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CROWDS



BOOKS
BY GERALD STANLEY LEE

THE LOST ART OF BEADING

A Sketch of Civilization

THE CHILD AND THE BOOK

A Constructive Criticism of Education

THE SHADOW CHRIST

A Study of the Hebrew Men of Genius

THE VOICE OF THE MACHINES

An Introduction to the Twentieth Century

INSPIRED MILLIONAIRES

A Study of the Man of Genius in Business.

CROWDS

A Moving Picture of Democracy



.CROWDS

X

A MOVING-PICTURE
OF DEMOCRACY

BY

GERALD STANLEY LEE

Editor of "Mount Tom "



IN FIVE BOOKS

CROWDS AND MACHINES

LETTING THE CROWD BE GOOD

LETTING THE CROWD BE BEAUTIFUL

CROWDS AND HEROES
GOOD NEWS AND HARD WORK




GAKDEN CITY NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1916



Copyright, 1913, by

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

All rights reserved, including that of

translation into foreign languages,,

including the Scandinavian



COPYRIGHT, IQI2, BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY MITCHELL XENNERLEY
COPYRIGHT, IQI3, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY CO.

COPYRIGHT, iglj, BY THE OUTLOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY THE INDEPENDENT WEEKLY, INCORPORATED



CROWDS

Gratefully inscribed to a little Mountain,
a great Meadow, and a Woman.

To the Mountain for the sense of time, to
the Meadow for the sense of space, and
to the Woman for the sense of every-
thing.



