"You have temperament and you have language," went on the editor, "and,
though your emotions are artificial and your judgments too impetuous,
that is a natural condition of youth--nature has to keep something to
recompense us for growing old. But you have big moments, plus some most
promising incoherency, as I said before, and when that chaos becomes
cosmos, the world will acknowledge you. You have never been to England
before, have you?"
The officer shook his head, a little puzzled at the abrupt descent from
the abstract.
Mr. Townsend smoked reflectively for a full minute. "England," he said
slowly, "is the paradox of the ages. In America we have the present and
the future; England has the present and the past--principally the past.
Inefficiency is often no bar to success there--as a matter of fact, an
Englishman dislikes appearing efficient--but remember that the British
Navy is the most thorough organization in the world. I have often
thought that England's success in colonization was largely due to her
utter inability to understand the temperament of the people she
governed. Look at Canada. There was never an Englishman who really
appreciated the restless independence of the Canadian; yet, when the
Old Land goes to war, Canada sends and maintains a mighty fine army
corps to help her. Listen, my boy. I want you to go to England with
your pores open; receive impressions and make a note of them. I want a
series of articles explaining England to America--not as it is being
done by those polished gentlemen who visit us from London, but by an
American for Americans. Don't send me a description of the Strand, or
Westminster Abbey, or your thoughts on first seeing the Thames. Go
deep. I want a series of articles that rise above journalism. I want
the psychology of England written up in a light satirical vein by a
clever man with red blood in his veins. You will be there for some
time, I suppose?"
"Very likely, as we are the first of the vanguard."
A half-hour later the young officer rose to go, with a contract that
promised him generous remuneration, in return for which he had agreed
to write ten articles on England. He stood, facing the older man, and
smiled slightly. He had removed his cap, and his black hair, struggling
into an unruly curl, combined with his dark, brilliant eyes in an
appearance of arresting virility.
"You are very encouraging, Mr. Townsend," he said. "I had no idea that
an editor could be so--so nearly human."
"My son," said the older man, "we are literature's midwives, toiling
year in and year out in the hope that some day we shall assist at the
birth of a masterpiece."
"But how is it that you don't write yourself?"
The editor shrugged his shoulders. "Why does a hangman never commit a
murder?" he said.