China. We call him lovingly Peter Pan. He is a naval officer and looks it. Amongst the many friends that I have made over here I can place him very near the top of the list. He is just brimming over with fun and sympathy, and will enter into any joke that happens to be organizing.
Then there is the head steel inspector. He dislikes English people, he thinks; but, between you and me, he likes most people who are decent. I fear he will finally become a misanthropist, but I am not very sure. He is an interesting type of American and disbelieves in kings and dukes and can never understand what we mean by the thing he calls a "gentleman." However, he is "from Missouri" on this point, and of course I cannot convince him. I am not sure that I want to.
Then there is Eddy Y——. He refuses to grow up. He is at least fifty and looks forty, but is brimming over with energy and enthusiasm. He loves tragedies, and fires, and thrills and ought to have been a novelist like the Baron Munchausen. I believe he is really a foreigner, a Bromoseltzian by absorption, I have heard. He caused me some trouble once, all over Jones' baby. Let me tell you the story as Eddy told it. He himself believed it.
"Did you hear about poor Jones last night on his way to the big dinner? Very sad! He is in an awful state over it all. One baby died this morning and the mother doesn't expect the other to live through the day. Joe told me about it. Gee! it is awful the way those kids run across the road in front of cars. Jones tried to stop the car but he hadn't a chance, and he hit the bigger child right on the neck and the child's head bounced off and bruised Jones' nose. Gee! it's terrible."
We were all thrilled and very sorry for Jones. Now I know that to sympathize with a man when by accident he has killed two children is the worst possible form. Still being egotists, most of us, and regarding ourselves as specialists in the issuing of the sympathy that heals, we mostly fail. I resisted the temptation for a long time until Mr. Jones passed through my office looking very sad. I looked for the bruise on his nose, but it had healed. He stopped to chat, and I commenced to sympathize, not mentioning any details. He didn't seem very worried and I thought him hardhearted, so I went into more details and asked when the child would be buried. Mr. Jones' eyes grew wide and he said: "What the devil are you talking about?" I explained, and he roared. His mud-guard had tipped the knee of a small boy, but very slightly, and he expected to see him running about again in about two days.
Eddy has been to Russia and has had a very hectic time so we always refer to him when the subject of Russia comes up. Russia must besomeplace; and the women,Ma foi!
We are all very great friends and I like every one of them, especially those who can speak English. It is awkward when we all talk at once, especially if the more foreign have friends lunching with them. One day, two Greeks yelled to one another across the table in Greek, a couple of Russians seemedinterested in the revolution, a Chilean spoke in a huge voice in what he regarded as English, the Swede gurgled, the Americans laughed, and I alone spoke English (sic.). Having mentioned this last fact to the man from Missouri, in other words, the chief inspector of the steel company, he looked and said: "Yesterday I thought that at last you had convinced me what a 'gentleman' really was, and you have put me back at least six points." A good "come back!"N'est ce pas?
Then there is Harry M——, one of the finest men that I have met. He is very clever and has one big thing in his life—devotion to his wonderful country which is tempered by a decent appreciation of other people's. We are great friends, but we jeer at one another a great deal, and always end up better friends than when we started. He has forgotten more than most of us know, but he loves to be insulted if it is done in fun. Then he girds himself for the combat.
Once I endeavoured to get a rise by saying that I did not believe there were any Americans at all, except the red Indians. "Eddy here is a Bromoseltzian," I remarked. "Pat and his son are Irish, Dnul is a Dane, Weiss is a Dutchman, and you, Mr. M——, are an Englishman; there ain't no such animal as an American." The last bullet in my rain of shrapnel told. He was speechless, and then, in desperation, he said: "And how, may I ask, do youregard this huge nation, with its history and Patrick Henry and George Washington, and all that sort of thing?" "Oh, as just an interesting conglomeration of comic persons," I replied. Then we all laughed and dispersed to our respective offices. I have learnt that if you are once a friend of an American you can jest and laugh with him as much as you like. Having become his friend, you have no desire in the world to say anything that will hurt him.
