20,000 Leagues Under the Sea or David Copperfield Read online

  And when we sit down, we always come back to the suggestion, discarded earlier in this study of the situation, that the used cars be stuffed with almond meats and used for favors. But then, a lot of people don’t like almonds.

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  Checking Up

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  The newspapers may not be very frightened of the movie news-reels as competitors in the actual business sense, but they had better watch them pretty closely as rivals in the accurate dispensing of news. A good news-reel can show up a news-story and make it look awfully silly.

  An example comes to hand (as a matter of fact, it has been at hand for some weeks) in the visit of President Coolidge to Havana. Naturally this was counted as one of the big maneuvers in the Good Will Campaign which has been under way between this country and the Pan-American republics, or rather which has been aimed at the Pan-American republics by this country. The idea was that President Coolidge should go down there and by his cheery manner and hail-fellow-well-met spirit so charm the Cubans that they would forget certain little matters of import and export and just feel as if they were members of One Big Family.

  To this end, the reporters who covered the Coolidge Flying Wedge into the hearts of the Cubans did their best. They sent back stories telling of the affectionate enthusiasm with which the Great White Father was received in Havana. They told of the cheers which rolled up from the populace in greeting, of the wild excitement which prevailed as the executive cortège rolled through the streets, of the spirit of friendliness toward the United States which the visit was breeding on every side. One got the impression that Havana went Coolidge-mad.

  The next day the Movietone news-reels appeared showing the same procession through the streets of Havana. Not only the visual image of this impressive pageant was offered to public view, but the sounds incident to its passage were recorded as well. And there was a strange discrepancy between the newspaper accounts and this irrefutable testimony of the senses.

  For in the Movietone we saw the crowds lining the streets and the Presidential automobile rolling slowly along the avenue, but the enthusiasm was nominal. Here and there some apathetic Cuban would raise his hand in an abortive salute and say, in a voice slightly above the conversational tone, “Americano!” Now and again a hat would be tipped, but whether it was to keep it from being blown off in the wind or to indicate extreme enthusiasm could not be detected. But, for the most part, the entire route might have been that of a particularly unimpressive funeral, let us say of a rear-admiral lately in charge of an inland arsenal. If there was wild excitement such as the newspaper-reporters saw, it must have been in the parlor of the residence of President Machado. If the populace of Havana went wild over President Coolidge it must have been by means of letters to the local papers. Here, before our very eyes, was this triumphant cavalcade we had read so much about, and the only sounds came from the explosions of the motor-cycles of the escort, the only agitation from the breeze as it blew the property flags. Even President Coolidge himself seemed subdued, his gay buoyancy gone, his boyish abandon stilled under the lethargy of his reception.

  So the newspapers have got to watch their step from now on. They are being checked up. In the future, as the Movietone principle is developed, they will have to be careful how they tell of Red riots, for the next day the public may have a chance to see and hear that sixteen people merely stood still and hummed the “Internationale” while traffic swirled unconcernedly past. They will have to be careful how they tell of apathetic rebuffs of opposition politicians, for it may turn out in the Movie-tone account that the audience gave every indication of being excited. In short, news-stories will have to be written pretty much without personal coloring on the part of the reporter, for there will be a dark man coming with a bundle of film right behind him to refute his testimony if it be phoney. All of which may result in the press eventually giving itself over to the publication of comic strips and actual baseball scores.

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  A Short

  (What There Is of It)

  History of

  American Political Problems

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  Chap. I Vol. I.

  In our two introductions to this history (one of which was lost) we made a general survey of the development of political theory and practice from Plato down to Old Man (“He Must Know Nothin’ “) River. In beginning our history proper, it might perhaps be wise to forget all that we have said before and start fresh, as a lot of new things have come up since the last introduction was written (such as the Abolition of Slavery and the entire Reconstruction Period) which have changed the political aspect considerably.

  We will begin our history, therefore, with the year 1800; in the first place, because 1800 is a good round number and easily remembered (Vanderbilt 1800, for instance), and in the second place, because it marked the defeat of the Federalist Party under Hamilton by the Republicans under Jefferson. Now you are going to start back in astonishment when I say “Republicans under Jefferson” and most likely will write in and say, “What do you mean, Republicans under Jefferson, you big old gump you! Everybody knows that it was Jefferson who founded the Democratic Party. . . . Yours truly (whatever your name happens to be). . . .

  And here is where I will have the laugh on you, because you will have forgotten what I told you in one of our introductions to this history about the present Democratic Party having once been called the Republican Party. So when I say “Republicans under Jefferson” I mean “Republicans under Jefferson” and no more back talk out of you, either. If you had devoted half the time to reading one, or both, of the introductions to this history that you devote to jazz and petting-parties you would know something about the political history of your country instead of being such a nimcompoop. (There was a political party named the “Nimcompoops” a little later on, and I can hardly wait to tell you about it. . . . Perhaps I won’t wait. I may tell about it any minute now. [Adv.])

