His pen is rust, his bones are dust (or soon will be), his
soul is with the saints, we trust.
Ruskin is to be buried in Westminster Abbey. It is a fine home
for a dead man, with Chatham and his great son Pitt in one tomb,
and the other great skeletons of a great race mouldering side by
side so neighborly.
The death of a wolf means a meal for the other wolves. The death
of a great man means a meal--mental instead of physical--for
those left behind. Wolves feed their STOMACHS--we feed our
BRAINS--on the dead.
There is many a meal for the hungry brain in Ruskin's remains.
We offer now a light breakfast to that galaxy of American talent
called "editorial writers."
Editorial writing may be defined in general as "the art of saying
in a commonplace and inoffensive way what everybody knew long
ago." There are a great many competent editorial writers, and
the bittern carrying on his trade by the side of some swamp is
about as influential as ten ordinary editorial writers rolled
into one.
Why is it that we are so worthless, O editorial writers? Why
do we produce such feeble results? Why do we talk daily through
our newspapers to ten millions of people and yet have not
influence to elect a dog catcher?
Simply because we want to sound wise, when that is impossible.
Simply because we are foolish enough to think that commonplaces
passed through our commonplace minds acquire some new value. We
start off with a wrong notion. We think that we are going to
lead, that we are going to remedy, that we are going to DO THE
PUBLIC THINKING FOR THE PUBLIC.
Sad nonsense. The best that the best editorial writer can
achieve is to make the reader think for himself. At this point
we ask our fellow editorial men--our superiors, of course--to
adopt Ruskin's idea of a useful writer.
In a letter to Mrs. Carlyle, written when he was a young man, he
outlined the purpose which he carried out, and which explains his
usefulness to his fellow-men:
"I have a great hope of disturbing the public peace in various
directions."
This was his way of saying that he hoped to stir up
dissatisfaction, to provoke irritation, impatience and a
determination to do better among the unfortunate. He did good,
because he awoke thought in thousands of others, in millions of
others.
Editorial writers, don't you know that stirring up
dissatisfaction is the greatest work you can do?
Tell the poor man ten thousand times:
"There is no reason why you should be overworked. There is no
reason why your children should be half-fed and half-educated.
There is no reason why you should sweat to fatten others."
Tell them this often enough, stir up their determination
sufficiently--they will find their own remedies.
If you want to drive out the handful of organized rogues that
control politics and traffic in votes, don't talk smooth
platitudes. Tell the people over and over again that the thieves
ARE thieves, that they should be in jail, that honest government
would mean happier citizens, that the INDIVIDUAL CITIZEN is
responsible. Keep at it, and the country will be made better by
those who alone can make it better--the people. ----
On the front platform a fat policeman said, after deep thought:
"Well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good."
The driver, this writer and an Italian workman looked at the
policeman in deep admiration. It was so evident that he had the
making in him of an expensive editorial writer. He could say so
solemnly and authoritatively what every living man knew by heart.
Suppose you stop spouting platitudes, editorial gentlemen, and
try your hand at stirring up plain, everyday antagonism to
existing false conditions. "Disturb the public peace," as Ruskin
put it. You must know that you can't win the fights
individually, so be like the Norse maidens that stirred up the
real fighters to do their duty. Keep singing to the public that
it is their duty to fight. They will fight and win, and thank
you for the suggestion.