I have long and interesting chats with Mr. M——. He told me once that during the early days of the war, at the end of August, 1914, when Americans knew the full extent of the disaster to the French army and of our own retreat from Mons, several important members of the steel company, mostly of English descent with a little German blood mixed with it, had a meeting in our lunch room. They were very worried about us all over in England and France. They were also worried about their own sons because they knew that America would not stand by and see England and France crushed. All these men themselves, if possible, would have at once gone over to help; and they discussed plans. They also knew, and I know now, and have known all along, that if England had ever reached the stage when she needed American help it would have been possible to raise an army of several millions of Americans to fight for England.Yes, to fight for England!
I would not dare to say this to some of my American friends because they would know, as I knew, that underlying their criticism of England there is often a very deep devotion to the British Empire. The Germans have known this all along, and we can thank fortune that it still exists in spite of our failure to foster it. We established anentente cordialewith France our hereditary foe, thank goodness, and we succeeded because many of us are bad at French and consequently unable to insult the French people. We have never seriously attempted the same thing with America. It is the underlying devotion of many Americans for the home country, as some of them still call our land, which has prevented the rudeness of some of our people from doing permanent harm. The Germans have tried to remove this devotion, but they have not succeeded amongst the educated classes, because, like us, intelligent American people don't quite like the Boche until he has settled in the country for over a hundred years.
But they have succeeded with the poorer classes, who sometimes dislike us intensely. The average American working man regards his brother in England as a poor fool who is ground down by the fellow who wears a high hat. He also regards John Bull as a wicked, land-grabbing old fellow—America's only enemy.
I share an office at the moment with a couple ofAmerican boys, both married. At first I shared Dnul's office with him, but as it is necessary for him to keep up diplomatic relations with all inspectors I felt that I would be in his way, so I retired, against his will, to the office next to him. It is better so.
The boys with me are interesting. One was a National Guard captain and looks the part. He was a Canadian once, so cannot be president of the United States. It is a great pity. The other is very clever at drawings and although only twenty-seven has made the world cheerier by being the father of eight children. I have arranged to inspect them some day and he is getting them drilled. He witnessed my signature to the publisher's contract for my first book on the day of his last baby's birth. Books and babies have always been mixed in my mind since I first heard the story of St. Columba's quarrel over the manuscript belonging to some other saint which he had copied. You remember the story. The archbishop or some very superior person looked into the matter, and said: "To every cow belongs its own calf." I believe that I am quoting correctly. I hoped that this friend's signature would be a good omen.
The other fellow, he of the National Guard, has but one baby. I manage to get along very well with them both.
There are an awful lot of stenographers about; agalaxy of beauty. I hear that they are very well paid, and judging by their very smart appearance they must be. I think that they are even better looking and more smartly turned out than the young ladies employed in the machine tool department at the Ministry in London.
I met old Sir Francis N—— one day going up the stairs at the Hotel Metropole in London after it became Armament Hall, and he said that really one did not know these days whether to raise one's hat or to wink when one met a young lady on the stairs. I always maintain a sympathetic neutrality. It is better thus.
I found, at first, letter writing a little difficult. One dictates everything and one must never forget to file one's letters. In business it is considered an awful thing to insult a person in a letter. Insult him to his face, by all means, if necessary; but never write rude things. I found it difficult to distrust firmly the intelligence of the person receiving the letter. Everything must be perfectly plain and you have to imagine that the person receiving the letter knows nothing about the subject. If writing a business letter to a friend I invariably became too personal. Cold blooded though polite things are business letters. They are immortal, too, and live in files for centuries and are liable to strike back at any moment like a boomerang. If you are insulting a third person it isalways good to put before your more cutting statements, "In my opinion, I think." This will save you much trouble because it is taken that you are humble, and that your opinion is not worth very much. Nevertheless it will cause the person to whom you are writing to look into the matter, whereas if you say straight out, and crudely, that Jones is an entirely useless person or that Biggs is inefficient (it is better to say inadequate, since it means the same), the person receiving the letter will at once mutter, "Newspaper talk," and will forget the matter, although he may look into your own actions with a coldly discerning eye.
It seems to be different in the army where people write most unpleasant, suggestive things to one another. I don't think that they keep files so well in the army. However, I am learning fast and am very careful.
There are many wonderful contrivances over here for the saving of labour. They do not always save time, it is true, but many of them are useful, nevertheless. It is sometimes an interesting thing to see a fellow waiting several minutes for an elevator to take him down one flight of stairs. People seldom walk anywhere, as far as I can see; but this fact does not seem to affect the national physique which is usually splendid.
