that the English climate consists of eight months of winter, and four
months of bad weather. This is an exaggeration. Every now and then
there is a year when summer is omitted; but even in such an unfortunate
time, one is better off in London than in the country. In fact, to an
American London, while not the most beautiful city in the world, is
assuredly the most interesting. It is inexhaustible. Every foot of it,
to one well read in English literature, is hallowed ground; I think I
could walk along Fleet street a thousand days in succession, and always
receive a thrill.
I wish that every American journalist, every American book reviewer,
every American drama critic, would spend a month in London and
diligently read the morning newspapers, such as _The Times_, _The
Telegraph_, _The Morning Post_. Every page seems to be written for
intelligent readers. These London journalists review tennis, golf
and cricket matches with more dignity than the average New Yorker
reviews plays and books. One reason that militates steadily against
intellectual progress in America is the fact that apparently we have
no language suitable as a medium for the exchange of ideas. Our book
reviews and our drama criticisms are too often written in a cheap kind
of slang that is intended to be smart. If anyone imagines that the
journalism of London loses in intensity by being written in suitable
English, let him turn to a file of _The London Times_ and read the
story of Tilden playing tennis at Wimbledon.
A remarkable thing about literary society in London is that age has
nothing to do with it. One meets in social gatherings men and women
in the twenties and in the eighties--disparity in years seems to be
forgotten.
One should remember that, owing to the small size of England, one can
use London as a base of operations and take excursions into the country
on the swift English trains, returning to London every evening; many
happy, baggageless days have I spent in this manner.
When G. K. Chesterton was in America, I asked him what difference
between the two countries impressed him most. Instantly he replied,
“Your wooden houses.” I had never thought of them as curiosities,
but one does not see them in England. The thing that to me is most
noticeable on the London streets is the absence of straw hats. There
are many more bare male heads than there are straw hats. It is almost
impossible to attract attention in London, but a straw hat will come
nearest to doing the trick. Some men are exquisitely and others
strangely clad, and nobody cares. I saw a man riding a bicycle. He had
on tan shoes, homespun trousers, a frock coat, and a tall silk hat.
XXVI
WHAT THE MAN WILL WEAR
Men, women, and children are all interested in clothes; there have
been many scholarly works, displaying vast erudition, on the history
of costume; and two literary masterpieces, dealing with the philosophy
of clothes, belong permanently to literature--_A Tale of a Tub_, by
Jonathan Swift, and _Sartor Resartus_, by Thomas Carlyle.
So much attention has recently been paid in the newspapers and by
the public to the clothes of women, that we are forgetting what
revolutionary changes have taken place in the garments of men. Women’s
clothes have decreased in number, weight, and size. Men’s clothes have
gone through a process of _softening_. Hard hats, hard collars, hard
shirts, hard shoes, hard suits, have given way to soft; and, for the
first time in centuries, the carcasses of males are comfortably clad.
One hundred years ago the average gentleman, not satisfied with
covering his body with an accumulation of intolerably thick clothes,
wound an enormous stock around his neck. How stifling they look
in those old family portraits! Robert Louis Stevenson applied an
unexpected but accurate adjective to those collections of oil paintings
of deceased ancestors, with which their descendants adorned walls of
their dining rooms. Stevenson called them “these constipated portraits.”
This is the way my father dressed on practically every morning of his
life; that is, after he left the farm, and entered upon the practice of
his profession. He wore long, heavy flannel underwear, reaching to his
ankles and his wrists. He put on a “hard-boiled,” white, full-bosomed
shirt, stiff as sheet-iron. At the neck he fastened a stiff, upright,
white linen choker collar; at the ends of the sleeves he buttoned on
thick, three-ply linen cuffs. He imprisoned his feet, ankles, and
shins in black, stiff, leather boots, reaching to the knees, but
concealed above the ankles by his trousers. He wore a long-tailed
coat, a waistcoat, and trousers made out of thick, dark-blue or
black broadcloth. The trousers were strapped over his shoulders by
suspenders. For the top of his head there was a tall, heavy, beaver
hat.
