THE
AFFABLE STRANGER

BY

PETER McARTHUR

TORONTO

THOMAS ALLEN

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY PETER McARTHUR
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PREFACE

To make clear the purpose of this book and to suggest possibilities to the reader the author offers the following article which was published in the Toronto Globe. Most of the chapters first appeared in the same journal.

Ekfrid, July 28.—This morning I got up feeling singularly cheerful and care-free. And no wonder. Yesterday I got even with the world—said everything I wanted to say about it right down to the last word. This morning I feel that I am making a fresh start with all scores paid, and I don't care whether school keeps or not.

The explanation of this unusual state of mind is quite simple. Yesterday I finished writing a book, in which I said just what I wanted to say—said what I have been aching to say for years—about the world and things in general. No matter what happens to the book, it has already served its purpose. It has rid my mind of "the perilous stuff, etc.," that accumulated during the war and since. And the result has been so refreshing that I have no hesitation in recommending the book cure to every one. Nowadays any one can write a book, and most every one does. The mistake is in regarding the book as a literary venture. What you should do is to make a pad of paper and a lead pencil your father confessor and ease your mind of its worries. When the book is done, you can send it out into the wilderness as the Israelites sent the scapegoat—bearing your sins with it. Then you can make a fresh start. If you don't want to publish it—though publication seems necessary to complete absolution—you can tie a stone to it and throw it into the lake, or do it up in a parcel and leave it for some one to find, just as boys used to do with neat parcels in which they placed pebbles on which they had rubbed their warts—hoping in that way to rid themselves of warts. I know there are some old-fashioned people who will be shocked at this levity in speaking of books, but they should waken up to the fact that since the coming of the wood-pulp era no particular merit attaches to writing a book. And if books can be given a medicinal value to take the place of their old-time literary value, why shouldn't we recognize the fact? Anyway, the writing of a book put me in the frame of mind to parody Sir Sidney Smith and exclaim:

"Fate cannot harm me, I have had my say."

I have told all this merely to explain the joyous mood induced by the writing of the book. Having finished my task, I felt not only up-do-date with my work, but up-to-date with life. It is the ambition of every man—whether he confesses it or not—to get even with the world. The world is forever defeating us and defrauding us of our hopes. So let us have our say about it, turn over a new leaf, and make a fresh start. When I got up this morning

"I moved and did not feel my limbs,
I was so light—almost
I felt that I had died in sleep
And was a blessed ghost."

There was no feeling of responsibility about anything, and I could go to work in a care-free frame of mind. That made me realize how care-free all nature is, and how care-free life might be if we did not allow ourselves to become so much entangled with its affairs. Just because I had arranged to free myself from all other responsibilities while doing my task, I suddenly found myself free from responsibilities and in the only true holiday humor. It is true there was work to do, but I did not feel any responsibility. My first chore was to churn, but I was not responsible for the flavor and texture of the butter. It was my part to make the barrel churn revolve with a rhythmical "plop! plop! plop!" and when the butter came I had nothing more to do with it. By that time the heavy dew had dried from the sheaves, and the business of hauling in the wheat was commenced. Though I had an interest in the wheat, I was not responsible for it, and could pitch the sheaves without worrying. The mood left by having poured all my problems into a book was apparently the same as that enjoyed by Kipling's devil when he "blew upon his nails, for his heart was free from care."

Along in the forenoon a thunderstorm began to gather in the west, and I was in the right mood to realize what a care-free and irresponsible storm it was. Even though it was harvest-time, this storm was not obliged to take any thought about what it was doing. It didn't have to pick the just from the unjust and distribute the rain as a reward—or punishment. It rained on both alike. Though it was such a care-free storm, I confessed to a feeling of relief when I saw it sheering off to the south. There are all kinds of just and unjust men living down that way, and though they may not have wanted rain any more than we did, it was no part of my business to worry about them. It was enough for us to gather in our own crop and be thankful that, after all, the Hessian fly had left us a crop worth gathering.

When the storm had rumbled away, the sun came out, and it was certainly a care-free sun. It gave its stimulating warmth and heat to the weeds as freely as to the crops. If man wanted to coddle some plants for his own use, the sun was perfectly willing to do its part—but it did its part just as freely and irresponsibly for the grass and the weeds. In spite of the philosophers and teachers, Nature seemed very irresponsible to-day. She had been irresponsible in sowing her seeds and in promoting their growth, and it was quite evident that she would be equally irresponsible in her work of harvesting. The free and irresponsible winds would blow the seeds fitted with wings and parachutes to every point of the compass and let them fall where they would. The free streams would carry others to hospitable shores or would leave them to rot in the lakes or even in the ocean. Other seeds provided with spines and hooks would cling to our clothing or to the wool of the sheep and in that way be given a wholly irresponsible distribution. Nothing in Nature seemed to be burdened with responsibility or care or remorse or worry or ambition or any of the things with which we fret our lives. Being in a wholly irresponsible frame of mind, I could not help wondering if man has not gone woefully astray in making himself responsible for so much. Perhaps we have not interpreted properly that text about being our brother's keeper. Certainly our brothers seldom feel grateful to us when we concern ourselves with their affairs and try to make them realize that we regard ourselves as their keepers. As a rule they resent our interference, and our efforts do little good either to them or to us. Perhaps we should learn something from the irresponsibility of Nature to guide us in our dealings with our fellow-men.

Any one who cared to write a book about it could probably show that most of the wars and afflictions that have come on the world are due to attempts made by incompetent people to be their brothers' keepers. They start great wars to stop little ones, cause great evils by trying to remedy little ones, and otherwise make nuisances of themselves to the limit of their power. Why don't these people take to writing books instead of trying to set things right? Writing the books would free their surcharged spirits, and the world could go its way without bothering to read what they wrote. The more I think of it the more convinced I am that the writing of books would cure a lot of our evils—chiefly because it would help to rid the people who wrote the books of their feeling of responsibility for other people and their affairs. The fact that they had set down their views in fair type would ease their consciences and enable them to go about the ordinary little matters of their own lives in a care-free way. The book cure for our personal and collective troubles is hereby seriously recommended. And it is especially recommended to any one wanting to enjoy a holiday. You can't enjoy a holiday if you are worrying about your business in life. So write a book about it and get even with the world. Then you can enjoy a holiday even while going on with your work.

CONTENTS

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

[CHAPTER I]

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

One day a group of Americans talked for publication without being aware of the fact. The democratic sociability of an observation car made it possible for me to get expressions of opinion on many subjects without the caution and frequent insincerity of formal interviews. No one knew the name or occupation of any of his fellow-passengers, and the conversation had "a charter large as the wind." For twelve hours, while making the trip from Montreal to Boston, the conversation ebbed and flowed over many fields of human interest, and by interjecting a remark here and there it was possible to turn the talk in any direction. Having a definite purpose in view and plenty of time at my disposal, I managed to get some spontaneous expressions of opinion along the particular line in which I am interested at the moment. Before leaving Toronto I had been assured that I should be much irritated by the egotism of Americans regarding the winning of the war. With this in mind I resolved to take no part in the conversation if the subject came up for discussion, but to listen attentively.

For the first half-hour we travelled mostly in silence, entering the items of our expense accounts in notebooks after the manner of travellers, re-reading letters that had been read hurriedly before boarding the train, and generally putting our affairs in order before settling down to view the scenery and kill time on the long trip.

Finally the ice was broken by a breezy Westerner who had just made the trip across Canada from Vancouver to Montreal. He mentioned casually that he was from Seattle and at once launched on a eulogy of all that he had seen and experienced on his Canadian trip. Here was just what I was looking for, and at once I was all attention. It would probably have caused surprise and some indignation to ardent prohibitionists if they could have heard the traveller's remarks.

"The Canadians are not so radical as we are. They do things in a more reasonable way."

Then he proceeded to dilate with exultant particularity on the hospitality he had enjoyed in various centres. Good Canadians had not only given him much stimulating entertainment, but they had even seen to it that he was supplied with liquid refreshment on the trip from the coast. Only in Alberta had the aridity been at all noticeable, and he attributed his misfortunes in this respect to the fact that he had no intimate personal friends in Calgary or Edmonton to look after his comfort. I gathered from his talk that Canada is far, far from being bone-dry. While he talked there was a hopeful gleam in several eyes, which subsided when he began to lament the strict watch that is kept on the border and the danger of carrying a supply on the hip or in one's baggage when entering the land of the ex-free. The joy had passed from his life when he had left Montreal. Then the conversation became general and raged over "the inhuman dearth" of plausible red whiskey under the Stars and Stripes.

Presently the breezy Westerner began to speak of his fellow-passengers on the Canadian trip. From Vancouver to Calgary he had associated mostly with two Canadian officers. Here, I thought to myself, is where I need to get a grip on my emotions, so I camouflaged myself behind a morning paper and pretended to read. But the precaution proved unnecessary. He showed an almost pathetic pride in telling his fellow-countrymen that those officers had told him that the Yankees were more like the Canadians than any other soldiers they had met in Europe. They had the same initiative, resourcefulness, and courage. This was received with approval, for all in the little group were willing to concede that there was no question about the war record of the Canadians. To my surprise no mention was made of the fact that the Americans really won the war—which leads me to suspect that the conviction is not so general among the plain people as I had been led to suppose. It is true that certain spread-eagle papers have rather too much to say on the subject, and it is possible that some Americans like to get a rise out of visiting Canadians by assuming a patronizing attitude regarding the war, but the fact remains that during the whole day I did not hear any boasting on this point. The only remark that might have given offence was made by a lean, sallow New Englander. The talk had turned to the Peace Treaty and all were at once united in a common sorrow over the part that President Wilson had played in Europe. From which I gathered that all those present were Republicans, for not a word was said in the President's defence. The lean New Englander finally grumbled:

"Well, I think England got a good deal out of the war at our expense."

But he got no further. The Westerner swept over him with a tornado of words. If anything of that kind had occurred—which he did not admit—it must be overlooked. The hope of the world lies in the continued friendship of Great Britain and the United States. Germany is far from being down and out and may even now be plotting against the peace of the world. There are dire possibilities in Asia that may involve both Britain and the United States.

When the New Englander got a hearing again, it was very evident that he had seen a light. Probably he suspected that there might be a British subject in the little chance assembled group, for he began to lay on the soft sawder in a way that would have done credit to Sam Slick. The only British people of which he had personal knowledge were the Canadians, as his business took him to Canada for several weeks every year. He could not speak too highly of their courtesy and business probity. What he had in mind when he made the offending remark was that making a Peace Treaty was much like a "hoss-trade," and that as a "hoss-trader" Wilson had no show with crafty diplomats like Lloyd George, Balfour, Clemenceau, and the others he had met.