Quite large numbers of men wear spectacles, notyour intellectual-looking gold-rimmed pince-nez, but great horn-rimmed goggles that certainly give a man a whimsical look. It all depends upon the appearance of the fellow. If he is thin and wiry these great goggles make him look like a polite tadpole. The theatrical folk realize this and in every comic show one of the comedians generally appears in these spectacles.
Desiring to use a swimming pool open only to the students of Lehigh University, I decided to take a course of lectures on metallurgy. I shuddered when I heard that these lectures took place from eight until nineA.M.How would one fit in breakfast? However, I arrived one Monday morning and found myself with twenty other fellows sitting at the feet of a large St. Bernard dog, and a very learned professor. I looked with interest at the men around me. They all seemed pale and haggard and "By Jove, these American students must work hard!" I thought. However, after several weeks I felt very much the same on Monday mornings, because many of the fellows became my friends and we spent our week ends together in fervent study at more than one extremely diverting country club. Perhaps, however, this is unfair.
The American university man is alleged to be a hard worker. He certainly has some very stiff examinations to pass. As a matter of fact, the manwho desires to get on well in the business or intellectual world has to work jolly hard at the university over here. It is possible for a man, I have heard, to work his way through college without receiving a penny from his father. A fellow may even earn money by collecting laundry from his fellow students. The glorious part about this lies in the fact that his men friends do not supply him with kindly pity, but they sincerely admire him. If he is a good sort, that's all that matters.
As far as I can glean, the average American varsity man is a great hero worshiper. One is constantly meeting fellows who are regarded by their friends as regular "princes," and the thing that draws the greatest amount of admiration is well developed personality which in America is generally allied to kindliness. These "princes" are always humble, and invariably the same in their treatment of both ordinary people, and, what we called at Cambridge "rabbits" or undergraduates of the dormouse breed.
Sometimes people over here have pointed out to me that it is impossible for an undergraduate to work his way through our older universities. I have, of course, told them that while it would be very awkward to have a fellow undergraduate calling for one's soiled linen in England, still we had a way whereby a man could work his way through any university andespecially the older ones. I told them that at my college there were always at least twenty men who received no money from home, but by comparatively hard work they were able to win scholarships and exhibitions. So that really things are much the same, the only difference lying in the fact that as our colleges are much older, people have had time to die in greater numbers and consequently there have been more bequests. I cannot say that I have had much opportunity to study the person called here a "lounge lizard." Like his brother in England, he at once joined up and is now learning to be a soldier.
I must admit that the American university man is very like his brother in England, just as irresponsible, just as charming and often possessed with the same firm determination to do as little work as possible under the circumstances. The only difference lies in the fact that after leaving college he is sucked into a whirlpool of exciting business and sometimes he finds himself floating down a strong flowing river of wealth wondering if it has really been worth while.
"You know how to live in England," they often say to me. "We don't. We work too hard, and we play too hard, and we haven't the remotest idea how to rest." Perhaps they are right, but it seems to me that a little American vim introduced to an English graduate would be an excellent thing; for after he has left college and is making an ass of himself in the cityhe has to learn that while a Cambridge or an Oxford hall mark is an excellent thing in the vicarage drawing room, it causes its possessor some sad moments in the business world of London or of anywhere else.
Perhaps this is a bit rough on the graduate from Oxford and Cambridge; but I think most of them will admit that there is a certain amount of truth in what I say. Of course, in my experience throughout the Empire I have found the varsity man a magnificent type of Britisher, but it is obvious that he has got to learn a few lessons, and lessons are sometimes hard things to learn.
Bethlehem, U. S. A., August 30, 1917.
The other day Dicky C—— and I went to Atlantic City for the week end. So many of my Bethlehem friends go to this place every year, that I felt my American experience would not be complete without a visit. We left this town at about three o'clock; we ought to have left sooner. The chauffeur developed caution to an almost unlimited extent and this worried Dicky, a furious driver himself. He told me with some pride the number of times he had been arrested on the White Horse Pike. The caution of the chauffeur was responsible for our arrival at our destination at about ten o'clock at night.