TABLE OF CONTENTS

BOOK ONE
CROWDS AND MACHINES

CHAPTER PAGE

I. WHERE ABE WE GOING? ..... 3

II. THE CROWD SCARE . . . . . .19

III. THE MACHINE SCARE 34

IV. THE STRIKE AN INVENTION FOR MAKING CROWDS

THINK .49

V. THE CROWD-MAN AN INVENTION FOR MAKING

CROWDS SEE ....... 58

VI. " THE IMAGINATION OF CROWDS ..... 65

VII. IMAGINATION ABOUT THE UNSEEN .... 66

VIII. THE CROWD'S IMAGINATION ABOUT THE FUTURE . 69

IX. THE CROWD'S IMAGINATION ABOUT PEOPLE . . 74

X. A DEMOCRATIC THEORY OF HUMAN NATURE . . 76
XI. DOING AS ONE WOULD WISH ONE HAD DONE IN

TWENTY YEARS ....... 80

XII. NEW KINDS AND NEW SIZES OF MEN ... 86

BOOK TWO
LETTING THE CROWDS BE GOOD

I. SPEAKING AS ONE OF THE CROWD .... 93

II. Is IT WRONG FOR GOOD PEOPLE TO BE EFFICIENT? . 96

III. Is IT WRONG FOR GOOD PEOPLE TO BE INTERESTING? 103

IV. PROSPECTS OF THE LIAR . . . . .107
V. PROSPECTS OF THE BULLY . . . . .Ill

VI. GOODNESS AS A CROWD-PROCESS . . . .114

VII. THOUGHTS ON BEING IMPROVED BY OTHER PEOPLE. 116

VIII. MAKING GOODNESS HURRY . . . . .125

IX. TOUCHING THE IMAGINATION OF CROWDS 128



viii CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

X. THE STUPENDOUS, THE UNUSUAL, THE MONOTONOUS

AND THE SUCCESSFUL ...... 142

XI. THE SUCCESSFUL ....... 146

XII. THE NECKS OF THE WICKED ..... 154

XIII. Is IT WRONG FOR GOOD PEOPLE TO BE SUCCESSFUL? 163

XIV. Is IT SECOND RATE FOR GOOD PEOPLE TO BE SUCCESS-

FUL? 167

XV. THE SUCCESSFUL TEMPERAMENT .... 173

XVI. THE MEN AHEAD PULL 178

XVII. THE CROWDS PUSH 184

XVIII. THE MAN WHO SAYS How, SAYS How . .186

XIX. AND THE MACHINE STARTS! ^00

BOOK THREE
LETTING THE CROWD BE BEAUTIFUL

PART I. WISTFUL MILLIONAIRES

I. MR. CARNEGIE SPEAKS UP 205

II. MR. CARNEGIE TRIES TO MAKE PEOPLE READ . 208

III. MR. NOBEL TRIES TO MAKE PEOPLE WRITE . .211

IV. PAPER BOOKS, MARBLE PILLARS, AND WOODEN BOYS 221
V. THE HUMDRUM FACTORY AND THE TUMPTY-TUM

THEATRE 227

PART II. IRON MACHINES

I. STEEPLES AND CHIMNEYS ..... 236

n. BELLS AND WHEELS ...... 240

III. DEW AND ENGINES ..... 243

IV. DEAD AS A DOOR NAIL! 245

V. AN OXFORD MAN AND AN INCH OF IRON . . 248

VI. THE MACHINES' MACHINES ..... 250

VII. THE MEN'S MACHINES ...... 252

VIII. THE BASEMENT OF THE WORLD .... 256

IX. THE GROUND FLOOR FOLKS 262

X. THE MACHINE-TRAINERS . . . . . 266

XI. MACHINES, CROWD, AND ARTISTS .... 269

PART III. PEOPLE-MACHINES

I. Now! 280



CONTENTS ix

CHAPTER PAGE

II. COMMITTEES AND COMMITTEES .... 283

III. THE INCONVENIENCE OF BEING HUMAN . . . 286

IV. LETTING THE CROWD HAVE PEOPLE EN IT . . 290

BOOK FOUR
CROWDS AND HEROES

I. THE SOCIALIST AND THE HERO .... 297

H. THE CROWD AND THE HERO ..... 301

HI. THE CROWD AND THE AVERAGE PERSON . . 303

IV. THE CROWD AND PIERPONT MORGAN . . . 307

V. THE CROWD AND TOM MANN 313

VI. AN OPENING FOR THE NEXT PIERPONT MORGAN . 323

VII. AN OPENING FOR THE NEXT TOM MANN . . 327

VIII. THE MEN WHO LOOK 331

IX. RULES FOR TELLING A HERO WHEN ONE SEES ONE 337

X. WHO Is AFRAID? 343

XI. THE TECHNIQUE OF COURAGE .... 346
XII. THE MEN WHO WANT THINGS . . . .349

XIII. MEN WHO GET THINGS 356

XIV. SOURCES OF COURAGE FOR OTHERS TOLERATION . 364
XV. CONVERSION ........ 371

XVI. EXCEPTION 380

XVII. INVENTION 383

XVIII. THE MAN WHO PULLS THE WORLD TOGETHER . 397

XIX. THE MAN WHO STANDS BY 400

XX. THE STRIKE OF THE SAVIOURS .... 402

XXI. THE LEAGUE OF THE MEN WHO ARE NOT AFRAID . 404

BOOK FIVE
GOOD NEWS AND HARD WORK

PART I. NEWS AND LABOUR 413

PART II. NEWS AND MONEY . .' . . 422

PART III. NEWS AND GOVERNMENT

I. OXFORD STREET AND THE HOUSE OF COMMONS . . 431

IL OXFORD STREET HUMS, THE HOUSE HEMS . . 440



CONTENTS



CHAPTER




PAGE


III.


PRESIDENT WILSON AND MOSES


. 449


IV.


THE PRESIDENT SAYS YES AND No .


. 455


V.


THE PRESIDENT SAYS "LOOK!" ....


. 465


VI.


THE PEOPLE SAY " WHO ARE You ? "


. 469


VII.


THE PEOPLE SAY " WHO ARE WE ? "


. 472


VIII.


NEWS ABOUT Us TO THE PRESIDENT


. 474


IX.


NEWS-MEN


. 476


X.


AMERICAN TEMPERAMENT AND GOVERNMENT .


. 483


XI-XII.


NEWS-BOOKS


505-513


XIII.


NEWSPAPERS .......


. 517


XIV.


NEWS-MACHINES


. 524


XV.


NEWS-CROWDS


. 527


XVI.


CROWD-MEN


. 550




EPILOGUE


559



BOOK ONE
CROWDS AND MACHINES

TO CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

"A battered, wrecked old man
Thrown on this savage shore far, far from home,
Pent by the sea and dark rebellious brows twelve dreary months

The end I know not, it is all in Thee,

Or small or great I know not haply what broad fields, what
lands! . . .