As my interest was centred in that part of the conversation which dealt with the attitude of the plain people of the United States toward the plain people of Canada and the British Empire, I shall not attempt to report the wide range of knowledge that came to the surface during the day. I may say, however, that I learned with interest that New York has the highest buildings in the world, Seattle the finest docks in the world, the United States the greatest military possibilities of any nation in the world, and that the Merrimac River turns more spindles than any other river in the world. I suspect it would be possible to write a book about the greatest things in the world likely to be heard of on this trip, but I am not forgetful of the fact that it was not the people of the United States that Rudyard Kipling had in mind when he wrote:

"For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!"

In the afternoon I deserted the observation car and went visiting in the day coach among the passengers who were taking short trips between the intermediate stations. In this way I got an unconscious compliment that cheered me wonderfully. An exchange of newspapers with the man with whom a seat was shared gave an opening for conversation. Sticking to my resolution I did not introduce the subject of the war. We talked of the news of the day and all sorts of subjects. Suddenly my seat-mate gave me a searching look and asked:

"You are a farmer, are you not?"

He will never know how flattered I was. Being so far from home I felt that I could admit my nearness to the soil without being scoffed at. There is no doubt that in some matters Americans are much more discerning than Canadians—but let that pass.

We talked of the late spring, crop prospects, the high cost of living, and such things, and at last my patience was rewarded. In a dreary tone he said:

"It seems as if people would never get settled down after the war."

I encouraged him with a nod.

"The war upset everything. Labor was unsettled by high wages. The country boys that went into the army got a taste of city life and life in crowds, and it looks as if they would never stay on the land any more."

I let him ramble on about the train of evils that had followed the war. There was no boasting—just a sense of weariness with it all.

On my arrival in Boston I became practically incomunicado and unable to play my rôle of the affable stranger who is willing to engage in conversation with any one who is willing to talk. It was impossible to get accommodations at the hotel to which I had telegraphed for a room. They had more reservations than they could handle for three weeks ahead. But if I wished, the courteous clerk might be able to arrange for me at another hotel. As it was after ten o'clock, I wished. By using the telephone he located a room for me in a quiet family hotel. Its tone and exclusiveness impressed me as soon as I registered. I was in a position to see Boston on its dignity. The elevator man looked like a sad professor of political economy in reduced circumstances, and as I stepped into his cage I felt as if I had been turned over to the final psychopomp. With this in mind it gave me a thrill of pleasure to note, like Phil Welch, that the elevator was going up and not down. No one at this hotel spoke to another without an introduction, and I realized that I was having a chance to get a glimpse of that sternly exclusive New England:

"Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells,
And the Lowells speak only to God."

But a few hours later I was mingling with the ordinary throng again, looking for information.

[CHAPTER II]

THE ELUSIVE INSULT

When a man starts on a journey he usually makes a plan before starting. He will go to this place or that at such a time or times: He will meet this man and that—and will say to them thus and so. If he is a man of trained habits—say a commercial traveller for an exacting firm—he will carry out his plans—or lie about them in his report to the home office. As my report is to be made to the public there is no need of lying. I have promised nothing and nothing is expected. My plans went all awry before I was in the United States two days. But what of that? I may not find the information I was after, but I am finding things that are interesting and amusing, so let us carry on. But first a word about those plans—for what happened to them was rather illuminating. It seems to cast a light on the law of acceleration that I hear about sometimes.

It has been my experience that a mere observer—"a looker-on here in Vienna"—seldom arrives at the truth about anything. He sees only the outside of things. It is when one is actually doing things that he learns about them. With this in mind I deferred taking the present trip for many months. Not wishing to come as a holiday onlooker I waited until actual business made it necessary for me to come. This business would make it necessary for me to have dealings with men in various cities, and in order to transact it I would be obliged to keep step with that part of the business world in which I found it necessary to move. I would find the chance comments of business conversation more enlightening than any formal interviews, for they would rise spontaneously from the soul of things. With all this carefully thought out I started on my trip.

When I left the farm my plans were vague and leisurely. I had business to transact, but it was not urgent. It could wait on my convenience and on the convenience of others. It was little more than a good excuse for meeting business men in their offices so that I could glimpse what they were thinking about when off their guard.

When I reached Toronto I found that it would be necessary for me to make my plans more definite and to speed up to a regular schedule. There seemed to be more in the business than I thought and it would be well to make the most of it. So I reformed my plans and prepared to step lively wherever necessary.

In Boston I was startled to find that further changes in my plans were advisable. The business looked better than ever, but if I was to transact it and keep step with the march of things I must exert myself and move fully three times as fast as had been planned before leaving Toronto. This would wipe out the holiday aspect of my trip, but it would give me a more intimate view of the business life of the American people. I decided to rise to the occasion.

Then I went to New York and what happened to me and my plans may be indicated by my first experience in the city. Knowing that an old friend was located at a certain address on lower Broadway I decided to call on him before doing anything else. I found a real sky-scraper at the address sought. Looking up his address in the office directory I found that his room number was 3224. Being accustomed to office buildings and hotels where the rooms are numbered with the first figure indicating the floor on which the room is located, I expected to find my friend on the third floor. Stepping in the elevator I asked for room 3224, and was promptly whirled to the thirty-second floor. My guess at the location had been multiplied by ten. And I soon found that this kind of multiplication touched everything. If Boston made me move three times as fast as Toronto, New York would make me move ten times as fast and far as Boston. Right there my plans went glimmering. Like Huck Finn, "I lost all holts." I was willing to forego a holiday, but I did not propose to invite apoplexy. Since then I have been doing business in a catch-as-catch-can way—and getting information and impressions in the same way. And what I am getting I shall pass on just as I get it—without plan or too much order. The impossibility of keeping step with New York without a long previous training has compelled me to give up the attempt and has restored me to the holiday humor I was in when leaving the farm. So now we can step lightly again.

One day many years ago I happened to be with the late "Billy" Garrison, whose memory still lingers in New York newspaper life. A bewildered individual approached and asked Garrison:

"Are you a Scotchman?"

"No," said the wit, "but if you wait a minute I think I can find you one."

That swift absurdity epitomizes New York. If you want a man of any nationality or from any place, you can find him in a minute or two if you care to search. In trying to get in touch with the United States, or even the whole world, it is not necessary to leave Manhattan Island. But I was not searching. I was waiting for mine own to come to me. In this care-free and receptive mood I met men from many States of the Union and from many walks of life. Some I met as old friends, some in the way of business, and some by the simple expedient of borrowing a match in a smoking-car or hotel lobby. As none suspected any motive beyond what appeared on the surface, they talked copiously if not always entertainingly. And I soon discovered the astounding fact that if my patriotic sentiments were to be outraged I must pave the way for the insult myself. The war and international relations never cropped up. Of course the Americans lack the irritant of the adverse exchange which touches Canadian business life at many points every day and arouses wrath. As a matter of fact, the exchange gives their dealings with Canada and Great Britain an added zest and tends to make them take a placid view of the international situation. That in itself is enough to increase the irritation of a Canadian, but I could hardly make it a cause of argument, for exchange is a subject that I do not feel that I understand except in moments of exalted financial meditation such as seldom come to me. While I might feel sore about having my Canadian money discounted, the Americans were not sore at all. Indeed, they went farther and were unfailing in their sympathy. That hurt a little, but I could hardly treat it as an insult.

Still I was not without my moments of insight and amusement. I found that my friends and chance acquaintances, like those who talked in the parlor car, had one great grievance in common—the activities of agitators, Bolshevists, I.W.W.'s and all who are attacking American institutions. This touches them more nearly than international relations or any criticisms that come from abroad. And all of them dealt with the trouble in the same strain. They are not afraid of these wild men or of their wild ideas. But they are hurt and humiliated to find that people exist, especially within the borders of the United States, who believe the kind of nonsense that these people talk. Real Americans feel disgraced that news of that sort of discontent should be going out to the world. The attitude seems to be one of shame and indignation rather than of fear or anger. They were hurt to find that any one—especially any one who had come to America to live—could fail to see the manifold advantages of living under the Stars and Stripes. No one was afraid that the radicals could accomplish their ends—they were simply a noisy, irrational minority—but it was an insult to every American to have these people denying that the United States is the finest country in the world. It seemed incredible, stupefying.

The man from Seattle on the observation car was able to give first-hand information about the I.W.W. and he proceeded to do so volubly and emphatically. He pinned his faith to the chastening influence of an accurately applied bludgeon in dealing with this element of society, and told with relish of how I.W.W. leaders were beaten up whenever they tried to start something. He established his claim to being a true American by stating that although living in the West he was born in Boston and was descended from one of the seven men who had established the town of Salem. He was all for direct action in dealing with the advocates of direct action.

The sum of the matter is that the unrest is rousing American citizens to a keener sense of their heritage as descendants of the men who laid the foundations of the country, and they are inclined to be intolerant of any one who questions the soundness and essential rightness of American institutions. They have no patience with those who would overturn their system of government. The result will probably be a livelier sense of citizenship on the part of many who have been neglectful of their duties in the matter. They will not leave the conduct of affairs to those who cater to the forces of disruption. They are all for the America of their fathers, and this unrest will probably cause a rebirth of the old-fashioned American spirit. The danger is that a nation that has been roused to a sense of power by the war will act swiftly and intolerantly without discriminating sufficiently between those who would reform society and those who would wreck it.

[CHAPTER III]

BACK TO THE PRIMITIVE

Nor only is there nothing new under the sun, but in New York I find the same views, opinions, and conclusions that I had heard to the point of weariness even in Ekfrid. The transmission of news and the diffusion of propagandas have reduced the world to the same mental level. For instance: a friend placed his car at my disposal so that I could go about the city comfortably and expeditiously. Being full of questions I took my seat beside the chauffeur and invited information. He proved to be a skilled mechanic who had left productive work to drive a car in the city. He had been through the Spanish-American War, but had avoided the Great War, being past the age limit of the earlier drafts. He had had all he wanted of war. "War is simply a scheme by which the big men and the profiteers put it over the plain people. The plain people get all the knocks of war and pay the cost of it besides, while the big men get all the glory and the crooks get the profits."