Being Saturday night, of course, it was impossible for a time to get either rooms or food. At the hotel where Dicky usually stopped we were turned down. His Majesty, the clerk, disliked the shape of our noses or our clothing or something. We spent one dollar fifty in telephone calls trying to get some hotel to take us in.
We started with the good ones, but even the fifth class houses were full. I therefore approached the clerk and explained that I was a British officer with nowhere except the sands upon which to sleep. This worked like magic.
We were shown into what was called a club room near the top of the building, where twelve beds were arranged hospital fashion. Our fellow guests were not there then, so we decided to sleep on the balcony in case any of them snored. The building is a beautiful one, having wonderful sort of battlements, and we fixed our beds out on one of these.
Then we sought food. We tried one fashionable place, but the head waiter was not impressed. He certainly looked at our noses and at our clothes. About these clothes—I had on a very good sort of golf kit. I almost know the sheep on the Island of Harris off of which the wool forming the material came. My stockings were thick and home made in the Highlands, and my brogues were made by Mr. Maxwell in Dover Street. Dicky was turned out similarly and being a big handsome sort of chap looked fine. Perhaps if we had given that waiter ten dollars as his usual patrons do, we would have been ushered in with much bowing, but we preferred to starve rather than to give him a cent.
We sought restaurant after restaurant, but could get nothing, not even a poached egg. Dicky was getting crabby. After an hour we at last got into a hot cheery sort of cabaret and drank small beer and ate all sorts of grills, also clams. After this Dicky became brighter, and I also felt more kindly, so we hired a comfy chair on wheels and spent an hour onthe Board Walk, while the chairman told us with much enjoyment of all the sin and wickedness existing in Atlantic City. His stories, very lurid, were mixed up with automatic "pianners" into which one put a nickel.
Upon returning we found most of our fellow guests of the club room in bed, so we stole out on to the battlement and soon were sound asleep.
I awoke in the morning to find a terrific sun shining on my head threatening to melt my brain. I looked up towards the hotel and noted that we were sleeping on a balcony above which were roughly about eight stories. Immediately above us stretched a line of windows marking a staircase, and out of each window looked a head. It was really a study in black and white. There were black maids, and white maids, and they were all interested in Dicky as he lay there with the sun turning his light coloured hair into gold. I awoke him, and we both got inside and dressed.
After breakfast, and as it was a table d'hôte we were not at all sparing in our choice of food, we sat for a time on a charming balcony overlooking the Board Walk. It was interesting to watch the people. I made a tremendous discovery, which was perhaps a little disappointing. I had always hoped that the British Empire contained the lost tribes of Israel. It does not. The United States of America has that honour.
We then sought a dressing room, and after removing our clothes and donning "fashionable bathing things" we sought the sand. It was all very thrilling and I was further confirmed in my discovery. There was a continuous procession of persons clad in bathing things, thousands of them. Few went into the water. There was much that was really beautiful. There were men burnt a rich shade of copper, beautifully built, with clean cut, good looking faces, walking along enjoying their youth. There were some priceless looking girls well decorated. I dislike women's bathing suits. They are theoretically meant for bathing in, but why on earth should they wear those extraordinary hideous garments: They look awful when they return from the water. Their stockings are all dragged round their legs and if they are shoeless the toe part of the stockings seems to escape and hangs over. However, most of the ladies had no intention of swimming. Their faces were often powdered and painted and their hair arranged in a most engaging way. Still many were delightful to look upon, notwithstanding their attire. I believe there are very strict rules about women's costumes at Atlantic City. My landlady assures me that she has seen the policemen measuring the length of a girl's swimming skirt!
I saw some magnificent looking fellows walking along. American men's dress often seems designed tospoil a fellow's appearance. His breeches are sometimes a little tight and the sleeves of his coat are short, displaying a good looking silk shirt; and sometimes as the breeches are low at the waist, the shirt sticks out in an untidy bulge. When he places on his good looking head the felt hat in vogue the destruction of his personal appearance is quite complete. But on the beach at Atlantic City all this is changed, and one realizes that the standard of manly physical beauty in this country is a very high one.
The bathing suit here in America is exactly like the kit we wear for Rugby football. Perhaps it would be better for swimming if it were lighter, and in one piece, but as much time is spent promenading, it is obviously better that it should be as it is.