And these things I see suddenly, what mean they
As if some mitacle, some hand divine unsealed my eyes,
Shadowy vast shapes smile through the air and sky,
And on the distant waves sail countless ships,
And anthems in new tongues I hear saluting me."



CROWDS

CHAPTER I
WHERE ARE WE GOING?

THE best picture I know of my religion is Ludgate Hill as one
sees it going down the foot of Fleet Street. It would seem to
many perhaps like a rather strange half -heathen altar, but it
has in it the three things with which I worship most my
Maker in this present world the three things which it would
be the breath of religion to me to offer to a God together
Cathedrals, Crowds, and Machines.

With the railway bridge reaching over, all the little still
locomotives in the din whispering across the street; with the
wide black crowd streaming up and streaming down, and the
big, far-away, other-worldly church above, I am strangely glad.

It is like having a picture of one's whole world taken up deftly,

and done in miniature and hung up for one against the sky

the white steam which is the breath of modern life, the vast

hurrying of our feet, and that Great Finger pointing toward

heaven day and night for us all. . . .

I never tire of walking out a moment from my nook in
Clifford's Inn and stealing a glimpse and coming back to my
fireplace. I sit still a moment before going to work and look
in the flames and think. The great roar outside the Court
gathers it all up that huge, boundless, tiny, summed-up
world out there; flings it faintly against my quiet windows
while I sit and think.



4 CROWDS

And when one thinks of it a minute, it sends one half -fearfully,
half -triumphantly back to one's work the very thought of it.
The Crowd hurrying, the Crowd's Hurrying Machines, and
the Crowd's God, send one back to one's work !

In the afternoon I go out again, slip my way through the
crowds along the Strand, toward Charing Cross.

I never tire of watching the drays, the horses, the streaming
taxis, all these little, fearful, gliding crowds of men and women,
when a little space of street is left, flowing swiftly, flowing like
globules, like mercury, between the cabs.

But most of all I like looking up at that vast second story
of the street, coming in over one like waves, like seas all these
happy, curious tops of 'buses; these dear, funny, way -up people
on benches; these world-worshippers, sight-worshippers, and
Americans all these little scurrying congregations, hundreds
of them, rolling past.

I sit on the front seat of a hore 'bus elbow to elbow
with the driver, staring down over the ' rink of the abyss upon
ears' and necks that low, distant s ; where the horses look
so tiny and so ineffectual and so gone- y below.

The street is the true path of the sj .it. To walk through it,
or roll or swing on top of a bus throu^i it the miles of faces,
all these tottering, toddling, swinging miles of legs and stom-
achs; and on all sides of you, and in the windows and along the
walks, the things they wear, and the things they eat, and the
things they pour down their little throats, and the things they
pray to and curse and worship and swindle in ! It is like being
out in the middle of a great ocean of living, or like climbing*
up some great mountain-height of people, their abysses and
their clouds about them, their precipices and jungles and
heavens, the great high roads of their souls reaching off. . . .
I can never say why, but so strange is it, so full of awe is it, and
of splendour and pity, that there are times when, rolling and
swinging along on top of a 'bus, with all this strange, fearful joy
of life about me, within me , , , it is as if on top of my 'bus



WHERE ARE WE GOING? 5

I had been far away in some infinite place, and had felt Heaven
and Hell sweep past.

One of the first things that strikes an American when he slips
over from New York, and finds himself, almost before he had
thought of it walking down the Strand, suddenly, instead of
Broadway, is the way things thousands of things at once;
begin happening to him.

Of course, with all the things that are happening to him
the 'buses, the taxis, the Wren steeples, the great streams of new
sights in the streets, the things that happen to his eyes and to
his ears, to his feet and his hands, and to his body lunging
through the ground and swimming up in space on top of a 'bus
through this huge, glorious, yellow mist of people . .
there are all the things besides that begin happening to his mind.

In New York, of course, he rushes along through the city, in
a kind of tunnel of his own thoughts, of his own affairs, and
drives on to his point, and New York does not at least it does
not very often make things happen to his mind. He is not
in London five minutes before he begins to notice how London
does his thinking for him. The streets of the city set him to
thinking, mile after mile, miles of comparing, miles of ex-
pecting.