Nothing new about that. I have heard the same talk in Vancouver, Calgary, Winnipeg, Toronto, and even on farms. The plain people of one country are like the plain people of any other country. They feel that whoever won the war they did not win it. And they don't want any more of it. What they want is to square accounts with the men who made profits from the war, and then go through the rest of their lives without doing anything in particular on which others can make a profit. They even seem to think that they might live out their day on the profits that others have accumulated—if they could only have justice properly administered. Anyway, this business of working hard and letting others have a profit on your work is something that belongs to the old, stupid days before the war, when men were not awake to their rights and privileges.

This is really the philosophy of the Lotus-Eaters, and possibly it is a natural reaction after the war.

Perhaps there is even a biological necessity for the aversion to old-fashioned work that is apparent under all flags. Possibly we might find analogies in nature that would cast a light on the subject. Let us consider the case of the bees—which moralists persist in pointing to for our emulation. Every bee-keeper knows that when a hive of bees takes to robbing other hives its usefulness is ended. Robber bees, that have once learned the ease and delight of plundering the accumulated stores of other hives, will never go back to the drudgery of gathering their food from the flowers. They will go on robbing until they are destroyed in battle by hives that are able to protect themselves or until they have starved in the midst of plenty because they refused to work. I do not know whether Fabre or Maeterlinck has studied the degeneracy and downfall of a hive of bees that has taken to robbing, but it would be worth their while.

But people will protest at once that the Great War was not a war of plunder. It was a war to fight back the nation that had started out to plunder the world. Blind! Every nation engaged in the war plundered itself even though it did not plunder others. All our reserves of wealth, food materials, and resources were of necessity thrown into the war and were as certainly destroyed or plundered as if we had been overrun by the enemy. When the armistice was declared we should have faced the future as nations that had been defeated rather than as victors. Unless we do that without further delay the defeat of civilization may be complete.

At this point my meditations were interrupted by my mild and pleasant-voiced chauffeur. He glared back over my shoulder with a real fighting face.

"What's the matter?" I asked in alarm.

"That driver back there gave me a look and I was giving him one back." I admitted that he certainly was giving him a look.

"Some fellows think they own the streets," he grumbled. "That fellow tried to edge me out of my place and when he found he couldn't do it he was sore. A fellow like that makes me want to get back to the primitive with him." He glared back once more, but the other driver had disappeared in the traffic.

But his phrase stuck and it seems significant—"Get back to the primitive."

I wonder if my chauffeur originated it—or is it a gem from some propaganda that I will meet with when I resume my travels? Anyway, it is most excellent good. Getting back to the primitive is about the most natural thing that human beings do just now. For long and dark ages the world was ruled by big biceps rather than by big brains—and everything was primitive. And during the Great War we went back to the primitive with scientific thoroughness. The ape and tiger were not only given a new lease of life, but were trained and equipped for their work by the best brains of the world. To the ferocity of the primitive we added the magic of science—but it is doubtful if science has enough magic left to recapture and cage the ape and tiger. The primitive man is proud of himself and conscious of his power. Indeed, he even feels benevolent toward a world that he feels competent to manage and control. And that serene kindly, capable attitude is the most dangerous aspect of the revolutionary mood of mankind. The anarchists and agitators we understand to some extent and can deal with. They are a natural reaction in a world of ruthless enterprise. But these placid, altruistic world-wreckers raise goose-flesh on me. They give me a grue. During the past thirty years I have met many anarchists and have not contended with them, for they know the wrong side of every subject so exhaustively that they can down any one in an argument. Though all of them talked violently, most of them were too human to do anything reckless. I have in mind at the present moment a tender-hearted anarchist whose whole soul revolted against the injustice and cruelty of organized society. In theory he would have torn down governments, burned cities, and assassinated kings and plutocrats. On the platform and in the Red press he was terrible.

But the poor man suffered from a handicap that rendered him futile. He had a wife whom he loved and children whom he adored. If he did his duty and hurled bombs at the oppressors, what would become of his family? He could not do anything that might cause them distress or suffering. He had given hostages to fortune. But if he had been a free man—The conflict between his radical brain and his kindly heart furnished the most tragic comedy that has ever come within my experience.

But these serene altruists, often well-read and thoughtful, are much more dangerous than the most raving Reds. They are so sure of the economic soundness of their views and so kindly in their intentions that one almost feels ashamed to oppose them or laugh at them. They are not parlor Bolshevists, but men who might be described as super-sane—men who are too rational for a mad world.

My first experience with this class was on the Western prairies, just before the Winnipeg strike. I was travelling on a branch railroad, and not being willing to wait for an express train I found accommodation in the caboose of a freight. Being thrown into the company of the conductor and trainmen I cultivated their society and induced them to talk. What amazed me was their satisfied certainty that the world was to be made over at once without a struggle. Capital, the great robber of labor, was to be eliminated. Government was to be taken over by the workers and all profits would go to those who earned them. As to the management of affairs—wasn't that all done already by hard-worked, under-paid clerks while highly paid officials took all the credit? Take President Beatty, of the C. P. R. What did he do but sit at a flat-topped desk in a luxuriously appointed office and draw a big salary while others did the work? They were not angry about it. They were merely ashamed that the matter had not been settled long ago. It was all so simple.

In Edmonton I met with more of these men who were about to shatter organized society and "remould it nearer to the heart's desire." One in particular impressed me curiously. He had the appearance of a man accustomed to hard labor who was taking a rest and meditating on world problems. His aspect was dreamy but kindly. I found him in the office of the Honorable Frank Oliver, and he was trying to induce that hardheaded statesman of the old régime to publish in his paper a prospectus for the new world. According to the new plan all the people from the farms of Alberta were to move into the cities, where they could get proper shelter when the big hotels and the homes of the rich would be taken over by the men whose labor had built them and had made them possible. I wish I had a copy of the document, but one phrase that stuck in my memory will give a taste of its quality. The ingenuous dreamer proposed a method of dealing with the crops needed to supply food that struck me as unique. He proposed that when seeding-time came round, "joyous bands" would go out from the cities and put in the crops. Having some experience of the drudgery of farm work that phrase impressed me. Similar bands would go out at harvest-time and garner the grain. Mr. Oliver was so dazed that he didn't say a word. He passed over the document and waited for my opinion. I had nothing to say. And yet neither of us is without a certain command of language.

The cumulative effect of this contact with the new altruism was that, when I started for home from Winnipeg, I reminded myself of the soul of Stephen Leacock's Melpomenus Jones, which escaped from its earthly tenement "like a hunted cat over the back-yard fence." I hoped devoutly that my kindly friend of the prairie freight would not succeed President Beatty at the flat-topped desk until we had been travelling for at least twenty-four hours. If we got through the rocky district and reached old Ontario, I could walk the rest of the way home.

Because of such experiences I am not unduly surprised at the kind of talk I hear among the advanced and kindly thinkers of labor circles. I hope to pick up a few more phrases as delightful as "joyous bands" and "get back to the primitive."

Surely, oh, surely it is high time that some one turned light and laughter on this muddle. Canada and the United States are alike in their need of a solution for this problem. They have more important matters pressing for attention than the question of who won the Great War. And, in concluding this chapter, let me record the astounding fact that as yet no one has assured me that the United States won the war.

[CHAPTER IV]

GRASPING THE NETTLE

We are told that the way to handle a nettle is to grasp it firmly. Never having had any need of handling a nettle, I have not tested the truth of this popular saying and consequently have some hesitation about using it in connection with our international relations. It is quite applicable as far as the stinging quality of the subject is concerned; but whether taking hold of it firmly will help matters remains to be seen. Anyway, I propose to set down the truth as I have found it without further persiflage or evasion.

It is beyond question that there is a growing bitterness between the United States and Great Britain—including the Dominions Overseas. On both sides of the borderline between Canada and the United States there are constant bitter expressions of opinion, and unless something can be done to check the evil the results may be disastrous. On the platform and in the press dislike and contempt are finding daily expression. What is the cause of this and what is its significance?

In the first place, there is the watchfulness and jealous sense of honor due to what Herbert Spencer has called the "bias of patriotism." Few patriotic citizens can avoid being irritated by any disparagement of the land of their birth. We are taught in the schools to be proud of our own country and to guard her rights even to the extent of giving our lives in her defence. This is something that has the approval of all governments and of most citizens. But the majority are firmly convinced that in order to love their own country it is not necessary to hate any other man's country. Though patriotism may be shown in the irritation between two countries it is not the cause of the irritation. We must seek the cause elsewhere.

During the later years of the war there was a wonderfully friendly feeling among the Allied countries. Since the signing of the armistice the friendship has been vanishing and a growing cleavage becoming evident. For over a year I have been watching the matter closely, and now that I have had a chance to investigate on both sides of the line I feel safe in making a few definite statements. To begin with, I found in Canada that dislike of the United States is confined very largely to the platform and press. The plain people—the farmers and all classes of workers—have very little feeling in the matter. They simply want a chance to put their affairs in order after the war. What I have been able to learn while visiting the United States has convinced me that the attitude of the farmers and workers of that country is either friendly or indifferent to the people of Canada. Then why the attitude of the press and platform? They are supposed to voice the sentiments of the great mass of the people.

That may have been the case in an earlier and undeveloped age, but the situation has changed. The partisan spirit which inclines people to stick to their own party organization through all vicissitudes of public opinion practically cancels their political influence. A million hidebound Conservative voters who can be depended on not to change their opinions will cancel a million hidebound Liberal voters. Therefore, the press and platform—not to mention the political workers who use more sordid and corrupt methods—direct their efforts to capturing the remaining vote that through ignorance, high-mindedness, discontent, or any other reason is not attached to either party. Thus it becomes evident that the utterances of the press and platform do not voice the sentiments of the mass of the people. They merely show the efforts that are being made to capture the floating vote which will finally decide in any election. They are sectional and often criminally reckless. There is no need of giving specific instances of the attempts to capture any particular group of voters outside of the party folds either in the United States or Canada. Every reader can call to mind instances where this has been done.

But this does not deal with the specific grievances that are aired in official utterances. Quite true, but it casts some light on the reason for airing them. But if we are to handle this nettle we must deal with these grievances.

Very well. First there is the egotism of Americans regarding the part they played in the war. This finds expression, not only in the press and from the platform, but in the movie shows. (As the movies play so important a part in making trouble I shall devote a separate chapter to them.) Then there is the question of exchange.