Of course, quite a number were not beautiful to look upon. There were thousands of men and women who had reached the unlovely stage of their existence. Large portly men walked about unashamed and women with large stout legs encased sometimes in green stockings could be seen. As one walked along the beach the society seemed to change. Towards the poorer part of the town the people were a little older and less interesting. We came to one section where most of the bathers and promenaders were coloured people. I must say at once that the effect was singularly diverting. The young coloured ladies and gentlemen were smartly turned out. TheseAmerican negroes look like awfully nice people. One would see a young coloured lady with an expensive and sometimes a beautiful swimming suit walking beside a fine handsome coloured boy. They seemed so happy. I was thrilled with the little ones as they dashed about with their strong little limbs. Unfortunately we had little time for observation because Dicky had seen a huge fat man at another part of the beach in a bathing costume, the sort of fellow that one sees at a country fair, and he insisted upon returning to have another look. This fat man sat there with his huge fearful limbs partially exposed while a crowd stood and looked at him. He seemed to like it, too. Human egotism is truly wonderful. The whole morning was enjoyable. I loved the open air, the sea breezes and all that sort of thing.
I had heard a lot about the Board Walk. As a thing of use it is delightful. One can walk for miles along its length, seeing a strange procession of human beings, but its new look, the fact that it is made of wood, tends to give Atlantic City an uncertain and unstable foundation. It spoiled the effect of our hotel with its magnificent architecture. Still it provides a very restful way to walk, and I suppose it has its uses. I am a little astonished that Americans should come to this strange place and turn themselves into money fountains and, upon running dry, return to business; though of course it is fine to be with a crowd of cheerful people.
I have never visited any of our seaside resorts during the summer season, so I cannot well compare Atlantic City with any of them. I don't think that a similar place would be popular in England. Of course, we were there at a rather difficult time. I have been told that prices go up about twenty-five per cent. or even more during August.
Atlantic City seems to be a long thin town stretching for several miles along the Atlantic coast. The hotels are truly beautiful. Apart from their architecture they are beautifully decorated inside. Our hotel has a place called the Submarine Grill. The idea the artist wishes to convey is that the diners are spending a hectic time at the bottom of the sea. The general effect is rather lovely and the colouring suggests the inside of a very rich Mohammedan mosque, in spite of the sea idea. Perhaps the mermaids of Atlantic City make up for this; and there are many. However, we all go down, pay the head waiter a large sum for three bows and a continuous smile and are ushered to the best seats, under the circumstances. The food is beautifully cooked, but the bill grows very large, and one leaves quite happy but poorer.
Dicky and I had had about fifty dollars between us, but the price for our sleeping places had been small, and it looked as though we would return with about two dollars between us, until we met the chauffeur, and asked him for his expense account. Havingpaid it—it was one dollar more than my bill at the hotel, we possessed about three shillings, or seventy-five cents. This obviously left us but little money for food at Philadelphia upon our return, but we went into a mysterious automat eating house and managed to subtract a little nourishment from its shelves. We returned to Bethlehem owing the chauffeur about three dollars. I must say that I enjoyed the whole thing, but I have no intention and no desire to return.
It was the touch of nature that made the day enjoyable for me—the people, black and white, and the sea. But I objected to the hardly-veiled begging displayed by the numerous lackeys. I suppose they have got to live, "mais je n'en vois pas la necessité," as some philosopher remarked.
When passing through the hotel on the Saturday evening I saw a lady quietly but beautifully dressed. She looked about twenty. I was certain that I knew her well, had met her in Washington or somewhere. I went over and said: "How d'ye do." We chatted for a time, but in spite of all my efforts I could not place her. Having rejoined Dicky, I remembered. She was the prim demure little lady from whom I have bought my "movie" tickets for the last six months. American girls are truly wonderful. We arrived at Bethlehem at about midnight.
There is one phrase over here that one is constantly hearing—"Rule for the people by the people." Of course, Abraham Lincoln, our great American, now beloved by all, used it on the occasion of his famous speech at Gettysburg. As far as I can see, Lincoln gave that thing called democracy a great big lift. He evidently fought a big spiritual battle for the United States, and won.