Thus, clad in impenetrable armour from head to foot, he set out for the
day’s work.
Fifty years ago was the age of dressing-gown and slippers. Why is it
we never hear slippers mentioned nowadays? I have not owned a pair of
slippers (except bedroom slippers) for more than thirty years. Yet in
Victorian novels we are always reading of how, when the breadwinner
returns to his home in the evening, he finds his slippers ready
for him, warmed on the hearth. My father always took off his great
boots--worn in summer as well as in winter--and put on his slippers
when he came home, having called it a day.
Poets, novelists, and men whose occupation kept them at home, sat down
to their desk in dressing-gown and slippers. The moment a man sat down
in his own house to anything, with no immediate thought of going out,
dressing-gown and slippers were the regulation costume. They were like
knights-at-arms, taking off their suits of mail when they entered the
interior of the castle.
Eventually the knee-boots gave way to high shoes--called boots in
England--which were laced up to the top. In time these were succeeded
by low shoes, which are now worn by millions of Americans the year
round.
The swaddling, stifling, heavy underclothes were scrapped, and their
place taken by sleeveless, shinless undergarments, light in weight, and
more or less open in texture. Best of all, the intolerable stiff shirt,
the bottom edge of which cut into the abdomen, and bellied out above
like a sail in a fair wind, was reserved only for formal evening wear;
shirts were made and worn that had no trace of starch in front, back,
collar or cuff. I have not worn a stiff shirt (except for evening) in
twenty years.
Suspenders (braces) became obsolete; and the pleasant belt came in, the
belt that may be loosened or tightened at will, and which in any case
leaves the shoulders free. In hot weather the waistcoat was discarded;
and the man in his thin, loose clothes moved about almost as easily as
Adam in Paradise.
Various are the names for the round stiff hat, derby, dicer, pot hat,
bowler, billy-cock. Under any name it is just as bad. Some fifteen
or twenty years ago the derby went temporarily out of fashion. Up to
that time, if you looked into a cloak-room by a hotel dining-room, you
saw about two hundred men’s hats looking exactly alike. Now you see a
vast assortment of soft headgear, grey, brown, green, all of pleasing
shape. The thousands of men at a football game now show variety aloft,
instead of the intolerable black monotony of former years. I have
not owned a “derby” since the war. Apart from my own hatred of the
object, I always crushed it getting in or out of an automobile. And one
indentation ruins a derby forever: every wound is mortal.
I am quite aware that the derby is returning. Everyone knows the
nation-wide fame acquired by a certain brown derby. But no stiff hat,
black or brown, will ever adorn my brows again during the hours of
daylight.
The English, owing to their horrible climate and also partly to an
invincible conservatism, still wear heavy clothes, thicksoled high
shoes, braces, waistcoats, etc., even in hot weather. The only reform
they have made is discarding the frock coat for daily wear, which up
to a very few years ago was universal. A common sight in London was to
see clerks going to the “city” on bicycles, arrayed in “Prince Albert”
coats.
The clothes of an American tourist still look funny to an Englishman;
how funny I never realised until I attended a play in London where an
American was the object of good-natured caricature. He came on the
stage with low shoes and silk shoe-laces, bright, thin socks, trousers
held by a belt, no waistcoat, and jacket unbuttoned. The audience
burst into roars of laughter and I laughed too, because he did look
queer by contrast with the other actors. Then I suddenly realised that
I was dressed precisely like the man they were laughing at!
One more reform must be made in men’s dress; and I believe it will
come. In very hot weather, men must be allowed to discard the jacket.
Even a thin jacket, with its collar and shouldercloth, is intolerable.
A clean, attractive shirt, with soft collar and necktie, and belt
around the trousers, looks so sensible in hot weather that it ought to
become the rule rather than the exception.
XXVII
DREAMS
I look upon horrible dreams as one of the assets of humanity, one of
the good things of life; because one feels so elated after waking. I am
convinced that most men and women do not sufficiently appreciate the
advantages they possess. They either exaggerate their sufferings and
drawbacks or, instead of enjoying what they have, they spend their time
in longing for what is beyond their reach.
