the power of control over appropriation bills and by establishing a
definite responsibility for them. Two methods have been proposed.
President Taft in a special message urged upon Congress the plan of a
national budget. The various departments would prepare the estimates as
now; these would be diligently studied and coördinated, with constant
reference to the estimated revenue of the year; and the Executive
would then submit to Congress such a budget statement as in most other
countries the legislative body receives from the Government. In the
House of Representatives this budget would be considered by a budget
committee, or, if the old name were retained, by the Committee on
Appropriations. And the report of that committee, of course, would
be subject to discussion and amendment by the House. Representative
Fitzgerald of the Appropriations Committee and ex-Speaker Cannon agree
in advising a return to the practice of intrusting, the preparation of
appropriation bills to a single Committee on Appropriations.
Prior to the year 1865, the Committee on Ways and Means had control of
appropriation bills. Then the Committee on Appropriations was created,
with full control of supply bills. In 1885, because of jealousy of the
great power exercised by Samuel J. Randall, the bills making provision
for the army, the diplomatic and consular service, the military
academy, the navy, Indian affairs, and the post-office, were taken away
from the Committee on Appropriations. This change marked the beginning
of the era of extravagance. Under the present system, appropriations
are made in thirteen annual bills, and “eight different committees,
unrelated to one another, without coöperation, are charged with the
duty” of preparing these bills. No fairer invitation to extravagance
could be issued. Each committee works with regard only to itself,
and, as we have seen, all together work without regard to the revenue
side of the account. Coordination is impossible, and no balanced and
well-apportioned budget could be the result of such a system.
The national-budget plan proposed by Mr. Taft should have the most
serious consideration of Congress and of the country. Objection is made
that this plan is “wholly inapplicable to our system of government.”
It may be admitted at once that it is wholly incongruous with the
present “system” of Congress in respect to appropriations. It would
smash in both heads of the “pork-barrel,” and apprehension of that
catastrophe, rather than any constitutional scruple, we imagine, is
the motive of the objections that have been raised. It is true that
the House under the Constitution originates revenue bills. But there
is no constitutional impediment to the submission of estimates by
the Executive, since that has been the practice of the Government
since the beginning. A budget based upon the “needs of the Government
economically administered,” and scrupulously adjusted to the revenue
account, is the most promising remedy for the evils of the present
method of preparing bills in eight committees, working with no
recognized relation or understanding, under which extravagance has
grown into a habit.
ERRATUM
In the April ~Century~, on page 821, by a misapprehension M.
André Tardieu was spoken of as the editor of the “Revue des Deux
Mondes,” to which he is a contributor. The editor is M. Francis Charmes
of the French Academy.--~The Editor.~
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OPEN LETTERS]
ON THE LADY AND HER BOOK
_A Plea for the Suppression of a Catchword_
BY HELEN MINTURN SEYMOUR
[Illustration]
_My dear George_:
The magazine containing “Confessions of a Novel Reader” arrived not
two hours ago, and I have just come from its perusal. When a young man
cares enough about his spinster aunt to send her his latest literary
production on the very day it appears it does seem ungracious to do
what I am about to do--make the letter of acknowledgment one continuous
complaint. But you touched me on a sensitive spot, George. Your essay
proved the proverbial straw, the drop that filled a cup of bitterness
to overflowing.
Perhaps you suspect that this tirade comes from an elderly New
Englander’s aversion to those very outspoken writers whom you admire.
Not a bit of it. Worship at whatever shrine you please. I, too, in my
young days, distressed my elders by my attachment to strange gods.
It is a waste of time to be shocked, since most of us have gone in
for “daring” literature when we were green in judgment. It is a phase
of youth, like a boy’s swagger. No, all the trouble came from one
little paragraph, which you probably never dreamed would upset me. You
said--oh, you said--that no woman enjoys Dumas! That cut me to the
heart, George,--and coming from you!
“A woman cannot read--” “A woman does not like--” We have heard those
expressions so often! Sometimes the statement is used to illustrate the
limitations of feminine sympathy. Sometimes the supposed limitations of
feminine sympathy are used to support the statement. I don’t know which
is worse, to go softly all one’s days, lest some individual weakness be
foisted on the whole unfortunate sex, or to feel that individual tastes
avail nothing as examples of female character.
