Part 8

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.

There is no reason why Americans should imitate the British in the pronunciation of certain words which the cultivated citizens of both countries pronounce quite differently--I refer to words like _schedule_, _clerk_, _capitalist_, _trait_, _fracas_, _lieutenant_ and the last letter in the alphabet which Shakespeare calls by a bad name.

It is sheer affectation to imitate the British in such special matters, as it is an affectation to imitate what is called the Oxford accent, where the word smoke is pronounced as if it were spelled smilk--see Julian Street’s delightful book _In Need of Change_. Yesterday afternoon I heard an English actress on the New York stage pronounce No as if it were spelled NAAO. But after all, England is the home of the English speech; and I wish that it were possible for the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Capetown and other places to follow in general the best English spelling and pronunciation. For example, it is certainly better for Americans to pronounce the word been like the sacred vegetable of Boston than like the first syllable of the Christian name of Franklin.

In America the most shamefully treated of our five vowels is U, and the combination of letters EW, which should resemble U in accuracy, as it now so often does in sin. There should be a distinct difference between the sound of U and the double O, actually observable to the naked ear in such words as Duke, Duty, Tutor, Constitution, Enthusiasm, Tuesday, News.

The way to make this distinction is to remember that the English language is the only one where the true sound of U is YU; whereas the Russians, Italians and Germans pronounce U like OO, and the French differently from any one of these. Just as the Russians pronounce E as if it were YE, so Americans, when they practice in secret words like evolution, should visualize a Y in front of the U; it will help them.

The most popular letter in our alphabet, E, is abominably treated in such words as cellar, yellow, Philadelphia, where it is so offensively given the sound of U in “skull”; this is even more common and still more unpleasant in two useful words, Very and American.

Cultivated English and Americans laugh at the Cockney for leaving the H silent where it should be heard; but they themselves are equally and more unpardonably guilty in omitting the H in the combination Wh. There should be a difference in the pronunciation of _Whine_ and _Wine_; yet most cultivated people in both countries talk about games of Wist, and say Wen, Wich and Wy. Let them heal themselves before laughing at the Cockney.

The dogletter, R, has a curious fate in American mouths; it is either unduly accented in such words as Here and Dinner (Middle West) or it is (East) hitched on to the end of words like idea, and saw, where it is as awkward as a sailor on horseback. Listen to the average Yankee when he says “I have no idea of it” and you will see that he speaks the truth.

XXX

OUR SOUTH AS CURE FOR FLU

The chief reason for my present sojourn at Augusta is the flu, which attacked me in Connecticut some weeks ago. The American use of the words “flu” and “grip” is both modern and interesting. Epidemics of influenza, which seem to cross the ocean from Europe to America without suffering any sea-change, have been more or less common since the pilgrims landed at Plymouth. Richard Hildreth, in his admirable _History of the United States_, describes these attacks in the Massachusetts Colony in the seventeenth century; and it appears from his realistic accounts that they differed in no respect from recent nation-wide flu epidemics.

If I remember rightly, the word “grip” was not used currently in America until the epidemic of 1889–1890, which was both severe and general; it was the subject of constant discussion in the newspapers, and it was generally believed to be a French importation, where it was known as _la grippe_. This in American became the “grip,” except in certain isolated districts, where it was called “the la grippe.” But the word, either in its French or English form, was not commonly used in America until the season of 1889–1890, when France made a Christmas present of it to the United States.

The word “flu” had been British slang for some time before it penetrated America; it was one of the numerous unprofitable things that our country acquired during the war. In a conversation I had with the novelist, William De Morgan, in London, in 1911, he casually used the word “flu,” and for a moment I did not guess its meaning. Then I saw it was an abbreviation. When the disease crossed the ocean in 1918, it brought with it its British pet name, which, universally current in America today, was, I believe, not known here till the last year of the war.

The exact difference between flu and grip I leave to the physician to determine; both differ from a cold in being invariably accompanied by fever, and in both the patient feels the worst after he gets well.

But the speed with which the germs travel through the air remains a mystery. I remember one flu epidemic that hit New York in the morning and was prevalent in remote country districts in Michigan the following afternoon. Manifestly, therefore, the accursed thing does not depend on the comparatively slow method of transmission from one person to another.