The adverse exchange rates cause much wrath in Canada, and though I suspect that speculation may have much to do with augmenting the difference, there is something fundamental in our trade relations that makes a certain amount of adverse exchange inevitable at the present time. If this is not true, then we loyal Canadians have much to answer for. If the Wall Street financiers are doing a grievous wrong to Canadians every time they discount a dollar, then how about us every time we discount a pound sterling and discount it more severely than our own dollar is discounted? The most loyal Canadian in dealing with the Mother Country takes advantage of adverse exchange. Does this mean disloyalty, hatred of Great Britain, and all greed and unkindness? Certainly not. No one thinks so for a moment. It is the result of international conditions. Then may not the attitude of the United States be governed by the same international conditions? Anyway, it can hardly be an avoidable policy, adopted maliciously and on purpose to humiliate and rob us, or we would not be adopting an avoidable, malicious policy of this kind against our Mother Country. One does not need to be deep in the mysteries of finance to realize this proposition. Either we are disloyal and rapacious toward Great Britain or the Americans not wholly rapacious in exchange dealings with us. They are entitled to the benefit of a doubt. This question of exchange and the wickedness of the United States is much in the mouths of the supporters of the high tariff—so it is possible that their inability to see the truth of the situation is due more to selfish purpose than to lack of financial understanding.

In the case of the press I got an impression of opinion from an American who controls or influences a great amount of publicity. I called to see him to ask if something could not be done to allay the irritation and improve the situation. With cheerful cynicism he laid bare the real situation.

"To tell you the truth we are making the most of the irritation for party reasons. But the other party is just as bad as we are. I know it is rotten and even dangerous, but we are forced to do it if we want to get the floating vote."

Few men in public life are so candid, but he wanted to be friendly and to save me trouble, and was talking as one public writer to another. I am thankful to him for his straight-forwardness in the matter. Now let us turn to Canada.

There are few Canadians who have forgotten how the indiscreet utterances of Mr. Champ Clark and of President Taft were used to rouse the wrath of Canadians when "no truck or trade with the Yankees" was a slogan of power. The success of that slogan entrenched the protectionists. And now that every possible cause of irritation between the neighboring countries is being commented upon and aggravated, it does not seem out of place to suspect that further tinkering on that wall is to be undertaken as one of our fall chores. This indicates that back of the patriotic jealousy displayed on the platform and in the press there is a sinister purpose. Men who use politics to achieve their purpose do not hesitate to stir up racial strife—no matter what the ultimate consequences. As this line of conduct has crystallized in Canada in the phrase "No truck or trade with the Yankees," the blame for playing with this evil fire rests on the party that benefits by the hatred provoked. They attain their ends by what a leader of the United Farmers of Ontario described as "the most criminal conduct possible to a public man."

For fear the reader may think I am holding a brief for free trade, I may as well state my personal position on that question also. I am not an out-and-out free trader. Though the theory of free trade satisfies my reason it is not supported by my experience. This is an imperfect world and free trade, like the single-tax, with which it is involved, is too perfect for our present state of development. It is rather a goal to be worked toward than a panacea to be applied suddenly. As I have long been of the opinion that almost every advance in history has been made through a benevolent opportunism, I believe in approaching the ultimate goal of free trade by steps, as opportunity affords. In consequence I have no deep quarrel with the protectionist or high-tariff advocate on the score of the application of his political and economic principles. But there is a matter on which I have an unappeasable quarrel with him. When he bolsters up his tariff wall by appeals to racial hatred he is guilty of a treason to humanity that cannot be lightly condoned. At the present time, when all humanity is crying for peace, the cultivation of race hatred is especially criminal. So if it should be found that the irritation existing between Canada and the United States is due to the desire of the supporters of the high tariff, then let us have free trade "red in tooth and claw." Tariff wars lead to blood wars and surely we have had enough of them.

[CHAPTER V]

REGISTERING REFORM

Possibly no one other thing has done so much to cause irritation between Canada and the United States as the film plays. As most of those used in Canada are manufactured in the United States, the jingoism they reveal arouses constant anger. During the war film plays were used as propaganda to arouse the American spirit and to awaken a pride in the achievements of American soldiers. Naturally these plays did not emphasize the heroism of the British and Canadians, and when exhibited in British territory, purely as a business venture, they did harm that no one stopped to compute. They earned money for their promoters and for the local movie houses, so what more need be considered? In the United States their political effect was admirable. They roused the war spirit of the people and stirred national pride. No one apparently took the trouble to give a thought to how these propaganda films would look to the returned soldiers of Canada and to a people nerve-racked by war. They would earn additional money in Canada—so let them go. Listen to any Canadian who is expressing ill-feeling toward the United States, just now, and you will find that nine times out of ten the irritation can be traced back to the movies.

Wishing to learn if it would be possible to remedy this international evil I decided to go to the fountain-head of the trouble. A friendly publisher arranged to have me meet one of the master minds in a film-producing company of world-wide activities. The modern Prospero would see me at 3.30, in his office in one of "the cloud-capped towers." Knowing that I must shake off all philosophic languor for this interview I went at it as if I were going to make a running jump of a new kind. A mile away from my destination I climbed into a high-powered car (borrowed) and approached the great man's office at the speed limit. An express elevator shot me up to the proper floor and I burst into the presence of the outer guard. By this time I had acquired the necessary momentum and, in reply to his swift, interrogatory glance, snapped out a card and "flashed."

"Mr. Swiftbrain—appointment—3.30."

He grabbed a telephone, repeated my claim of an appointment, listened a moment, then waved me to an upholstered chair that looked rather better than the ones from the Kaiser's Throne Room that are now for sale in New York.

"I am to send you in in five minutes!"

I was glad of the respite, for it would enable me to recover my breath. Office boys who were in the waiting-room—ready to "Post o'er land and ocean without rest" in obedience to the autocrat of the switchboard—were so full of the jazz-time spirit of this temple of the movies that they couldn't keep still. Even when resting, their feet beat time to some inaudible, syncopated rhythm.

During my five minutes of probation much business was transacted. Trembling writers of scenarios entered, left their manuscripts, and passed out. Girls with handfuls of documents minced in and out passing from one department to another, and each carried herself with the air of a film queen. Hasty young men registering "urgent business" passed through with the air of a Douglas Fairbanks or Dustin Farnum. Their well-tailored coat-tails streamed back like the robes of Hyperion when

"His flaming robes streamed out beyond his heels
And gave a roar as if of earthly fire."

Suddenly I heard the snap of a gold watch-case and an authoritative arm shot out, pointing to the door through which the main traffic was passing.

"Down to the far end! Turn to the left!—Room Umpty-Umph!"

Rising as if from a catapult I fell in step behind a hasty edition of Fatty Arbuckle. When I reached the properly numbered door and opened it, I was met by a man who knew my name and business. He registered "welcome" and waved me to a chair. I accepted the courtesy and registered "attention." He bounced back into his swivel chair and registered "candor." And he was astonishingly candid.

Movie plays are a purely business proposition. It made him sick to have people talk about ideals and art in connection with them. It was their business to give the public stories that would grip them and make them want to see the shows. If the people felt like hating any one or anything, give them plenty of hate stuff and play it up as long as it fills the houses. It is not their business to educate. They are practical business men, out after money.

He presently interrupted his monologue to answer the telephone, which had jingled at his elbow. I suspect that the interruption was part of the routine of the office. Anyway, I got my cue. He was to see his next visitor in five minutes. Resuming his monologue he impressed on me the fact that the one thing the movie firms are after is stories that will grip the public and make them give up their money.

Then I got up and registered "gratitude" while he registered "Don't mention it." We did a close-up hand-shake and I passed through the door. Returning toward the front entrance I was quite in accord with the spirit of the place and pranced like a horse with the spring-halt.

That, I think, is a fair presentation of the spirit and atmosphere of the fountain-head of the movie shows that are pleasing the people of the United States and rousing the wrath of Canadians. Only by giving a touch of burlesque is it possible to indicate what is done or how it is done. Here we have the greatest moulder of public opinion in the world—infinitely more powerful than the press because it makes emotion visible—and yet it is without any purpose higher than the grasping of money. There is no George Brown, Delane, or Greeley to use this tremendous power for the good of humanity. Sordid, exciting, without conscience, it is bad enough when devoted merely to money-making; but when used for purposes of propaganda it is a public menace. The dollars of the propagandist are just as good to the promoters of film plays as those of the public, and when one can get both it is a triumph. So, hurrah for the scenario that will get the support of the campaign fund, put across politics, either national or international, and at the same time win the nickels of the public. Get them going and coming! That is the motto! Never mind what the results may be—other than those that show in the box offices.

Of course these reflections are inspired by what I found in the United States. Now let me tell you something about Canada, where the movie business is in its infancy.

By a curious blunder I was invited to see a new film of which a private performance was to be given. It is seldom that I have ever seen anything so amazing as this movie show proved to be. The story was highly emotional and was enough to rouse the wrath of any one against the aliens in the Dominion. The political propaganda stuck out like a sore thumb, and if I had swallowed its presentation of conditions in Canada, I would have been quite ready to vote for the War Times Election Act or anything else that would suppress every one who did not support Imperialism and a lot of "isms" not nearly so respectable. But I had been through the West and had first-hand knowledge of the facts that were distorted in this play. It merely aroused laughter. It was what political experts would call "coarse work," but perhaps the public will never see it in all the rawness of that first performance. I was assured that it was to be edited and amended. My investigations afterwards forced from a responsible representative of the high-tariff interests a frank admission that the play already had political backing and that the private view I had inadvertently seen had been put on for the benefit of a selected audience of magnates and to get the support of the business interests.

These experiences have convinced me that irresponsible movie shows must be brought under control. It is not enough to have them censored so that immoral and pornographic plays may be kept from polluting the youth of the country. Some means must be found to make some one responsible—just as an editor or publisher is responsible—for the reckless political impressions they convey.

I am inclined to think that the part played by the movies in causing irritation between the United States and Allied countries is inadvertent. We all did jingo things to keep up our morale during the war. Such things were not harmful to other countries when confined within the borders of the countries using them, but the international character of American film enterprises has flaunted American jingoism in the face of the world—at a time when the world is not in the humor to endure it. It was not the intention to insult other countries, but the films could earn additional money—and what did anything else matter? It will be necessary to correct this evil if we are to have harmonious relations with our neighbors. Moreover, propaganda plays for home consumption must be put in the same class as patent medicine advertisements in the newspapers, if we are to have a healthy public opinion. We must have them properly labelled, with the formula of their ingredients shown in an introductory flash.