  Now the reason for the defeat of the Federalists in 1800 was based on several influences which have a rather important bearing on our story. They were:

  1. The Federalists (as I have told you again and again until I am sick of it) thought that the Federal Government ought to have the power to rule the various states with a rod of iron. A good way to remember this is by means of an old rhyme: “The Federalists thought that the Federal Government ought to have the power to rule the various states with a rod of iron. Rum-tiddy-um-tum-tum-tiron!

  2. Hamilton himself was very snooty.

  3. Adams (John), the Federalist President, was very snooty and a Harvard man into the bargain.

  4. No one ever had any fun.

  Jefferson, on the other hand, believed that the various states ought to be allowed to govern themselves, using the Federal Government only when company came or when there was a big reception or something. This appealed to the various states, and as, after all, the various states were made up of the voters themselves and the Federal Government consisted chiefly of Hamilton and Adams and their families, it is little wonder that, on a majority vote, the various states won.

  So, in 1801, Thomas Jefferson took over the reins of the government and the Republican Party had its first opportunity to show the strength of its principles.

  But we are getting ahead of our story.

  In our next chapter we will take up the final collapse of the Federalists and the appearance of the Whigs. There will also be dancing and a brief reaffirmation of America’s debt of gratitude to France.

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  Cease Firing!

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  There are signs that the direct frontal attack on Babbittry, maintained so pitilessly and monotonously by the writing forces for ten years, has reached its peak and is about to recede. This will be a relief to many people, including the Babbitts and the Public. It has been a cruel assault, from which the Go-Getter has emerged both bloody a
nd bowed, as witness the fact that he has now taken to kidding himself in nervous apprehension. His only chance for an honorable peace is that unstrategic ones among the writers will continue the mauling to a point where reaction sets in and the Babbitt becomes a public hero. This point has almost been reached.

  But before we blame the literati for harping too continuously on the Go-Getter’s little weaknesses, we must think back a couple of decades and remember what inspired this spirit of blind vindictiveness. It could not have come seething as it does from the writer’s soul without some preliminary period of stewing. And, as a belligerent scrivener who recalls the day when the Business Man was in the saddle, lashing down us poor peasants as we stood in the market-place begging for bread, I am almost in a mood to rally my comrades about for another and more sanguinary assault, this time perpetrating nameless horrors.

  For there was a time, not so long ago as the crow-eater flies, when the man who wrote for his living was the butt for jokes around the very conference-table which he now throws pop-bottles at. There was a time when anyone who made his living by writing was an impractical sap, gifted along certain lines perhaps, but lines which led nowhere and contributed nothing to the State. If he was spoken to at all by the geniuses of business and organization, it was with fine scorn and in words of two syllables. “Herbert is a nice fellow,” they would say among themselves, “but he writes.”

  Perhaps the young writer’s first realization that he was a pariah and a drag on the wheels of Progress came when he was in school or college and a member of the literary staff of his college paper. Here it was the “Business End” which dominated. The Business End held the Writing End in jesting contempt and made no effort to conceal it. “Where would the paper be,” they asked (and with just enough justice to lend authority), “where would the paper be if it were not for the ads?” And the Writing End cowered in its sanctum and scratched with its pens in an attempt to placate the Business End and perhaps get a kind word from them at the finish of the term.

  I have no doubt but that the venom of Sinclair Lewis, commander-in-chief of the Anti-Babbitt forces, was brewed while in college. He probably heard some man on the Business End say, as every young scrivener of that period heard said of himself: “Oh, yes, Lewis is a nice enough fellow – but he writes, you know.” The feeling was that if a man wrote, certain sections of his brain were atrophied and that it was those brain-cells, in the normal man, which made for keenness, virility and desirability as a citizen of the greatest country in the world.

  From college the embryo writers of twenty years ago went out into a world where they were even more of a laughing-stock than they had been under the academic elms. If they went into business they were forced to take seriously all the talk they heard about “organization,” “efficiency,” “service” and “distribution,” or they were fired. They listened to men who were obviously charlatans tell them that they were half-witted and incompetent if they scribbled on their conference-pads some slight heresy against the hokum of Business. They were knocked about from one corner of the office to another by officials whose own jobs depended on their ability to conceal what they didn’t know and if, by any chance, they wrote something on the side which happened to be published, they were brought up on the soft green carpet and told to stop fooling around or they would never get anywhere in this organization. Without knowing anything about the facts in the case, I suspect that Sinclair Lewis’ first gun in his memorable charge against the Go-Getter (“Our Mr. Wrenn”) was the result of several nasty wounds received at the hands of the advertising moguls of the day.

