Judge — January 29, 1921 — page 30: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

POISON! a ie ER, you'll excuse me for saying it, but you're a damned fool,” said Jones, quietly. ‘And the trouble is that you are associated with millions of other fools in this You can’t see, and you don't want to see an inch beyond your nose. You travel between Beechaven and the city in the interest of your coal business, and you vote once a year— if you're not too busy. And, by the Eternal, you and the men like you are responsibl “Now you look here—” began Car- ter belligerently, but Jones waved him t. There are rivers and rivers of poi- ng drained into our national said Jones, in a deadly serious tone. “You men either don’t or won't realize it. You talk about American- ism! What is this Americanism? Isit anything but Anglo-Saxon idealism? Does it stand for anything but the doc- trines that were woven into the Declar- ation? Is it anything but the square deal, human justice, divine right, decency, humanity, reason, God-fear- g righteousness, cleanliness, honesty and hope? Does America stand for anything in all the world but that? What was it the men who went through that horrible winter at Valley Forge suffered for? What did the Lexington farmers lay down their lives for? What did Washington’s inauguration oath mean? Did Alexander Hamilton build nothing but a mountain of selfishness? Was the democracy of Jefferson just a dream of Arcadia? I tell you that Theodore Roosevelt recognized this menace. As a good, straight, honest American he saw the poison eating at the foundations of the national struc- ture.” Robinson looked at Jones in a puz- aled way. “Will you tell us precisely what in blazes you're driving at?” he asked quiet “Twill, and I'll try to putit in words of one syllable, Robinson,” he said. And I hope with all my soul that you and some of the others of our native stock will wake up and exert what pressure you can to stop what I believe is the greatest menace to our spiritual and national future that we have yet faced as one people.” What Jones told Robinson concerns you and me—allofus. Itis something very vital, very grave. It is explained in Leslie’s Weekly for January 29 On Sale by All Live-Wire Newsdealers JUDG Dumplings from the Great Word Potpie By Bexyamtx Dr Casseres Conrad: Mag dS Je HL CONRAD is the “Babe” Ruth of fic- tion. In fact, Joseph has beaten the “ Babe’—at this writing. The score stands twenty-six homers for Ruth and thirty-eight (counting short stories) for Conrad. The latter has just made his thirty- eighth homer in “The Rescue” (Doubleday, Page & Co.). In the latter novel Conrad has not only made another homer, but he has driven’the ball of his marvelous fancy clean over the fence, where all the kids of the romantic pen will be looking for it for aye—and never find it! ou are cither a wild-eyed Conrad “fan” or you are not. I mean by that you either consider him one of the few great romantic writers of all time or you dislike him to the point of preferring Captain Marryat. I long ago signed the Conrad Booster’s ue, with a little Article X which I inserted on y while Huneker and Mencken and Woodrow weren't looking. This reservation on my part lies in the obviousness of Conrad's attempt to thrill you. His sea is literary. His moral crises are visualized by the brain, not by the nerves and the emotions. Hugo, Dostoevsky and Poe, for instance, lived their thrills; Conrad is a chemist of thrills. He has not lived them; they are obviously manufactured. But was there ever such a brilliant counterfeiter! You know how he achieves his effects, you hear the pulleys and the tackle, you see the machine at work; but the result is a gorgeous fabric. It dazzles your sockets, sets your brain afire and evokes be- fore you, once again, the Human Jest, of which you and T are butts. He is a tremendous artist and a ade A ironical philosopher; but the Old Sleuth in my brain, alias Critical Faculty, says at the end of The Rescue,” as at the end of “Lord Jim,” “He not sincere Mark Twain Huckleberry Finn. Shakespeare as Hamlet. Thomas Hardy was Tess. But Joseph Conrad is not Tom Lingard or Lord Jim. But for all that “The Rescue” is a mighty fabrication; and f you want to escape from old Lady Care for two hts and a day impregnate yourself with this magical romance. tsia and the Forly-E OM ROLAND was a rough diamond. Alice Roland, his wife, was a sort of Mid-Victorian Tecla Tom had a partner who is a Regular G This starts, as you very well sce, a matrimonial Flatiron. And why not? It was down in the timber ers region of New Zealand (“The Story of a New Zea- land River,” by Jane Mander; John Lane Com- pany). There weren't any Mann snoopers or Lusk rs in this “lawless section” of the world (why is New Zealand always “lawless"?), Anybody down there could pull off a triangle with not even an O. Henry in sight But Alice was Mid-Victorian. She told Tom's partner that a marriage vow was as sacred to her as an Englishwoman as a copy of Tennyson's poems. She would cling to him as a sister, knit a jacket for him to insulate him ‘gainst the winter blasts fror Captain Amundsen’s South Pole, keep his file of the London Daily Mail intact and see that his slippers were regularly aired; but aside from that—nothi nix and ce Asia is born Asia is a girl. She is—we do not doubt—the daughter of Tom and Alice. Asia i primitive Villager. Her emotions are bobbed. Her eyes glow like Halley’s comet. She reads the Boy Oren. When she loves a it is Leap Year to her What she wants she goes and take Rudyard somewhere says. .\ primitive, wild thing, might, in the language of old Doc Freud. be called Mamma Alice’s suppressed Mid-Victorian desires come to li A Jack ow happens along down there looking for “copy” for a Hearst cereal. Asia shies herself straight at his head without making any bones about a ceremony. But the pen-pusher is married. A fine mess all around! Almost unbe- lievable if it wasn’t fiction! On page he Labor Party of New South Wales is lugged in to settle the matter, What did the Forty-Eighters of New South Wales do in the matter? Tellin’s! Read the book. The Mountain Comes to Clement t Wood dedicates a book *; E.P. Dutton & Company) to Theodore Dreiser you can lay your preciou home brew to a soap box that We Capitalists are ur hides tanned. be a lost soul among the literati, but the m the harder I find it to keep down my capitalistic suppressed desires. Th I study the Reds the yellower I become. The deeper I plough into Karl Marx the more my heart is set on getting a Rolls-Royce by hook or by crook. When I was penniless the World Sat in Darkness that I have achieved a bank account, I see the There I ma, T study soci more ht—I have become a Cursed Capitali is no balm in Gilead, the Rand School or L' y for me, Clem! st novel of Mr. Wood's. Maybe it’s But it is hard to be an optimist in these Tenjoy the vigorous, vital, indepen about books as muchas Te my own articles. But this novel is sheer socialistic propaganda, and art not at all A labor struggle in a Southern town. Pop capitalistic mine-owner. Son, from college, is a socialist—you know the type: Horn-rims, scientific organization-of-humanity brow, forward- lookin ted tic, eye kindled with the Coming Dawn, ti wad and Dutch treat artist at a lemon-phosphat s party. on goes with the strikers. Pop, whose vile capi sent son to college, is up against it ‘Two Hermiones Cross the Life’s Path of son. Mar ries one and freeloves the other. Meantime the Mountain goes piling up austerity on its brow. The Mountain is old—Fate with the rheumatism. A book that is of the Village, for the Village and by the Villa; Maybe Mr. Dreiser will like it Ek bien! there's no accounting for paste. gett’s his last. baleful days dent penof Mr. Wood when he is writ comicbooks.com