[CHAPTER VI]

THE ACCUSED

But neither the press, the movies, nor the exchange account fully for the attitude of the Allies toward the United States. The chief accusation against Americans at the present time is of callous selfishness. They have deserted the great cause of humanity to accumulate profits and play petty politics. Have it that way if you wish. Say your worst and prove it and you will accomplish nothing. Neither would anything be accomplished if the United States agreed to all of which she is accused and roused herself to do what her critics regard as her duty. The solution of the world's problems does not lie within the sphere of governments, and can neither be aided nor hindered by laws or covenants that statesmen and rulers can devise. The United States is now in practically the same position as the devastated nations of Europe. In spite of her swollen wealth her future depends on the conduct of her citizens rather than on the collective wisdom of political parties, governments or business interests. The earth hold of humanity has been broken by the war, no less in the United States and Canada than in the old world. Unless men and women return voluntarily to productive work, this glittering, unreal wealth will prove to be but gaudy trappings covering hunger and poverty. While we are concerning ourselves with world problems, the problems of food, clothing, and shelter are being despised as unworthy of our attention. We are increasing our stores of money while the supply of necessary things that money can buy is steadily diminishing. We are bringing nations to trial, the United States as well as Germany, in a courtroom that threatens to tumble about our heads. We are clamoring for justice but justice is impossible.

There is one great lesson, above all others, that has been taught by this war and that few have learned. Surely we should be able to see by now the futility of human justice. If those who have been affected by this war could live forever and the best human judgment could be exercised throughout eternity, we could not render justice to those who sinned or to those who suffered. The healing of the world does not wait on justice.

May one without irreverence go back to the birth of Christianity? At that time the world was groaning under the administration of Roman justice. Mosaic justice was also playing its part.

It is reasonably clear that the appeal of the new dispensation was strengthened by the inevitable reaction from the oppressions of justice. The Mosaic and Roman systems were the most marvellous ever devised, but tormented humanity cried aloud against them.

"The soul of man, like an unextinguished fire,
Yet burns towards Heaven with fierce reproach, and doubt,
And lamentation, and reluctant prayer,
Hurling up insurrection."

Out of that bitterness was born the one thought that has been of value to the human race. The amazing, divine discovery was made that forgiveness is better than justice and that only through kindness and brotherhood can life endure. That one flash of light has been the guiding star of all the great souls that have struggled and sacrificed themselves to lead the world to better things in the past two thousand years. But since the dawn of history men have been striving for that form of vengeance they call justice. And the most pathetic aspect of the present crisis is that we are harking back to the primitive and demanding justice on a scale never attempted before. We would even weigh nations in the scales of justice, though we have no adequate balance and no counterpoise.

Of course it would never do to ask an indignant and outraged world to forgive a Germany that has tried to destroy the hope of man. Very well. It does not matter whether you forgive or whether you punish. Though you forgive her, she will not be forgiven. Forgiveness will not save her from the disaster she has brought on herself no less than on others. And you cannot punish her without danger of further disasters. The whole matter—the Kaiser as well as the nations—has passed out of our hands to be dealt with by the awful compensations of higher laws than those that man can administer. And as for us—for all of us—we must face the future as individuals rather than as nations. In the terrible words of General Smuts, "Humanity has struck its tents and is once more on the march." And when humanity marched in the past it always marched for food—for lands of promise flowing with milk and honey. But the lands of promise have all been discovered. They have been mapped and are occupied. So the only thing left for humanity to do is to pitch its tents again—or lapse into anarchy. While I would not pretend to defend the United States for its present isolation and apparent indifference when so many of my compatriots—and those the ones supposed to speak with authority—are pointing the finger of scorn, I have a feeling that under this apparent indifference there is a blind, instinctive groping for the true solution of humanity's problem. I found the best people perplexed rather than defiant. They were raging at their own futility—futile because they could not yet see through the battle-smoke that still envelops the world. And I am hopeful that before long they will fulfil Kipling's estimate:

"While reproof around him rings
He turns a keen untroubled face
Home, to the instant need of things."

The charge is brought against them that they are without spiritual insight. I would give this accusation more weight if I had more respect for the spiritual pretensions of others. No man and no nation need lay claim to spiritual insight while clamoring for justice. The dispensation under which we are supposed to live is the dispensation of forgiveness and helpfulness. We profess the Golden Rule and yet demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Could anything be more pathetically absurd? If the world were not so wounded and stricken one might be moved to inextinguishable laughter by the pompous inanities of men who would administer God's justice in a world that has been brought to its present pitiful state by organized greed. The over-organization of humanity for profit made the Great Catastrophe inevitable and our cure for it is more and greater organizations. But "God is not mocked." When man established democracy it was implied that every citizen would prove capable of self-government, would do his full share of the work of the world. And now the safety of democracy depends, not on governments or on leagues of government, but on the willingness and ability of each citizen to do his part. In the past we went woefully astray. The ambition of every strong man was to accumulate wealth and leave behind him a family that would be freed from the need of performing the work of true citizens—that would live parasitically on the proceeds of claims on production which he established and for which he secured legal sanction. Instead of great democracies of citizens each doing their part, we developed organized, ruthless autocracies of industrialism and finance that made bloodless war on each other and established a social parasitism that amazed the world with its luxury and extravagance. But the hour of testing has come. Unless the great democracies of the West, the United States and Canada, can justify the gospel of freedom and equality they have been flaunting before the world, their fate will be quickly sealed. But if they can clothe their professions in deeds, and every citizen by his actions can show himself worthy to be a citizen of a true democracy, they will give the world the leadership it so sorely needs. To do this they must banish the old, hard fetish of justice—or if they must have justice let them render it, not demand it. If they take the true path it will matter little what happens to the wealth to which they have been devoted.

Indeed, nothing could be more disastrous to mankind than that the present swollen war wealth which is so evident and insulting in all the capitals of the world should become fixed and permanent. The establishment of this reckless wealth on a stable basis would justify the intolerable conviction that war is profitable and there would be no end to wars. The most wisely devised League of Nations could not prevent their recurrence. They would be more likely to increase than to disappear.

Let no one say that this would mean anarchy and the destruction of our social order. It would simply mean a return to the austere virtues of our fathers, under the law and order which our fathers established. Let it not be forgotten that generations of men and women have sacrificed themselves on the altar of humanity so that freedom might be made sure in his new world. With incredible labor that found its reward in the building of homes rather than in dollars they cleared away the forests and made the wilderness blossom. No one who believes in the God of nations can believe that so much high aspiration and generous effort can go down to defeat. In spite of misunderstandings, irritations, and the selfish, petty intrigues of politicians, the hope of humanity still lies with the democracies of the West. They bought their freedom at a great price, and, in spite of mistakes and follies, that freedom, and the example of their fathers, will point to them the path of duty.

[CHAPTER VII]

A BURDEN OF FARMERS

One interested hour was spent in the office of a captain of industry who attended to urgent work while I read a morning paper and awaited his leisure. As the nature of his business was largely Greek to me I could be allowed to overhear; but I was really more interested in the methods than in the matter of his transactions. The pressure of a button would bring an office boy, a secretary, or a salesman to his side, according to the needs of the moment. While he was going through his mail telegrams were delivered to him and the telephone jingled at his elbow. He dictated letters, talked over the telephone, and answered telegrams—even cablegrams—without leaving his desk. He not only talked to other business men in the city, but answered long-distance calls from other cities and ordered long-distance calls. If his activities could be traced in red lines on a map, they would resemble the charts of the nervous system I saw a few days ago when going through an Institute of Anatomy. His office was a ganglion of the modern business organism.

Listening idly to the multitude of orders that were issued I noticed presently that something was wrong. Though orders were placed and information received as through a sensitive system of nerves, the orders were being held up. There were outlaw strikes on the railways—and freight was not being moved. Stevedore unions were not only refusing to handle certain products of the company because they were packed in bags and were too dusty and messy for highly paid, well-dressed stevedores to handle, but they refused to let the employees of the company handle the stuff because they were not members of the union. That sounds absurdly unreasonable, but it is a recorded fact.

Keeping up the simile of business as a living organism, I think this would be regarded as symptomatic of a pathological condition of the circulatory system—to be technical, it might be described as arterio-sclerosis, or hardening of the arteries. A very deadly disease, and if the cities are beginning to suffer from it, the outlook is serious.

Now let us essay a burden of great cities.

It would be a safe thing to prophesy the downfall of New York, Boston, Philadelphia—of all the capitals of the world. Isaiah and the old prophets were discreet in prophesying against cities, for given enough time their prophecies were bound to be fulfilled.

"Of Ur and Erech and Accad who shall tell?
And Calneh in the land of Shinar? Time
Hath made them but the substance of a rhyme."

To continue borrowing from Archibald Lampman, where now are

"Memphis and Shushan, Carthage, Meroë"?

They have passed and are merely

"A sound of ancientness and majesty."

The list of dead cities that were once the capitals of empires is as long as the dusty tale of archæology. All have gone down and all must go. As it would not be considered sporting to prophesy a sure thing we shall leave the cities to their inevitable destiny. If one cared to examine into the matter it would be found that a day of wrath is approaching for them, and if there be a sure foundation for the law of the acceleration of civilization which has been announced recently the day is not far off. Indeed, it might be shown that all civilization is rapidly approaching a precipice, but every one is hopeful that Dr. Einstein or some equally profound philosopher will trammel the law of gravity so that we shall fall over the precipice slowly and land softly.

But enough of cities. The urgent need of to-day is for some one to prophesy against the farmers. The ultimate fate of civilization rests with them—and they are bowing down to the old gods of politics and power.

Let us consider their case.

In the modern farmer, free, educated, prosperous, we have the one new thing under the sun: something for which history has no precedent. The old cities and civilizations were all fed, supported, and enriched by the slave populations that worked the land, dug the mines, and did every kind of productive work. And when the cities went down the country perished also. But thanks to the ideals of our fathers, the farmers and laborers of to-day are educated like the free citizens of the ancient cities. If we had continued true to the ideals of our fathers, we should all have self-supporting homes of our own. But we must build cities, organize for profit, and live luxuriously.

Mark what has happened. Capital was accumulated in the cities. Capital gradually organized business and established it in the great centres. When business was centralized, labor was centralized and began to organize. Now capital and labor are at each other's throats and likely to prove themselves the substance of Shelley's symbols.

"We two will sink on the wide waves of ruin
Even as a vulture and a snake outspent
Drop, twisted in inextricable fight,
Into a shoreless sea."