Hark to Mr. Paul Elmer More on Christina Rossetti. He finds her
“perfectly passive attitude toward the powers that command her heart
and soul” makes her “the purest expression in English of the feminine
genius.” Mrs. Browning sinks to a lower level because “her political
opinions, her passion for reform, her scholarship ... simply carry her
into the sphere of masculine poets, where she suffers by comparison.”
But, “even within the range of strictly feminine powers her genius
is not simple and typical.” How he comes to his conclusion regarding
the typical woman Mr. More neglects to tell us. But you will observe
the advantage of this method for the doctrinaire. One has only to
accept a certain premise (it matters not what), and by excluding as
“not typical” every instance which might contradict it one can prove
anything. Thus, a certain book on the Negro proved, some years ago,
that the colored race was a hopeless mass of laziness, vice, and
stupidity. The writer hastened to forestall criticism by declaring that
the well-conducted Negro, wherever and whenever found, was not typical
of the race.
Here comes Dr. William Lyon Phelps, all amazement because women have
enjoyed the soldier tales of Kipling. To him the preference is as
out of place in a woman as her presence in a bar-room amid oaths and
tobacco-juice. Well, if there were as much color, adventure, and
excellent broad comedy in the bar-room as in the best of these stories
a lady might even forgive the profanity and the filthy floor. And
you must remember that life, for all the realists may say, is not
literature. We take our broad comedy, selected and arranged, from an
author. Life is like a variety show; we sit through a deal of vulgar
stupidity for the sake of a laugh or two. Furthermore, I believe plenty
of men who enjoy _Mistress Doll Common_ when Ben Jonson leads her on
the stage would find her sadly dull in real life. Perhaps I have grown
more patient with the limitations of sex since the days when I read
“Monte Cristo” in the hayloft; but I still fume under that particular
form of petticoat tyranny which would extend to books. Sex may pervade
all the departments of life, but I hold that it should stop at the
library door.
Divest yourself of certain odious catchwords, my dear boy. Toss certain
theories into the waste-basket, where they belong. Forget that any one
ever called woman “the subjective sex,” and that somebody described
her as a “divine totality” (I think it was divine). Any superfluous
subjectiveness is wearing away in the freer air which has done so much
to destroy woman’s “personal outlook.” Remember that women are no more
of a piece than are their fathers or brothers, but a hodge-podge of
miscellaneous and often contradictory tastes. “Tell me what you eat
and I will tell you what you are,” runs the saying. “Tell me what you
read and I will tell you what you are,” says the critic by implication.
Now, what is that middle-aged relative of mine who keeps a place in her
heart of hearts for “Pride and Prejudice” and “Pan Michael,” for “The
Essays of Elia” and “Junius’s Letters”? Verily, we seek our books as we
seek the society of many friends, to suit a mood, with no regard for
totalities.
By the way, is not this just another instance of that mania for
pigeonholing human tastes and playing them off against one another?
If you appreciate Sienkiewicz, you must share the opinion of “The
Virginian” (and Mr. Wister) regarding Jane Austen; and if you find
entertainment in the human comedy as played in English country towns
at the end of the eighteenth century, it stands to reason that you are
not the person for the Poland of the seventeenth. It avails you little
to protest that you find an equal pleasure in routing _Lady Catherine_
with _Elizabeth_ and Tartars with _Volodyovski_. One of these days I
intend to found a society for the suppression of useless comparisons.
I can understand how a Trinitarian and a Unitarian, a Democrat and a
Republican, a suffragist and an anti-suffragist might drift naturally
into discussion. But why, when I speak a good word for the canine race,
must my acquaintance, B, launch aggressively into praise of cats, as if
my love of dogs were a challenge? Why may I not enjoy Tennyson without
calling down on myself the scorn of the Browningite? It annoys me to
have my pets or my poets made the excuse for a wrangle. I refuse to
commit myself to any type of novel.
But, you may remind me, I went so far as to keep a parrot “once, long
ago.” I plead guilty, yet, Mark Twain to the contrary, a parrot is no
index to character. _John Silver_ kept one, but nobody ever compared
him to a maiden lady.
