XI

AN OFFENSIVE BOMBARDMENT

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 the people 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 of trench 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 enthusiastic existence 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 people en route because 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 the New York Times, the New York Sun, and the Public Ledger every 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 English policeman 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 man finds 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 national character. 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."