Just as it takes an illness to make one appreciate the satisfactions
of health, so one needs a calamity to make one realise how good daily
existence really is. It is often said that experience is the best
teacher. This is by no means always or even often true. Experience
charges too much for her lessons.
There is no good in learning how one might have shown sagacity in
business after one is bankrupt; there is no good in discovering how one
ought to have avoided a certain article of diet after one is fatally
poisoned; there is no good in receiving the proof of the danger in
carelessly driving a motor car after one lies dead in the ditch.
Now the best way to discover how cheerful daily life may be is to
be visited by a frightful dream. The horrible wild beast has seized
us, because when we tried to flee, our legs were lead. Just as it is
about to sink its terrible tusks in our shrinking frame, we wake up,
and hear the good old trolley car go by. Hurrah! it was only a dream;
and we are alive on the blessed earth. And we have learned how sweet
plain ordinary life is without the lesson costing us anything but a
transitory sweat.
I think, too, that many who either profess to hate life or at all
events refuse to admit anything good about it, might appreciate it more
if they could be temporarily transferred, not to hell, but to their
own imagined heaven. Wagner in the famous music-drama, _Tannhäuser_,
has given an admirable illustration. This knight, like all his
fellow-creatures, felt the call of the senses; he was transported
from this imperfect earth to the pagan Heaven, where he lived in the
constant society of Venus. But after a time this palled upon him and
eventually became intolerable. He tore himself away, and suddenly
found himself back on the earth. He was in a green pasture in the
springtime, and a shepherd boy was singing--what happiness!
The accomplished German dramatist Ludwig Fulda wrote a play,
_Schlaraffenland_. There was a poor boy, ragged, cold and chronically
hungry. He dreamed he was in a magic land. Remarkable birds flew so
slowly by him that he found he could reach out his hand and grasp
them. He did this, and lo, he had in his hand a broiled chicken! He
ate several with avidity, but could not eat forever. Glancing at his
ragged garments, a wardrobe door flew wide, and he had his choice among
many elegant suits. Thus every desire was instantly and abundantly
gratified. After some time, this palled upon him, and then became so
unendurable that he gave a yell of horror; he woke up. He was cold,
ragged, and hungry; but his heart was singing. He was back on the good
old earth.
Thus, whether we dream of hell or of heaven, it is usually with a sigh
or even a shout of satisfaction that we find ourselves back on this
imperfect globe.
Many persons tell me that they never dream; their sleep is blank. It is
with me quite otherwise; I almost always dream; many of my dreams are
extraordinarily vivid and some are unforgettable.
When I was a child I dreamed three nights in succession of the Devil.
The first night the Devil chased me upstairs. I ran as fast as I
could, but sank down when only half way up. Then the Devil took from
his pocket a shoemaker’s awl and bored it deftly into my right knee.
The second night the Devil was in my front yard. Suddenly he changed
into the form of a dog; and when another dog rushed barking at him the
satanic hound swallowed him as easily as one takes a pill. The third
night I also dreamed of the Devil, but I have forgotten the details.
One of the worst dreams I had in childhood was when I was being
attacked by wild beasts, and suddenly my mother appeared on the
scene. I shrieked to her for help, and she looked at me with calm
indifference. That was the worst dream I ever had, and you may be sure
it went by contraries.
I suppose the only way we can distinguish dreams from what is called
actual life is that in dreams the law of causation is suspended. There
is no order in events, and no principle of sufficient reason to account
for them. Things change in an impossible manner. Apart from this,
dreams are as real as life while they last.
I often have prolonged dreams that are not only fully as real as
waking experiences, but are orderly and sensible, and sometimes
delightful. Many years ago I dreamed that I was walking the streets of
a Russian city with Count Tolstoi. It was one of the most agreeable and
most inspiring days of my life, and I have always regretted it never
happened. We walked together for hours and discussed modern literature.
He said a great many wise and brilliant things, all of which I have,
alas, forgotten. The only feature of that dream unlike reality was that
Tolstoi had shaved off his beard.