At the present time the farmers are the sole inheritors of the ideals of our fathers. But like the foolish men of the cities they are also organizing for profit. They have forgotten that the home was the one great ideal of the men and women who braved the perils of the ocean and conquered the wilderness. Farming is above all a home-building occupation—rather than a money-making business. But now men no longer regard the place where they live as a home. It is merely a speculation in real estate. They try to estimate everything in terms of dollars—and the money profits are so meagre that all who are able are deserting the farms and joining in the great jazz-time dollar dance of the cities. The farmers are forsaking the substance for the glitter—or are organizing for political power so that they may divert the stream of dollars toward the farms. Of course it can be shown that under modern conditions there can be no home without money. But why trouble about modern conditions? The world is very old and has developed many great men and all that we know of good without the aid of modern conditions. Few of the poets and prophets and great leaders of the past were born in the cities. "Modern conditions"—luxury, extravagance, dissipation, and parasitism—undoubtedly encompassed the destruction of all the great cities whose names move sonorously in verse. And now the farmers are lusting for the "modern conditions" that are hurrying the cities to destruction.

Now that the farmers are educated and "profess apprehension," why do they not read the great portents of our time? Can they not see that some cosmic pendulum that measures the progress of man toward his destiny has started on its backward swing? All the great symbols and allegories by which we have been taught in the past are now being reversed.

After the Deluge men built the Tower of Babel so that they might not be destroyed. And for their presumption they were scattered by a confusion of tongues.

After the Great War—a man-made disaster as terrible as the Flood—we are having all the confused tongues of ancient Babel uniting in a cry that men must come together to make the world safe for democracy. What was scattered is reassembling.

We are told that in the beginning man was placed in a garden—on the land—but for his disobedience he was driven forth by cherubim with a flaming sword.

He built himself cities as places of refuge from the savage creatures and enemies of the country. But the cities betrayed his trust. They became great and terrible until now those who are disillusioned of "modern conditions" are turning toward the country as a refuge from the cities. The procedure has been reversed and all who have vision can see that a day will come—a day of hunger and fear—when man will be driven back to his garden by cherubim with a flaming sword.

But this is the old-time prophecy of woes to come—and pessimism is not popular. Let us return to everyday life and see what we can find of hope. At the risk of an anticlimax I shall venture to deal with what will seem but little things after your thoughts have been dealing with what we have ignorantly regarded as great things. Let us consider one little thing—that is the greatest thing in the world. Let us give a thought to the home.

While visiting the great cities I have visited in homes, and in the thing most complained of I have found the first ray of hope. There are no longer any servants for families of moderate means. The work of the home must be done by those who enjoy the home. Because of this there is a fuller and freer home life. Women of education and culture who have been compelled by the high cost of living to do their own work are doing it better than it was ever done by servants. They are better cooks than the cooks they had in the past, and all the members of the family are of necessity learning lessons of helpfulness. If the death-struggle of labor and capital should paralyze, or at least decentralize, civilization, we have an atavistic capacity to do our own work. Our forefathers did their own work and we look back to them proudly as being better than we are. The cities are full of men and women who were born on the farms and know how to do the work of farms, and when the truth of Job's words is brought home to them—"as for bread, it cometh from the earth"—they can go back to the earth with confidence. The true mission of the educated, thinking farmer to-day is to use his newly acquired power to preserve the new experiment in civilization tried by our fathers and which made the home rather than money the unit of success. Let them coöperate to establish their own homes and to help others to establish self-supporting homes and we shall have a more glorious civilization than has been. If we return to the vision and hope of those who established the democracies of the new world, the cherubim with the flaming sword may prove to be heralds, whose sword will be miraculously changed into a torch lighting us to a better world. But this change will be wrought, not by statesmen, but by men and women worthy to be citizens of a democracy—men and women who are not ashamed to do little things and do them well. And we are taught not to "despise the day of little things."

[CHAPTER VIII]

A WORLD DRAMA

While travelling from New York to Philadelphia I saw men at work in the fields for the first time in two weeks. I had been enjoying the great drama of business in one of the greatest cities of the world. But the sight of men at work in the fields suddenly reminded me that while walking the streets I was missing the annual production of "crops"—a drama as old as Time, that will run until the end of Time. As the significance of what was in progress dawned on me and gripped my imagination, I was puzzled to decide whether I should review this play as a tragedy or as a roaring farce. From one point of view it is pitiful to the point of tears; from another, it is broadly comic. Before deciding what treatment it shall be given, let us analyze the plot of the wonderful performance that will hold a world-wide stage through the spring, summer, and autumn. If we give it our undivided attention we shall find that it covers every form of human activity, and reveals in rapid action all the possibilities of human nature. It is the one play in all the world that deserves to be introduced by the greatest prologue ever written.

"O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene."

Having suggested the magnitude of the performance, I shall ask you to mark the performance, either in the theatre of your imagination, or by going out into the fields where it will be enacted; I am going to ask you to

"Admit me Chorus to this history:
Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play."

Once more the food of the world is to be produced. Working in accord with nature, man will sow seed, prune his trees, trim his vines, tend his herds and flocks, and bow his shoulders to the burden of toil, so that the world may be fed. To guide him in his work he draws on the long experience of the race and the enlightenment of modern science; to aid him he calls for the best tools and machinery that the brain can devise. As soon as the farmer drives his team to the field he stimulates activity in the colleges and laboratories and in all the mines and factories. Those who labor in the cities may go on with their work, for there will be food to pay for their products. But there is something more. Besides renewing the food supply of the world—the most necessary work of all, for we are never more than a few months away from the hunger line—the men who work in the fields will re-create the wealth of the world. Without being renewed by the interest and profits to be derived from the crops, Capital, that bulks so large and is often so insolent, would dwindle and disappear. Financiers, Manufacturers, Promoters, and Captains of Industry depend on the crops—on the labor of the men in the fields—as much as any one else. They devise their great schemes, launch their projects, and undertake their enterprises solely with a view to getting a share of the new wealth that will be taken from the fields and perfected by labor. The crops and the wages of the laboring men will pay debts contracted for necessities and luxuries, and pay the interest on borrowed money. The financial machinery of the world can work smoothly, for there will be a flood of new wealth when the crops are harvested. If the crops failed, or if the farmers refused to produce, the cities would be wiped out and the social fabric would crumble. The Government would be without revenues. If debts and interest were not paid, dividends on stocks and bonds would cease and the capitalist would be reduced to beggary. Without the yearly work of the farmers our magnificent civilization would relapse to barbarism and our great world drama would become a mad scramble of savages. From this point of view the farmer's part is entirely heroic. He is the demi-Atlas of the world, the "arm and bourgonet of men." In our great drama, introduced by bird song and lighted by the spring sunshine, he is surely cast for the title rôle. Alas, the pity of it! He has been too often merely the drudge—the serf who provided the luxuries of his over-lords.

Watch the drama while it unfolds. For weary months the men who are struggling with nature toil early and late, pit their skill against all the forces that oppose them, endure the droughts and storms and struggle against all the chances that might defeat them in producing the world's food. They are too busy to watch the drama. Often they are too busy for thought. All of them have hopes that may be fulfilled if the crops are good—little hopes compared with those of the men who are waiting in the wings for their cues. If things turn out well they may be able to put by something for the future, enjoy an excursion out into the amazing world, indulge in some coveted luxury or improve their homes and farms. But most of them will have to be satisfied with ordinary food, shelter, and clothing—just sufficient to carry them and their families through the winter until the great drama is staged again. But before they are sure of anything they must gather in their harvest and market it. Now begins the joyous comedy—the uproarious fun. The banks provide the counters—money—for "moving the crops." Loans are repaid to them with interest, and they thrive. Transportation companies, almost all built by the money of the people, though not owned by them, move the crops—and there is a golden stream of dividends. Middlemen, as "efficient" as pickpockets, handle the food of the world over and over, and at every turn profits are made. But it would be impossible in a brief review to trace the food from the farm to the table of that other poor dupe, the city laboring man. It reaches his table finally at famine prices. His food is assured and the great comedy of life can proceed. The profit gatherers, who work with the villain of the piece, Uncontrolled Capital, have their wealth as well as their food supply renewed, and they can revel and riot. All the arts flourish and the cities grow proud. The world is safe for another year, and then the performance will be repeated as it has been since the world began.

As this play is of human origin, developed in disobedience to many divine commands, I have no hesitation in suggesting a few improvements. As given at present, Capital has all the fat parts, and the men who do the real work are crowded off the stage. The vast majority are cast for "thinking parts," and are kept so busy that they have neither the time nor the energy to think. But some day they may think enough to discover that the leading actor, Capital, depends on them, instead of having them depend on him and his high-toned crowd. They may discover that Coöperation will give them all the assistance they need and that Capital can be made a servant instead of master. They may realize that the men who make the wealth of the world deserve a fair share of it. Coöperation will do away with the profits, interest, and dividends that now go to re-create every year the predatory Capital that supports social parasites. Wealth will not be divided, as some Utopians have dreamed, but the men who create wealth will be given the right to hold their fair share of it. When the play is properly rewritten, the men who do the work of food distribution and the distribution of all necessaries—and luxuries, for that matter—will be the servants of the people rather than their millionaire masters. A coöperating people will be more powerful than any corporation, and can employ the brains that are now being employed by capitalists who exploit them. And the task of rewriting the play will not be done by a political party elected on that platform. It will be done by the workers themselves. Any discerning critic can tell you that there is more economic progress in the formation of an egg-circle than can be won at a general election. The people are crushed at the present time, not because the Big Interests are so well organized, but because the people are not organized at all. The watchword of to-day is "Coöperate!" That is the slogan of universal brotherhood and of a new civilization that we can all enjoy. Every new organization of producers or consumers is a step forward and a blow to Capitalism. Every step they are making in the way of politics is usually a mistake—that tends to place them in the power of men more adroit than they can ever hope to be. When the actors in our play get to work and rewrite it, it will be a great and stimulating drama worth seeing. It will be robbed both of its tragical and farcical aspects and given a serene beauty. Organize the industry in which you are engaged and you will be rewriting your own lines in the great drama of life and making the situations in which you take part more dignified and satisfying. It is a glorious drama and one worth acting a part in, if all the people would see to it that they get their fair share of the fat lines and cut out the bombastic speeches of Uncontrolled Capital. Why not start to rewrite your lines to-day? When enough small organizations have been formed in which the members will coöperate, for their own good and for the good of all, it will be easy to reorganize our whole social system. An egg-circle, a beef-ring, a fruit-growers' association, a farmers' club, or a labor union will do as well as anything else. Organize for coöperation, and the baneful influences of both Capitalism and Partisan Politics will disappear. Organize for political action and you will be just where you were when you started. We must have politics, for we must have governments, but when governments act as umpires rather than as rulers in a coöperating world, politics will become a help to the world instead of a menace. Let us follow the advice of our heavy financial and industrial leaders and take business out of politics, but let us first coöperate to make the business our own. And now is the time to begin.