Of course, I did not come to the United States to learn about Abraham Lincoln. In my childhood's memory, he, George Washington, King Arthur, King Alfred, and the great figure called Gladstone are all safely enshrined. These were all mixed with Moses and the prophets, but Lincoln's log cabin seemed a reality. Away out in New Zealand I learnt about Abraham Lincoln from an old, old soldier who had fought the Maoris, and had seen the first two sparrows arrive in a cage from England. I wish they hadn't.
Since my arrival in America I have heard a great deal about Lincoln. He and his words are held up as a shield against all potential enemies outside the United States. Always are the words "Rule for thepeople by the people" hurled from the lips of that type of orator who talks about "red blooded Americans," and who contrasts the red blooded with him of yellow blood. But only are these wonderful words hurled against enemies without. No one ever applies them to the more deadly type that lurks within the national household. And so Lincoln's great words sometimes seem to be wasted upon all our cousins who are not newspaper editors.
Let me explain: The American people don't rule the country as far as I can see. Things go along smoothly and the mob spirit is kept at bay because, owing to the greatness of the country, its happy climate, its wonderful natural resources, the opportunities for expansion supplied to all the people, no one gets sufficiently worked up to accomplish any foolishness. The country seems to be ruled by a certain set of men who make politics their business.
I have never yet met a young man under twenty-five who was in the faintest degree interested in the rule of his country. He has so many other things to think about. Although I don't think he works harder, really, than his cousin in England, his hours spent at business are very long and there don't seem to be more than about two holidays in the year. His life is tense. He starts school with games that bring out all his enthusiasm. He dislikes cricket. Baseball suits his temperament. Even football has developed into a form oftrench warfare, sometimes not without frightfulness. Then he enters business with one object—to get on, to push ahead. So his life is spent thinking out business schemes. In the evenings he is called upon by all kinds of seedy looking gentlemen who put up to him schemes of insurance and what not. He must have a car of some sort, though a Henry Ford suits him well. He never seems able to rest, at work or at play, and so he carries on, brimming over with enthusiasm. One is always seeing it.
Here in Bethlehem we wanted money for a bridge. It was essential that the people should subscribe, so a week was spent in what amounted to a "drive." There were processions, alarums, and excursions. Men rushed about in dirty looking automobiles and made quite willing people subscribe. Luncheons were held each day. The collectors were divided into small companies, each with a captain and a separate table. The tables vied with one another in their efforts to collect the most money. It was a wonderful scheme and it worked well. I rather loved it. One heard young men, old men, fat men, thin men all worked up bursting into song. Even the church helped. Of course, we got the money all right. If a man wants to accomplish anything he must arouse enthusiasm.
So the life of a decent American boy is often one long exciting tense existence. Now I think in some ways that this is admirable, but this enthusiasticexistence has formed a national trait. A man must get there. He doesn't always, but he must think he is getting there. He does not care if the day coach he is riding in on a train is ugly and often dirty; it is nothing to him if the locomotive is not spotlessly clean as long as it draws him along. He is not concerned for more than five minutes if the railroad company dashes locomotives through his city killing a few peopleen routebecause they have not time or inclination to raise their road or sink it in order to avoid deadly level crossings. It has not occurred to him to realize that a dirty locomotive uncleaned by careful hands will not get him there really. Seldom is an American train on time. Some are, of course, but I have often waited from an hour to several hours for a train.
So the men who make politics their business take advantage of this—not wickedly, I think, but nevertheless they appeal to this national enthusiasm, and they get away with it. No man is perfect, and politicians always seem to me the least perfect of men. The results are obvious. The political machine works in jumps and often breaks down at a critical moment. It is not the machine's fault really. It is the fault of the people who refuse to supervise its work. The people have responded to the political enthusiasm around election time and then they are finished. Of course, I think it is all wrong.
One looks for the guiding hand of the people and one cannot find it. It ought to be displayed in the press, but of all powerless institutions the American press is the most powerless. It can rage against a politician until it is hoarse, but it accomplishes little. And yet the American press is truly very fine. I read every word of theNew York Times, theNew York Sun, and thePublic Ledgerevery day and they are entirely admirable. I meet the editors, sometimes, of leading papers and they are delightful people. They combine often the delightful American boyishness with the sober mien of men of learning. Still they know the national characteristic of enthusiasm, and if they are to sell their papers they must appeal to it; so even the papers I have mentioned often display flamboyant headings about nothing in particular.