So, dear George, when you meet some gentle spinster with a flavor of
“Cranford” about her, give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she
likes nothing better than to swagger in imagination through the streets
of old Paris in company with the immortal three, brandishing a sheaf of
rapiers taken from the cardinal’s guard.
--And between you and me, George, I never saw a “typical woman.”
Your affectionate aunt,
_Anne Coddington_.
ON THE USE OF HYPERBOLE IN ADVERTISING
_From a Lady who Suffers from Skepticism to a Friend who is Healthily
Credulous_
BY AGNES REPPLIER
[Illustration]
_My dear Eleanor_:
No, Eleanor, I have not read “The Three Golden Apples.” I have not even
read the reviews. But I _have_ read the publishers’ notice, because
they were good enough to send it to me. They say the book is the
literary masterpiece of our day, that it stands unrivaled in tensity
of situation, that it is an epoch-making narrative, and a masterly
contribution to the problems that confront the thinking world. Upon
which I find myself murmuring with _Sancho Panza_, “Nothing else, mine
honest friend?” Why not say simply and plainly that it is the greatest
novel ever written, and that Clarence Coventry (have you ever met him,
Eleanor? He is a charming man) is the greatest novelist ever born? Why,
when people are soaring in the pure and limitless realms of fancy,
should they stop short, as if they were impeded by facts?
Now even if I did not know Clarence--who writes quite as well as his
neighbors--I should be chilled into apathy by the publishers’ red-hot
enthusiasm. The phrase “epoch-making” is calculated to chill any reader
who has encountered it before and who remembers what it usually means.
And though I am well aware that epochs are not made or marred by even
a readable novel, I don’t like being told pure nonsense, and I don’t
like being hounded by advertisements. Why, Eleanor, since I have been
running over to New York every few weeks to see Amy and the children,
and staring out of the car-windows at ninety weary miles of continuous
advertising, I am cured forever of touching pills or pickles.
Yet they tell me (though I don’t believe it) that the success of any
business venture depends wholly and entirely on its advertisements;
that if people are told often enough to buy a thing they end by buying
it; that if they are told imperatively or persuasively they buy it a
little sooner; and that they can be startled into buying it at once. I
have been given to understand that the artless expedient of printing an
advertisement upside-down impels hundreds of men and women to purchase
the object or visit the attraction so derided.
But we are not, in other respects, a child-like nation; I find a
great deal of incredulity in this world when it comes to things
worth believing. Why, then, this touching simplicity in the face of
a transparent artifice? Does a young man really believe that if he
eats one kind of cereal rather than another he will become a great
financier? That is virtually what he is told. But if he will add up the
financiers on the one hand, and the cereal-eaters on the other, he will
find his figures disheartening.
The other day I received a long and exceedingly intimate communication,
which began “Why not be Beautiful?”, and which (assuming ungraciously
that I was ugly) gave me so many good reasons for altering my estate,
that I began to fear I was “resisting grace” by retaining a single
feature. A beautiful woman, I was reminded, “has the world at her feet,
and can nobly mold the characters of men.” All this for thirty dollars,
Eleanor! And I have so many friends whose characters--or at least whose
habits--would “thole a mend.” Do you think, if I paid thirty dollars
to be beautiful--in an elderly fashion--I could break Archie Hamilton
of contradicting every innocent statement made in his presence (he’d
say the sea wasn’t salt if he had a chance), and induce Dr. Nett not
to tell us any more about the Panama Canal? It would be money well
invested; but I fear--I fear--
The amazing thing about the whole business is that it should be worth
while. Last winter in a magazine I read a very serious and sanguine
paper called “A Revolution in Advertising.” The writer--it is always
a woman who believes in the perfectibility of our fallen race--wanted
advertisers, one and all, to abandon romance and become educational
mediums. She begged them to give us their aid in apportioning our
incomes, to tell us “facts about economy and expenditure,” to impart to
us the secrets of skill and the principles of science. She sought to
make our department stores “museums of vital importance.” As the stores
are already concert-halls and picture-galleries, cooking-schools,
day nurseries, and vaudeville shows, it seems grasping to ask them
to be museums as well; but to expect them to teach us the value of
economy is like expecting the steamship companies to teach us the
advantages of staying at home. It is not, after all, the money we save,
but the money we spend, which benefits the shopkeeper. He may tell
us that we economize when we buy a seventy-five-dollar costume for
thirty-nine dollars and a half. According to his computation we shall
save thirty-five dollars and fifty cents--quite a comfortable sum--by
so doing. Who was it that said that figures lie more than anything
in the world except facts; and by what system, I often wonder, does
the advertiser regulate his choice of numerals? Human greed and human
credulity are his only guides. If he said the costume was reduced from
seventy-five dollars to sixty dollars, we’d say it wasn’t worth while;
and if he said it was reduced from seventy-five to fifteen, we’d say
we didn’t believe it; so he has to choose some happy medium which will
sound both tempting and trustworthy. He depends on our gullibility, and
he does not depend in vain.