[CHAPTER IX]

A WORLD FOR SALE

Although I did not keep account of the matter, I have no hesitation in saying that in my travelling I have met more dealers in real estate than of any other class of men. One sat with me in the train between Hamilton and Toronto and dwelt on the advantages of real-estate investments in the Mountain City. Even foreign laborers who are unable to speak English are making thousands in real estate. In the observation car, travelling from Montreal to Boston, one of my fellow-passengers was an international real-estate agent. He had opened subdivisions in Seattle, Winnipeg, London, Montreal, and Brooklyn. He was one of the most optimistic men I have ever met. He could see possibilities even in the swamps that we passed and in the rocky slopes of New Hampshire and Vermont that were revealed through the car windows. I suspect that he would not hesitate to open a subdivision on the planet Mars, with a frontage on the leading canal, if he could get an astronomer to furnish him with a map and blue-prints. If he should decide to do this he would have no trouble selling corner lots, for the country is full of men and women who buy real estate on maps.

In New York I found friends debating whether to sell the homes they had established, by thrift and industry, so that they could take advantage of boom prices.

In Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, and Winnipeg it had been the same. Not only city properties, but farm lands were for sale everywhere. The friends I visited were all dealing in real estate on the side—no matter what their professions might be. This preoccupation led to some amusing consequences, and I have a happy recollection of one joyous half-hour in a mining town in British Columbia. I had been visiting a great smelter in the company of an engineer who dealt in real estate on the side.

As we were leaving the smelter he introduced me to the smoke expert of the institution. That sounds innocent enough, for, like me, you probably do not know what a "smoke expert" is. I asked for explanations, and right there the trouble began. I found that the "smoke expert" is really a botanical pathologist, whose business it is to show that smelter smoke does not cause all the damage that afflicts the crops of farmers and orchardists within a radius of fifty miles. As the real-estate agent had been telling me that British Columbia is entirely free from all bugs, blights, and pests, my interest was aroused at once.

"Do you mean to tell me that there really are blights and destructive fungi in this province?" I asked incredulously.

The "smoke expert" made a gesture of despair.

"The place is simply full of them."

"Come on! Don't listen to him!" yelled the real-estate man, recognizing the mistake he had made. "He's the damnedest liar in British Columbia."

"Wait a minute," I replied. "I want to know. That is what I am here for. Now, tell me please, please, what orchard pests there are?"

"Well, there are no coddling worms—"

"You'll admit that because no one ever sued the smelter for putting coddling worms in apples. Come along! Don't listen to him!"

"But there is fire-blight on pears—"

"That's a damned lie! I have a whole orchard of pears and there has never been a trace of fire-blight. Any fire-blight in this district has been caused by the smoke from your blithering smelter."

"But," I reproached him, "if something like fire-blight is caused by smelter smoke, isn't that just as bad as fire-blight? You didn't say anything to me about smelter smoke."

"It doesn't do any damage either—at least not much."

"But the farmers have been suing us," said the smoke expert. "Of course they had no reason to sue us because the damage was clearly done by fire-blight."

"Nothing of the kind! And, anyway, the prevailing wind carries the smelter smoke over the mountains where there are no orchards or farms. Aw, come along, and don't listen to him!"

The "smoke expert" smiled sadly and shook his head with gentle tolerance. Finding in me the first sympathetic listener he had had for years he persisted in making revelations.

"Last fall I found an interesting case of 'withered plum—"

"You couldn't convince the jury that it was a fungous growth that affected those plums."

"No, for they didn't want to be convinced. They wanted to soak us. Then there was that 'clover sickness.'"

Seeing that he couldn't stop what he had started, the disgusted real-estate agent collapsed into a chair while I had an illuminating chat with the "smoke expert." Occasionally he interrupted with a vivid protest, but he couldn't quench my thirst for knowledge, or the expert's desire to impart scientific information.

"Let me tell you what the fellows did!" he at last exclaimed triumphantly. "They took some healthy leaves and sprinkled them with sulphuric acid. This expert diagnosed it as shot-hole fungus—a kind that he had been looking for for years—a kind they have in Australia—"

"You're another!" said the expert. "There is real shot-hole fungus here!"

So the battle raged, but I shall not report it further. Juries of farmers have invariably decided against the learned and patient "smoke expert," and I have no desire to give the province a bad reputation as to blights and pests. I saw no evidences of them on either fruit or trees—but I'll wager that that real-estate agent will never again introduce his friend the "smoke expert" to a sympathetic and inquisitive visitor.

So it was wherever I went. So it was at home in the country. Real estate is being traded in everywhere.

A few months ago a writer in the "Toronto Globe" stated that Western Ontario is for sale. About the same time a writer in the "Saturday Evening Post" showed that the American corn belt is all for sale. People everywhere are ready to sell at a profit and move on.

The result of all this was to fix in my mind the conviction that the world is for sale.

One morning I awoke—or was I awake?—and found the world marvellously astir. A huge red flag hung down from the zenith and a jovial auctioneer with the moon for an auction block was about to offer the world for sale. Satan had foreclosed his mortgage, and Chaos, "The Anarch Old," was looking over the property as a prospective buyer. The Soul of Man, troubled and confused, was also in the market for the world and wondering if the only price he could offer—a list of irksome virtues—could possibly outweigh the alluring, shadowy, jazz-time pleasures that his opponent would flash before the nations.

Bringing down his gavel with a crash that arrested the attention of the universe, the auctioneer began his harangue.

"Look it over, gentlemen, look it over! Here is the greatest bargain ever offered for sale—a perfect prize package of a planet. It has been in existence a long time and all its possibilities are known. It is a perfect location for either a heaven or a hell, and has all the natural resources needed to make it one or the other. Its history shows the attempts that have been made in both directions. Let me recount them briefly. First, O Chaos, let me address myself to you.

"This world has just had a fiercer war than any one thought it was possible for man to wage. Millions have been slaughtered, millions have been wounded and crippled, millions have been starved to death, millions have been wasted by disease. The wonderful baying of the hell-hounds of war has been stilled, but a word would unleash the pack and they would harry man through air and earth and sea. Famine and Pestilence are feeding fat on the nations, and Lust, Greed, and Hate are revelling in all the capitals. To anyone wanting to start a private hell for his own amusement this is the greatest bargain ever offered. The work of building is almost complete. All that is needed is a little imagination and a consignment of sulphur. It is not ever necessary to provide a match. The world is full of fools, both high and low, who are only waiting for a chance to apply the match. Take my word for it, O Chaos, you will never again have such a chance to start a summer resort of your own, so consider well the price that you are willing to pay."

Turning to the Soul of Man, who had been reduced almost to despair by this horrid recital, the face of the auctioneer glowed like the sun, and with a voice as musical as summer winds in the elms he whispered:

"O Soul of Man, why art thou troubled? My words were but words of scorn and reproof. Behold now this world with the eyes of faith. Look at the fertile fields, flooded with sunshine—the rain-bearing clouds and the mystery of growth. Mark the little homes that dot the plains and cling to the wooded hills. Hear the laughter of children and the song of birds. Even the war was rich with deeds of heroic sacrifice. Charity, Mercy, and Science are striving to overtake Famine and Pestilence. Brotherhood waits for leadership. Truly there is here the matter for a new earth that will be a new heaven. Consider well the price that you are willing to pay."

Lifting up his voice till the universe rang with it, the auctioneer shouted:

"The sale is now on! What am I bid for this pendulous planet that swings forever from the throne of the sun? There is no reserve bid. The sale must be concluded to-day. What am I bid?"

"Wealth!" shouted Chaos. "Gold, silver, paper, unlimited credit!"

The nations roared applause.

"Contentment," offered the Soul of Man quietly.

The nations jeered.

Then the two bidders made alternate offers. Chaos began:

"Palaces!"

"Homes."

"Power!"

"Brotherhood."

"Idleness!"

"Industry."

"Extravagance!"

"Thrift."

"License!"

"Order."

While the bidding proceeded, tumult broke out among the nations. Some favored one bidder; some the other. As the tumult grew, the War God, who always walks before Chaos, tossed his plumed helmet and marshalled all his enginery. Once more his sword was to reap its harvest.

"The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
Hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
Wherein all things created first he weighed,
... In these he put two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight;
The latter quick up-flew, and kicked the beam;
... The fiend looked up and knew
His mounted scale above; no more; but fled
Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night."

The great auctioneer brought down his gavel.

"Sold to the Soul of Man, for a price that he can well afford to pay!"

Then I was awake, indeed, and as I looked about me I saw the fields flooded with sunshine, felt the caress of the summer breeze, and heard the song of birds. The children were shouting at their play—and the home was my home.

My brothers, we have a good bargain!

[CHAPTER X]

ORGANIZED FOR PROFIT

With a couple of chance acquaintances I was discussing everyday activities as reported in the daily papers. A quiet man with a poker face was listening to our talk. Suddenly he contributed a remark:

"This country is going to hell for lack of leadership."

That sounded familiar. It occurred to me that I had heard the remark before. I had heard it even in Canada. Shortly afterwards I learned that the man who had made the remark was a millionaire. Consequently his pontifical utterance did not surprise me. Monied men really feel deeply on the matter—but they expect some one else to give the leadership they so earnestly want. If you listen to their talk you will find that they give about every reason for the lack but the true one. The people lack leadership because they are not candid about where they want to go. There is a lot of talk about social justice, but justice is about the last thing that many people want. In fact, they seem to be afraid that they are going to get it. During the war, when the soldiers were fighting, dying, and passing through hell generally, those who stayed at home enjoyed a prosperity that never was known before. Capital made such profits as never were known before; Labor got such wages as never were known before; farmers, miners, fishermen, lumbermen—men of all classes enjoyed such prosperity as never was known before. And now they are clamoring for leaders who will enable them to keep the blood-bought riches and profits and the wages they got in the world's time of anguish. They are horrified to find that the bloated, unhealthy profits of war are losing their value through the operation of laws of compensation more inexorable than any ever devised by man. Although the Great War revealed the heroism and spirit of self-sacrifice in many, it aroused the selfishness of still more. That manufacturer blurted out a very prevalent conviction when he said, "Any man who didn't make money during the war must have had something wrong with him." And now these people are clamoring for leaders who will protect them in their selfishness. They want to be led into a beatific era, where each will get more than his share of the good things of life. It is a mistake to think that the big profiteers are the only ones who are to blame for existing conditions. There are shoals and swarms of little profiteers who are just as selfish and rapacious as the big ones. All they lack is capacity and opportunity, like the little devils described by Kipling. They

"Weep that they bin
Too small to sin
To the height of their desire."