At election time, of course, the papers have a wide influence, but during the time when the laws of the country are being made they always seem to me to be entirely ineffective. They ought to be the leaders of the people. A cabinet with the disapproval of the press ought not to last a week. They try, of course, valiantly, but if they display disapproval, backed up with proofs, no one believes them. It is merely described as "newspaper talk."
And then the police! You know as well as I do that if a mere suspicion is breathed against an Englishpoliceman by a good newspaper, the thing is thoroughly investigated and if the charge is well founded the policeman disappears. The police in England are our friends and we look after them, but they must do their duty well. I don't quite understand the system here, but, as far as I can gather, the police official of rank is appointed by the mayor. The mayor is elected, not soberly and carefully, but in the most hectic manner imaginable. He has a regular campaign for his position. Of course, there is no objection in the world to this, but the decisions of the people are given in moments of enthusiasm. They are worked up to a high pitch by the satellites of the prospective mayor. The newspapers help him or they don't; but whatever they do, they do it in a flamboyant manner. Charges are sometimes brought against a prospective mayor that would cause an English newspaper to be suppressed for libel. As far as I can see, the head police officials are dependent for their positions upon the retention of the mayor in office. A mayor may be a clever, good, conscientious man, but you know as well as I do, that the tribe spirit is merely dormant in us mortals, and the very best of us like to help our friends. And then the police officials are always being criticised by the newspapers. Sometimes they are praised in a most extravagant manner, and, a few weeks after, they get slanged to bits. Criticise your members of parliament,tear to pieces the character of the prime minister, but surely it is foolish to criticise the cop.
I am not going to talk about graft amongst the police because I don't know anything about it. But one hears very strange stories.
If the people ruled this country, instead of allowing their national trait of enthusiasm to rule them, I suppose it would be all right. As a matter of fact, things go along quite smoothly. The American folk are awfully good natured and never worry about anything in particular. Hence they don't mind if Broadway continues to suggest a particularly unpleasant line of trenches in Flanders. They don't mind if the telephone lines in a small town all collapse during a storm, not because of the fury of the elements, but because the telephone company has laid its wires carelessly and untidily.
An American young man sometimes does not even know the name of his congressman—he never reads what the said gentleman says before the House. He just doesn't care. He fails sometimes to realize his duty as a citizen of a very great nation whose men have died for the privilege of ruling their own country. When anyone expresses annoyance with a particularly bad road, he remarks: "These damn politicians!"
It is a pity in some ways. He builds his bridge. It will carry him and his family well. The next manfinds it wanting, so he patches it. A concourse of persons passing over soon afterward all fall into the elements below. Someone else then arrives and builds another one just as flimsy, just as weak and just as beautiful to look upon as the first fellow's effort. And an American thinks he is "getting there."
These remarks, perhaps a little unfair, do not apply to the West or the Middle West.
And, of course, he does get there, but it all is owing to the great big background to his character which he inherits from his ancestors, and his natural efficiency allied to good health.
Of course, some will urge that this country is still a melting pot. That may be true, but as far as I can see the immigrant of the first generation has little influence. Great big things are ahead for this country, but the people will have to suffer a great deal first. I can see millions of young men returning from the war in Europe with an inquiring mind. These men will have realized the value, the effectiveness of discipline, and they will apply it to their servants, the gentlemen in Washington. The press will be the mouthpiece. The police will also be their servants, not their masters, and a cop will not have to worry about elections and rude remarks in the papers unless he deserves them.
The open air life, the freedom of the battlefield, the time supplied for reflection will mould the nationalcharacter. Things will then change for hotel clerks, head waiters, and all the million other satellites, that prey upon the wonderful good nature and kindliness of our cousins.
Americans will also become a little more lazy and will realise that it profits a man nothing in this wonderful world if he gains five million dollars and gets a nervous breakdown. An American man never seems able to be elegantly lazy. I suppose it is the climate. Slow country life bores him to desperation; he cannot enjoy the supervision of a large estate until he has reached a great age.
Criticism is so easy. If my friends read this they would say: "Et tu Brute; are you so perfect?" I could only reply: "We are a good deal worse, but our confounded papers guard us a little and we do stand by our cops. Go thou and do likewise."