Wilkie Collins, in _Armadale_, suggested that every dream we have is a
repetition of an experience that has actually happened to us during the
preceding twenty-four hours. I read that novel in my boyhood and was
impressed by that explanation of dreams, and for several months I wrote
down my dreams and found that every one was suggested by something that
had happened to me during the preceding day.
The only thing I am certain of in dreams is that they do not in any
way forecast the future. When I was a child I dreamed I saw heaven and
Jesus sitting on a cloud. He called to me, “Willie Phelps, come here.”
The next day I told my father and mother about it, and to my surprise
they were exceedingly alarmed.
XXVIII
EATING BREAKFAST
In the daily life of the average person the longest interval between
eating is that between the evening meal and breakfast; the very name
for the morning repast accurately describes its nature. It should
therefore, be taken seriously, which means that there should not only
be enough to eat, but that plenty of time should be allowed to eat it.
I am aware that there are many men of excellent character who eat
almost nothing for breakfast, and that there are some saints who eat
no breakfast at all. In character and personal habits, I have never
met a man more saintly than Henry Ford. I refer both to the asceticism
of his physical life and to the purity of the motives that inspire his
conduct. He eats no breakfast at all, not a morsel of food. He rises
very early, goes outdoors, runs a mile or two and then works with
absolute concentration till one o’clock, when he has the first meal of
the day. I asked him if he never felt any desire for food during so
long a morning; he replied that it was necessary for him in his vast
undertakings to have a mind entirely fresh and clear, and that he found
he could do better work on an empty stomach and with a brain unclouded
by food.
I suppose every man must be a law unto himself. It does not seem to
me that I could live happily without breakfast, yet I am sure that it
is better to omit the meal altogether than to eat it in the hurry and
fever in which many Americans devour it. Far too many prefer to lie
in bed half an hour longer than to use that precious half hour in the
consumption of food.
* * * * *
In the days when they had required morning chapel at Yale a great many
students came to chapel either without any breakfast or with unassorted
junks of it in their stomachs engaged in civil war. One early morning
I was walking up Elm Street in New Haven; the streets ware filled with
undergraduates sprinting to chapel. The lady with me said: “Do look at
those poor boys running to chapel with their tongues hanging out!” I
set her right at once. “Those are not tongues, those are griddle cakes!”
Those young men were accurate calculators. Three minutes for breakfast,
one minute to reach chapel. They hurried the last griddle cake into
their faces as they left the dining hall, and it gradually disappeared
as they ran.
I love to see the whole family assemble at breakfast and eat a good
meal leisurely. In order to accomplish this, every one must get up
early enough to allow for complete preparation in the way of bathing,
shaving, etc., and then leave enough time to consume food in peace of
mind. Of how many families is this true? Of course, there are many
persons who like to eat breakfast in bed, and perhaps, there are some
who can do this neatly, even artistically. I never eat breakfast in bed
unless I am too sick to get up, for I hate to have crumbs all over my
night clothes or inside the bed. Furthermore, in spite of considerable
practice during various illnesses, I have never mastered the fine art
of swallowing food while in a horizontal position. To take coffee in
this manner is an achievement. And what is breakfast without coffee?
Although coffee is not an American product, I have never had a
satisfactory cup of coffee outside of the United States of America.
Americans alone seem to understand the secret of good coffee. The
English meet this problem illegitimately, by substituting tea. Now
tea is all very well in the late afternoon, but in the morning it
is without inspiration. And every man ought to start the day in an
inspired manner.
G. K. Chesterton says that Bernard Shaw is like coffee; he stimulates
but does not inspire. I should amend that, by saying Shaw is like
coffee because he stimulates but does not nourish. For I firmly
believe that both Shaw and coffee are alike in this: they do both
stimulate and inspire, but they do not nourish. I used to wonder what
Chesterton could possibly mean by saying that coffee did not inspire,
when suddenly the true explanation occurred to me. He was thinking of
English coffee.
The newspaper should not be read during the sacred rite of breakfast.
There is no doubt that many divorces have been caused by the man’s
opening and reading the newspaper at breakfast, thereby totally
eclipsing his wife. It is simply a case of bad manners, and bad manners
at food have in thousands of instances extinguished the fires of love.