Humanity will look in vain for true leadership until it is cleansed of its selfishness.

There are many who are suffering through no fault of their own—many who gave, toiled, and sacrificed so that freedom might endure, but they are not the ones whose voices are the loudest to-day. They believed that an era of justice and brotherly love would follow victory. To-day they are bewildered and stunned to find that their sacrifices were apparently made in vain. Many of the returned soldiers with whom I have talked are as homesick as they were in France for the conditions they left behind four or five years ago. This home land of insolent wealth and noisy grumblings—of strife and turmoil—is not the land for whose freedom they fought. They find it hard to realize that while they were offering their lives to save the world, the world went money-mad. Can they be blamed if they are touched with discouragement and disgust?

At the present time there is much in the papers about the reëducation of soldiers to fit them for a place in civil life. Here is another case where we are in danger of making a grievous mistake. There is need of reëducation, of course, but the soldiers are not the only ones who need to be reëducated. The present idea seems to be that the soldiers must be reëducated so as to enable them to follow some occupation in our social organization as it now stands. That will not do, my masters! It is not good enough! The military training these men have had educated them to sacrifice everything for the good of humanity—for the protection of their wives and families and for our protection. Now we propose to reëducate them so that they may try to compete with us in a struggle for existence that taxes the strength and resourcefulness of those whose strength is unwounded and who have made no sacrifices. Just think about it for a minute. What chance would our reëducated soldiers have against men who are already over-educated along these lines, and whose careers have not been interrupted by the need of making sacrifices for their country? Practically none, and it will be a poor reward to offer them for what they have done, and are doing, to push them into such an unequal struggle.

Every day it is becoming more apparent that the world cannot go on as it was. Unless we rid ourselves of some of our selfishness, we shall be forced to face more grievous problems than we are facing just now. The soldier element in our population and in the population of the world will be too great to be absorbed readily into an unchanged civil life. Our old god, Profits, will be dethroned, no matter how devotedly we worship him. The menace of a food shortage is making many people think more clearly than ever before, and with the possibility of world-hunger before us Prudhon's assertion that "profit is theft" does not look nearly so anarchistic as it did. We see that every man should be rewarded for his services, but the thought that any man should make profits when all are struggling to bear up under accumulated burdens is already beginning to provoke rage. We admit every man's right to make a living, but doubt his right to make a fortune. Our reëducation has begun, and we must see to it that it goes through properly. We must learn that success should depend on public service rather than on private greed. Not until we have learned that can we expect our soldiers to reënter civil life, and submit to its workaday burdens. And there will be no place in a reëducated world for parasites or people who will expect to live through a claim on the services of others. Though the subject is serious enough, one of Edward Lear's mocking limericks pops into my head as a symbolical description of the new state of affairs that seems inevitable:

"There was an old man who said, 'Well!
Will nobody answer this bell?
I have pulled day and night
Till my hair was grown white.
But nobody answers this bell.'"

I am afraid that the people who expect to get their living simply by ringing a bell will do more than get white hair.

[CHAPTER XI]

A MAJORITY WILL BE SAVED

One hates to have anything to do with the promulgation of a new law, especially when temperamentally in accord with the poet Carman who

"Could always be at home
Just beyond the reach of rule."

But the new law is already in existence, and as all I propose to do is modestly to discover its operations, I feel less compunction in the matter. But before making the announcement it is necessary to clear the ground by calling attention to another law that is apparently producing the chaotic conditions that are causing so much alarm at the present time. Then the new law may be offered as a balm that is to cure existing evils. Having reassured the mind of the reader we may now proceed.

Somewhere in his voluminous writings Karl Marx makes the arresting statement that "all capitalistic organizations carry within themselves the elements of their own destruction." (Solomon said long before Marx, "The prosperity of fools shall destroy them.") It might be demonstrated that the destroying element is "greed" for wealth and power, but it is enough to call attention to the fact that the work of destruction is at present in progress. Every morning our newspapers are calling attention to the fact that political parties are destroying themselves through lust for power and because they are dominated by the forces of organized Greed.

Capital is at present in a parlous condition because it is suspected of greedy profiteering and the plain people are in the mood to bring it to book.

Labor, that was enabled to organize because of the work done by Capital in centralizing industry for the purpose of increasing profits, is in danger of destroying itself by its exactions, by general strikes, and by making labor conditions in the cities so remunerative and attractive that no one wants to stay on the farms to do the necessary but heavy and mussy work of food production.

There are even those who point out that the churches are destroying their usefulness by a rage for over-organization and financial stability, but that is a question that no cautious man would care to review.

Now the cities, those organized centres of humanity, appear to be passionately intent on committing suicide. In this they are receiving material aid from governments, but it seems useless for any one to offer a protest. When a delegation of farmers recently waited on Governor Smith, of New York, to protest against the adoption of daylight saving legislation, he rebuked them severely for their class selfishness. No one seems to realize that daylight saving is simply a gesture in the progress of city suicide. The few laborers to be found on the farms naturally want to take advantage of the daylight saving law, with the result that they are idle in the morning hours when the dew makes impracticable the cultivation of root crops, corn, etc., and the gathering of hay and sheaves. And besides being idle at the expense of the farmers in the morning, they are idle for their own enjoyment in the late afternoon and evening when field work can be attended to most satisfactorily. Besides, the farmer is obliged to do his own milking and chores while his highly paid hired man goes to town to enjoy the movies. The result is that farmers are forced to limit their enterprises to the amount of work that can be done by themselves and their families. In many cases it would not pay them to employ a hired man. Indeed, cases have come under my personal observation where farmers found it more practicable to sell their farms and hire out with farmers who thought they could contend with the new adverse conditions. And presently these farmers who hired out followed the general trend of the rural population and moved to the cities where they could have shorter hours and more attractive conditions.

The "New York Sun and Herald" had an editorial recently in which it spoke of the farmers going on strike. They are not going on strike, but they are limiting productions to what they can do themselves—and the result is the same. They are not doing this from desire, but through the compulsion of circumstances.

Daylight saving, however, is only one of the many methods employed to uproot humanity from the soil and enable the cities to commit suicide by starvation.

Critics of the tariff have shown how the protection of manufactures causes higher wages to prevail in the cities and withdraws men from the productions of food. Agricultural education and the farmers' movement have tended to centre the attention of the farmer on money-making—rather than on home-building—and that is disastrous. The farmer is keeping books, and as home-making cannot be expressed either by single entry or double entry, he applies the dollar test to everything with the result that in many places food crops are being discarded for profitable cash crops, such as tobacco, sugar-beets, etc.

The farmer is finding out what crops do not pay in dollars and is discarding them—thereby increasing the various shortages. In order to make him efficient in this destructive work, governments are imposing income taxes and compelling the farmer to keep books. And no one is calling attention to the basic fact that farming is above all a home-making business and that money-making is secondary. Our pioneer fathers raised all crops for their own use, with the result that they had plenty and a surplus to feed the cities of those days.

The whole tendency of the time is to make the country more like the cities—to give the farm city advantages. Cities are not content with increasing their wealth and population. They promote radial railways and manufacture automobiles to bring the farmers to the cities. They educate them to patronize the movies and follow the fashions. Every day the farms are becoming more like the cities. Farm children are given city educations and they develop city tastes. The world is mad on the building of cities. Some months ago an enthusiast sitting in the chair beside me in the lobby of a Toronto hotel showed me how the development of hydro-electric power on the Niagara River and the St. Lawrence would finally transform New York State and the Province of Ontario into one vast city from Manhattan to Port Arthur. And he added triumphantly:

"Then we could dictate to the world."

It sounded very progressive and alluring, but as I was waiting for the dining-room to open, the promptings of appetite led me to wonder how this great city of the future is to be fed.

The simple fact is that the country is getting so like the cities that it is stopping the production of food, and unless the tide turns the cities and the country will commit suicide together. But as indicated in a previous chapter there is a door of hope. Our fathers laid the foundations of a country civilization, richer and more satisfying than any city civilization the world has known. If we turn in time and build on that foundation the predictions of all the prophets will be confuted.

Now the time has come to announce the new law, the law of reversal which has been touched upon in a previous chapter. It has already begun to operate and all that remains is for the majority to fall in line with it.

And the majority will do this.

In the great crises of the past it was predicted that "a remnant will be saved."

The time has come to announce the reversal of this law and proclaim that "a majority will be saved."

If you stop to weigh recent events, you will find that there is a sound reason for this proclamation. Since the signing of the armistice there have been strikes, both authorized and "outlaw," that interfered with the rights of the majority of the people. And the people did not endure them tamely. In Winnipeg, Seattle, New Jersey, and elsewhere the people undertook to do the work that was being stopped by the strikers. In almost all these cases the volunteer workers went too far in their manifestations—forgot the need of adhering to legal methods. But they made it quite clear that the big, quaking, foolish majority is no longer in the mood to put up with the tyranny of noisy minorities. All strikes and disturbances in the transaction of business cause more trouble and suffering to the ordinary citizens than to those who are directly involved. And experience has shown that the ordinary people of Canada and the United States are not ordinary. On the battlefields of Europe the privates on many occasions showed themselves as resourceful as their officers and as ready to cope with difficult problems. Those whose affairs are being interfered with by men who depart from constitutional methods to redress their grievances are not an ignorant and oppressed mob, but men who have been accustomed all their lives to freedom and legal methods. They are not lacking in courage or initiative, and are entirely capable of calling "bluffs" of all kinds. It so happens that the "bluff" of some irresponsible agitators is the first that has been forced on their attention, and their response is the most cheering news we have had for many a day. It may mean the beginning of a better era. Most of the wrongs from which struggling humanity suffers are due to "bluffs"—some of them very respectable and imposing—and if the people start to call them we shall have a notable house-cleaning. Moreover, all these can be called without departing from the constitutional methods established by our fathers, and which our sons so heroically defended.