If one can possibly afford the time and money, the best way to rid oneself of the after effects of the flu is to leave the icy North in winter time and travel South. There are many coughs in every carload, but soon after they arrive here they cease.

In fact, if one can afford it, it is a good thing to come South in winter whether one is sick or well. “See America First” applies especially to the winter season. Europe should be visited only in the summer, because no Americans are comfortable in Europe at any other time. George Ade once tried to spend a winter in Venice and he nearly froze. He declared that the next winter he would spend in Duluth, where they have steam heat and he could keep warm.

The intolerable thing about most “winter resorts” in Europe is that they are so much warmer outdoors than in. The American takes a pleasant walk in the mild sunshine, and, his body in an agreeable glow, he enters his hotel room which has the chill of the grave. I know one man who, whenever he entered his room, put on overcoat, fur hat, gloves, arctic overshoes and then sat down to be as comfortable as he could.

One impecunious student who spent the winter at a Continental university in a room where apparently no means of heating had ever been employed told me that he kept warm the entire winter on only one stick of wood. In response to my question, he said that his room was on the fifth story; he would study for ten minutes, then fling the stick out of the window. He ran down five flights of stairs, picked up the stick, ran up the stairs and found that this violent exercise kept him warm for exactly ten minutes, when again he flung the stick out of the window. That was an original method, but it is practicable only for those who are young and vigorous. It would be almost useless for an old lady with angina pectoris.

In the winter season our Southern States, or Arizona, or California are what I especially prescribe. For those who wish eternal summer with all its pleasant heat and the delights of sea-bathing, Southern Florida is the best; for those who are middle-aged and elderly, who wish to play golf and tennis, in crisp autumn-like weather, Georgia is incomparable. Here in Augusta the weather is frequently summer-hued; on this blessed January day, for example, the temperature is 78. But in general, the January and February weather here is like mild October in New England, with gentle days and keen nights, good for sleep.

When I was young very few Northerners went South in winter; all who could afford it went in the summer to the mountains or the sea. But today, when there are many ways of keeping cool in the cities, and when the country club is accessible every afternoon and evening, an immense number of business men stay “on the job” in the summer and take their vacation in the winter.

A perfect climate in the winter lies only twenty-four hours from New York. Furthermore, it is an education for Northern men and women who live in the South for a winter season to become acquainted with our Southern people, “whom to know is to love.” To me, a down-East Yankee, it is a delight to meet these charming, gracious men and women of the South; and it is an especial delight to hear the Southern accent, especially on the lips of lovely women.

I wish I might live one hundred years from now. Then, thanks to the men of science, every year there will come a day in November when a general notice will be given in our New England universities for every member of the faculty and students to be indoors at a certain hour. At the prescribed moment, all the dormitories, lecture halls, offices and laboratories will rise majestically in the air, carrying their human freight. They will sail calmly South, and in a few hours float gently down on a meadow in Georgia or Florida, there to remain until the middle of April.

XXXI

GOING TO CHURCH IN PARIS

There are not many Protestant churches in Paris, because there are not many Protestants; and of the vast throng of Americans who visit Paris every summer, I suppose, comparatively speaking, only a few go to church. The average tourist does not visit Paris with the idea of entering churches except as a sight-seer. Yet the American Church of Paris with the Rev. Dr. Joseph Wilson Cochran as pastor, is a flourishing institution. The auditorium is filled every Sunday morning, and the whole work of the church in its Sunday school, Boy Scouts, classes for students, charitable enterprises, etc., is so active and successful that a new edifice has been found necessary. They are erecting a fine church in a splendid location on the Quai D’Orsay; the steel frame is already in place and by another year the building should be complete. Then there is also the American Cathedral church of the Holy Trinity, St. Luke’s Chapel, the Catholic church of St. Joseph, the Methodist Memorial church, the Baptist tabernacle, the First Church of Christ Scientist, and the Second Church of Christ Scientist.

Now I go to church not reluctantly, because I think I ought to, or from any sense of duty, still less from the Pharasaical attempt to set an example to my less godly neighbours. I go to church because I enjoy going, because I really want to go, because the Christian church is my spiritual home.