What I like best, however, are the ingenious appeals that cast all
cramping veracities to the winds. I like being invited (don’t laugh, I
can show you the advertisement) to grow potatoes in a closet, or in my
spare room. “Method cheap, simple, and sure.” “No digging, no hoeing”
(I should think not, in my spare room!). All the potatoes I want to
eat, and “immense profits” if I send them to market. No labor involved,
and no annoyance, save possibly the loss of an occasional guest, as I
could not well have friends sleeping in my potato-patch. I have heard
of people raising mushrooms and angleworms in their cellars (I’d as
soon eat one as the other); but a truck-garden in the next room would
be living in the heart of nature.
And now Massachusetts, in a spasm of integrity, is trying to restrain
the exuberance of the advertiser, to clip his wings, and teach him
the worth of sobriety. The State proposes to abolish fraudulent
advertisements, and to construe the word “fraudulent” so that it will
cover any statement that can be proved to be false. A thing must really
and truly be just what the advertiser says it is. But oh, Eleanor,
what a tangle for the law to smooth out! If, like the three rogues in
the Hindoo legend, you sell a dog for a sheep, that, of course, is a
transparent lie. But if you say that Clarence Coventry’s book is an
“epoch-making narrative,” who shall prove the contrary? We’d have to
wait so long to find out the truth that our graves would yawn for us in
the interval. And if in 1950 the student of social science were asked,
“Who wrote ‘The Three Golden Apples,’ and what influence did it have
upon its day?” and he should answer--very naturally--that he never
had heard of it, the time for investigation would be over. Clarence,
and the publishers, and “The Three Golden Apples” would all be dead
together.
Your affectionate friend,
_Agatha Reynolds_.
P.S. Don’t send me the book for a birthday present.
[Illustration: IN LIGHTER VEIN]
[Illustration: A Cubist Romance.]
TEXT AND PICTURES BY OLIVER HERFORD
A sculptor once, in search of fame
(I can’t recall the sculptor’s name),
Turned Cubist, and at once began
A statue on the Cubist plan.
The statue, I need hardly say,
Was something in the Venus way,
And as its form grew bit by bit,
The sculptor fell in love with it.
Then came a wonderful idea:
He named his statue Galatea,
Which, by the way, reminds me that
His own name was Pygmalion Pratt.
One day it chanced Pygmalion came
To read the legend of his name
And hers, and prayed that fiction might
Repeat itself for his delight.
When, lo! the cubic feet of stone
Turned all at once to flesh and bone,
And Galatea’s cubic face
Met his in angular embrace.
Short-lived was Galatea’s bliss;
She soon guessed something was amiss,
And from the wall, in modish dress,
A Gibson girl confirmed her guess.
“Pygmalion dear,” she cried, “oh, please
Buy me some pretty frills like these!”
Then, meeting his astonished stare,
Blushed to the cube roots of her hair.
Picture the curious crowds they drew
As they strolled up Fifth Avenue!
Think of the modistes asked to drape
Miss Galatea’s cubic shape!
[Illustration]
When Galatea came to see
The sheer impossibility
Of getting clothes, without ado
She took to posing for _le nu_.
And now she leads (to end my tale)
A model life in Bloomingdale,
Painted and sculptured and adored
By inmates of the Cubist ward.
[Illustration]
AN AFTER-DINNER STORY
BY SILAS HARRISON
AN ANECDOTE OF MCKINLEY
President McKinley’s scrupulous loyalty to his cabinet officers is
spoken of as one of his characteristics. It is said that he never went
over the heads of his secretaries to consult an assistant, but held
each to responsibility for his department.