Nor, although it is a common custom, do I believe that letters should
be opened and read at the breakfast table. One letter may contain
enough worry, disappointment and anger to upset a reader for hours. And
to eat food while one is angry, or worried, or excited is almost as bad
as eating poison. I never read letters at breakfast and I never read
letters in the evening.
For the same reason breakfast should be eaten in a calm and peaceful
state of mind, illuminated by happy family conversation. Many men every
day eat breakfast in feverish haste and then run to catch a trolley car
or a train. That horrible breakfast soon begins to assert itself, and
the man is in an irritable condition all the morning. It simply does
not pay to eat in a hurry. Breakfast should not resemble a delirium.
And at the breakfast table all the members of the party should eat
or leave the room. It is a sad experience to be in a hotel or in a
dining car and have some acquaintance come up briskly and say: “I have
already had my breakfast, but I will sit and talk with you while you
eat yours.” That means he intends to watch you eat, and, just as your
mouth is full of food, he will ask you a question. I have observed many
patient men suffering tortures in this manner. I have even observed an
enormous mass of unchewed food distend their throats as they hastily
bolt it in the endeavor to reply to interrogations. A snake may swallow
a toad, but the snake’s constitution differs from a man’s.
If I could have only one meal a day, it would be breakfast. After a
good American breakfast--orange juice, cereal, coffee, toast, bacon and
eggs--I am ready for everything and anything. If the day begins in the
right manner its progress will be satisfactory. And the best of all
rules of diet is to eat what you like and take the time to do it.
XXIX
THE MOTHER TONGUE
Judges xii:6--“Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said
Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took
him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that
time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand.”
If there were forty-two thousand of the sons of Ephraim who could
not speak correctly and distinctly, we may be sure that the sons
and daughters of America are not impeccable. Indeed, we have daily
evidence not only on the street and in railway coaches, but in schools,
churches, colleges and theatres, of linguistic matricide--mortal
attacks on the mother tongue, committed with impunity in the absence
of the axe. In Old Testament times they had, as we see by the text of
this sermon, drastic methods for establishing correct standards of
pronunciation; those who did not speak accurately were eliminated.
Besides the suffering inflicted on sensitive and sympathetic ears,
there is a feeling of shame in the heart of this present evangelist
that the American public school, which ought to be a temple where the
English language is treated with reverence, should actually be a scene
of cynical--since everything careless is cynical--desecration. I am not
condemning colloquial slang, which in its metaphorical picturesqueness
is often the very life of speech, but rather the shoddy mutilation of
words in good and regular standing.
More important than the study of foreign tongues is the unaffectedly
correct pronunciation of that language which is now heard in the
uttermost parts of the earth. Furthermore, the very difficulties
of English pronunciation make the successful surmounting of them a
glorious achievement, one that should appeal to the Spirit of Youth,
which instinctively loves a desperate undertaking.
German is practically a phonetic language; leaving out the matter of
accent, it is easier for an American, with proper instruction, to
speak German words correctly than it is for him to conquer the wild
and lawless army of English syllables. Let us then not minimise the
strength of the foe; let this rather become an inspiration.
Let me say two things to all school and college teachers: No matter
what subject you teach, Greek, chemistry or physics, whenever you hear
one of your pupils mispronounce an English word correct him so that he
and the other members of the class will learn something valuable there
and then. And when you do this, tell the class that if any member of it
hears you mispronounce a word, you will be grateful for immediate and
public correction.
Second, do not allow any pupil to speak better English than that
spoken by you. Our schools and colleges contain a few pupils who
speak the language so well that they beat the teacher; the teacher
should not permit such a thing to continue. Although I was brought up
in a cultivated home, I learned in my boyhood a considerable number
of bad pronunciations; I changed these for better ones because I was
determined that no one of my students should speak more correctly than
I.
Bernard Shaw told me he was on a special committee appointed to
standardise English pronunciation in Great Britain; this committee,
consisting of a very few, tell all the radio broadcasters exactly how
to pronounce a long list of words, in the hope that by this means the
millions “listening in” will learn how to speak their own language.