Last Sunday I attended the French Protestant church of the Oratoire, in the rue St. Honoré. The attitude of the clergy and laity in this church is very similar to that of the Rev. Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick and his congregation in New York. Last Sunday the big church was well filled, and the services, with the single difference that everything was in the French language, were similar to those of any evangelical Protestant church in America. There was no ritual. The prayers were extempore, and among the hymns sung was the familiar one with the familiar tune, “Lord, I Hear of Showers of Blessing,” which was just as good in French as in English.

I felt that I was among my own people, the kind with which I grew up, although there were very few Americans present. The French audience seemed to be composed of the same sort that one sees in any Methodist or Baptist church in America. The pastor preached on the parable of the sower, and explained to the audience the significance of the evangelical Protestant church, as distinguished from the more formal and ritualistic Catholic institution. The Catholics provide beautiful music, a dignified ritual, which is very impressive, he said; “but we appeal not to the eye and the ear, but to the mind and the heart.” I do not think he meant to be antagonistic to the Catholics; he was trying to make his congregation see that there was a good reason for attending church, even though the service might have little or no appeal to the senses.

It was peculiarly interesting for me to hear this aspect of religious worship emphasised, for on the preceding Sunday in London I attended service in an Anglo-Catholic church, where the preacher was the Rev. T. P. Fry, the husband of the famous novelist, Sheila Kaye-Smith. His sermon emphasised only one thing, the Blessed Sacrament. He dwelt on its supreme importance, on its immense significance, of what it should mean to every one who partakes of it. The service was beautiful, with an elaborate ritual, and it was clear that the preacher thought of only one thing--the Mass.

The English novelist, Compton Mackenzie, has recently written a trilogy of novels dealing at great length and with much detail with the life and career of a young English priest. Mr. Mackenzie, like G. K. Chesterton and Maurice Baring, has entered the Catholic church, and while these three novels, _The Altar Steps_, _The Parson’s Progress_ and _The Heavenly Ladder_, are frankly Catholic propaganda, I found them interesting and valuable, because I was brought up in the extreme Protestant point of view, and it is important for me to hear and if possible to understand something quite different. Mr. Mackenzie’s young parson says that he does not care if he never succeeds in preaching a good sermon. His only interest is to give the congregation the Blessed Sacrament.

An excellent Catholic lady once said to me, “You do not understand our religion,” I answered, “You must not say _religion_; your religion is my religion. We have exactly the same religion. What I do not fully understand is your form of worship, the significance of the various parts of your ritual.”

It is a matter of great rejoicing that the old antagonism between Catholics and Protestants has so largely disappeared. It is unfortunate that any irritation or misunderstanding should remain. In a world so full of vice, so full of scepticism, and above all so full of indifference to religion, there should be not the slightest shade of hostility between adherents of Christianity. We should not be divided in the presence of implacable foes.

A magnificent example of the true Christian spirit was given at the beginning of this century by one of the greatest men of modern times, Pope Leo XIII. He publicly offered prayer for the restoration to health of Queen Victoria of England. When one thinks of the historic antagonism, that was a noble and truly religious act.

Once in the cathedral at Cologne, during Mass, I sat between a devout German Catholic and an American tourist. The German bowed, knelt, crossed himself; the American used a pair of opera glasses, as if he were at a spectacular play. I should like to have given to my countryman a little pamphlet written by a Catholic priest, called _What Are They Doing at the Altar?_ so that he might have understood what was going on, and at least have shown some reverence.

There is one important thing that we Protestants ought to learn from our Catholic friends. Many Protestants go to church just to hear a sermon, and if the preacher is in bad form that morning, they feel disappointed, almost aggrieved, as if they had gone to the movies and the pictures happened to be poor.

Going to church ought not to be merely passive; to go and see if the minister can entertain us. It should be a community service, where the audience participates and where spiritual refreshment and stimulation may be obtained. If we go to church merely to hear a popular preacher, then we might as well stay at home and read a popular book. The feeling of actual participation is the supreme need of the Protestant church today; not more clever preachers, but a genuine hunger in the congregation for spiritual nourishment.

XXXII

OPTIMISM AND PESSIMISM

I am often called an optimist, and so I am; but perhaps not in the popular meaning of the word. When a worldly wise man calls a person an optimist, he usually regards him with intellectual contempt, just as the elaborate courtesy toward women in the age of chivalry thinly disguised a cynically sensual attitude. Optimism is associated in many minds either with ignorance of life or mental inferiority; and when certain persons call others optimists, look out for them!