  And if the young writer of the first decade of the century went directly into literature, he might just as well have donned the cap and bells and gone out on the street corner for all the respect he had in the offices and manufacturing plants of the country. Some of them even took pseudonyms to hide their disgrace. One, who later became one of the most successful short story writers of the day, wrote under the name of “Holworthy Hall” because he felt that, to use his own name, would be fatal to his chances in the advertising firm with which he was connected. Writing was a thing to be done on the sly unless you wanted to be known as unreliable in the more serious branches of human activity.

  But scarcely had the report of “Our Mr. Wrenn” echoed around a very small world when several hundred worms began to turn uneasily. Abortive blows were struck at the idols in the temple. They did no more than chip off a nose-tip or so, but they gave the poor ink-stained wretches courage. A barrage was on which was to gather momentum in the next few years until it became deafening. And behold, the enemy was yellow! At first, the Go-Getter maintained a scornful silence, but not for long. And his first move was not in defiance. It was to duck. As the attack increased in intensity, rising to its full volume in Mr. Lewis’ “Babbitt,” he closed his ears and ran to cover. Book after book kidding Business and Business-men was hurled at him; magazine articles were printed by hundreds over the weak protests of the once-domineering Business End; even the comic weeklies took up the assault, and the words “babbitt,” “go-getter” and “efficiency expert” became a part of the satirical language of the nation. Even the babbitts themselves, at their Rotary luncheons, tried to disassociate themselves from their tribe and kid other babbitts, just as one of two drunken men tries to give the impression that he knows how bad his companion is and is there only to help him home. Never did a down-trodden rabble rise up in such might as the impractical scribes, and never has there been such a complete rout of the reigning princes.

  But, as is always the case in a revolution, the rebels have outdone themselves. They have not only driven the royal family out of the palace, but they are sacking and burning. They are running through the streets with flaming torches, trying to destroy everything that bears the hated coat-of-arms. In the first place, the reading public is getting a little sick of pseudo-satirical cracks at Big Business. In the second place, the writers are donning the purple robes of Big Business themselves and are turning into babbitts. Unless a halt is called soon, a counter-revolution will be organized and the writers themselves shot against the wall. (I have several names which I will drop into the lion’s mouth when the time comes.) The victory has been won. The writers should accept their laurels and go home. But it should never be forgotten that what they did, they did under the direst provocation that an oppressed people ever had. Next time let the ruling classes think twice.

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  The Great American Folly

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  It is funny that going over Niagara Falls in a barrel never achieved more popularity in this country as a method of taking a trip. You would think that it would appeal to Americans to such an extent as to make it necessary to run excursion barrels over the Falls during July and August. For, as a nation, we seem to be more gluttonous for punishment in respect to uncomfortable traveling than any nation on earth. Witness the number of people who take train trips in the summer – for pleasure.

  Here is a great nation confronted each summer with the problem of vacationing. Almost every locality has some spot within walking distance where a very passable vacation could be spent. But no! We must pack trunks and bags and go somewhere too far away even to motor, just so that we can go choo-choo during the hottest months of the year – or of any year, for that matter.

  A foreigner visiting this country during a torrid spell and seeing the great terminals crowded with moist, bedraggled travelers, snapping at each other and pinching their children’s arms to keep them in line, would surely think that nothing short of a great catastrophe or enemy invasion could set so many people on the march in such weather. And then next day he reads in the papers that “Record Crowd of Holiday-Makers Throng Terminals.” Holiday-makers! A Roman holiday, such as Nero might have planned.

  With the advent of the hot weather, your American citizen begins to get restless and to look up time tables. He finds that he can leave Cleveland at six and get into Dallas at
four-fifty or that he can leave Boston at noon and get into Los Angeles at nine-twenty. Of course, the railroads can’t predict for him just what the hottest day of the month will be, but he has a fine instinct for picking it in advance. If he could pick horses or stocks with the same sagacity that he picks hot days for traveling, there would be less poverty in this country and fewer overdrafts.

  If, by any chance, he hasn’t got his ticket in advance, he waits until some evening the sun sets very round and red and all the natives say, “A hot day tomorrow, brother!” and then he rushes home and throws a few things into a bag, gets all his children (if he hasn’t children, he borrows some from a neighbor) and sets his alarm for six in order to be up with the blistering sun and off on the 8:45 for a two-day cinder bath.

  Probably one of the most depressing sights in the world is a family entering a train drawing room on a good steamy morning, all ready for a trip across the continent or as far as their money will take them. Their train has been frying in the yards all the day before and all night and as they all push their way into the little box they are to call “home” for two days, Mother and one of the frailer daughters faint immediately.

  “Well, well,” says Daddy, cheerily, “it’s going to be a scorcher all right,” and to hear him you might think that it was all his doing. The bags are put in the racks and piled up behind the door, Mother and the frailer daughter are brought to temporarily, Daddy takes off his coat and sits in that good American hot-weather institution, the woolen waistcoat, and everything is set.