Of all the events of his administration probably none was a source
of more anxiety to him than the decision of the Supreme Court on the
status of the colonies. It was a matter of great moment whether the
highest judicial body should uphold the view of the Administration
that the Constitution sanctioned the possession of colonies which were
not granted full representation. There were conflicting rumors and
forecasts of the color of the decision, and these added to the tension
felt at Washington. Shortly before the announcement of the finding of
the court a subordinate officer of one of the Departments appeared
at the White House, at an unusual hour, and insisted upon seeing the
President on the plea of important business. Having been admitted, he
came at once to his errand.
“Mr. President, I have some good news for you. I have just learned
authoritatively that the decision of the Supreme Court is to be in your
favor.” He fairly glowed with the importance of his welcome message.
“Thank you,” said Mr. McKinley quietly, “that _is_ good news. But have
you informed your chief?”
“No, Mr. President; I thought you ought to be the first to know it.”
“Well, Mr.----, I’m sorry for that. Now, will you please do me the
favor to go at once to your chief and give him the information, so that
_he_ may communicate it to _me_.”
OLD DADDY DO-FUNNY’S WISDOM JINGLES
BY RUTH MCENERY STUART
THE JACK-O’-LANTERN
Sence he los’ ’is brains to git ’is smile,
Brer Jack-o’-lantern grins lak a ’wilderin’ chile,
Widout no secrets out or in;
An’ de lighter in de head de broader is ’is grin.
An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat--
No, he ain’t by ’isself in dat.
ANTS
Dem ants is sho got savin’ ways,
An’ even de scripture ’lows ’em praise;
But dey hoa’ds for deyselves f’om day to day,
An’ dey stings any man wha’ gits in de way.
An’ dey ain’t no new co’poration in dat--
No, dey ain’t by deyselves in dat.
THE CANARY
Dat little yaller cage-bird preems ’is wings,
An’ he mounts ’is pyerch an’ sings an’ sings
He feels ’is cage, but I ’spec’ he ’low
To take what comes an’ sing _anyhow_.
An’ you ain’t by yo’self, little bird, in dat--
No, you ain’t by yo’self in dat.
LIMERICK
TEXT AND PICTURE BY OLIVER HERFORD
[Illustration]
THE KIND ARMADILLO
There once was a kind armadillo,
Who solaced a lone weeping-willow.
Said he: “Do not weep!
What _you_ need is some sleep;
Pray rest on my shell as a pillow.”
THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Robert Stewart, second Marquis of Londonderry, was known by
courtesy until the death of his father in 1821, as Lord Castlereagh. He
held at this time the position in the British ministry, then in power,
of First Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
[2] The retreat from Moscow had been ordered and begun just six days
before this letter was written.
[3] The United States had formally declared war with Great Britain on
the eighteenth of June preceding the writing of this letter.
[4] The Presidential election of 1812, occurring in the midst of the
war with England, was closely contested. James Madison was a candidate
for reëlection, representing the so-called Republican party. De Witt
Clinton of New York was the candidate of the Federalist party. A change
of twenty electoral votes would have turned the scale. The Federalists
in Massachusetts had a majority of 24,000, and the Peace party swept
the Congressional districts throughout New England and New York.
Madison, however, received 128 votes in the Electoral College, out of a
total of 217.
[5] The name “Isaac” was underlined and emphasized in this letter by
Mr. Adams to distinguish the commander of the _Constitution_, in its
flight with the _Guerrière_, from the uncle of that commander, General
William Hull, who had surrendered Detroit to the British commander
on the sixteenth of August--three days before the naval battle.
General William Hull was subsequently [January, 1814] tried before a
court-martial, and convicted. His sentence--that of death--was modified
in execution, however. His name was ordered to be struck from the army
roll.
[6] Stephen Decatur had been in command of the frigate _United States_
when it captured the British frigate _Macedonian_, in the engagement
referred to.
[7] The reference is here to the recent Presidential election.
Massachusetts had then by a very large majority thrown its vote in
favor of De Witt Clinton, the Federalist, or Peace party, candidate
against Madison, who was a candidate for reëlection.