And above the streets that he walks through and drives
through he finds in London another complete set of streets that
interest him : the greater, silenter streets of England the
streets of people's thoughts. And he reads the great news-
papers, those huge highways on which the English people are
really going somewhere. . . . "Where are they going?"
He goes through the editorials, he stumbles through the news,
" Where are the English people going? "



An American thinks of the English people in the third person
at first, of course.

After three days or so, he begins, half-unconsciously, slipping



6 CROWDS

over every now and then into what seems to be a vague, loose
first person plural.

Then the first person plural grows.

He finds at last that his thinking has settled down into a
kind of happy, easy-going, international, editorial "We."
New York and London, Chicago and Sheffield, go drifting
together through his thoughts, and even Paris, glimmering
faintly over there, and a dim round world, and he asks, as the
people of a world stream by, " Where are WE going?"

Thus it is that London, looming, teeming, world-suggesting,
gets its grip upon a man, a fresh American, and stretches him,
stretches him before his own eyes, makes him cosmopolitan,
does his thinking for him.



There was a great sea to still his soul and lay down upon his
spirit that big, quiet roundness of the earth.

Nothing is quite the same after that wide strip of sea
sleeping out there alone night by night the gentle round
earth sloping away down from under one on both sides, in
the midst of space. . . . Then, suddenly, almost before
one knows, that quiet Space still lingering round one, perhaps
one finds oneself thrust up out of the ground in the night into
that big yellow roar of Trafalgar Square.

And here are the swift sudden crowds of people, one's own
fellow-men hurrying past. One looks into the faces of the
people hurrying past: "Where are we going?" One looks at
the stars : " WHERE ARE WE GOING? "



That night, when I was thrust up out of the ground and
stood dazed in the Square, I was told in a minute that this
London where I was was a besieged and conquered city. Some
men had risen up in a day and said to London: "No one shall
go in. No one shall go out. "



WHERE ARE WE GOING? 7

I was in the great proud city at last, the capital of the world,
her big, new, self-assured inventions all about her, all around
her, and soldiers camping out with her locomotives !

With her long trains for endless belts of people going in and
coming out, with her air-brakes, electric lights, and motor-cars
and aerial mails, it seemed passing strange to be told that her
great stations were all choked up with a queer, funny, old,
gone-by, clanky piece of machinery, an invention for making
people good, like soldiers !

And I stood in the middle of the roar of Trafalgar Square
and asked, as all England was asking that night: "Where are
we going?"

And I looked in the faces of the people hurrying past.

And nobody knew.

And the next day I went through the silenter streets of the
city, the great crowded dailies where all the world troops
through, and then the more quiet weeklies, then the monthlies,
more dignified and like private parks; and the quarterlies, too,
throughtful, high-minded, a little absent, now and then a foot-
fall passing through.

And I found them all full of the same strange questioning:
"Where are we going?"

And nobody knew.

It was the same questioning I had just left in New York,
going up all about me, out of the skyscrapers.

New York did not know.

Now London did not know.



And after I had tried the journals and the magazines, I
thought of books.

I could not but look about how could I do otherwise than
look about? a lonely American walking at last past all these
nobly haunted doorways and windows for your idealists or
interpreters, your men who bring in the sea upon your streets



8 CROWDS

and the mountains on your roof-tops; who still see the wide,
still reaches of the souls of men beyond the faint and tiny roar
of London.

I could not but look for your men of imagination, your poets;
for the men who build the dreams and shape the destinies of
nations because they mould their thoughts.

I do not like to say it. How shall an American, coming to
you out of his long, flat, literary desert, dare to say it? . . .
Here, where Shakespeare played mightily, and like a great boy
with the world; where Milton, Keats, Wordsworth, Browning,
Shelley, and even Dickens flooded the lives and refreshed the
hearts of the people; here, in these selfsame streets, going past
these same old, gentle, smoky temples where Charles Lamb
walked and loved a world, and laughed at a world, and even
made one lifted over his London forever into the hearts
of men. . . .

I can only say what I saw those first few fresh days : John
Galsworthy out with his camera his beautiful, sad, foggy
camera; Arnold Bennett stitching and stitching faithfully
twenty -four hours a day 'big, curious tapestries of little things;
H. G. Wells, with his retorts, his experiments about him, his
pots and kettles of humanity in a great stew of steam, half-
hopeful, half-dismayed, mixing up his great, new, queer messes
of human nature; and (when I could look up again) G. K.
Chesterton, divinely swearing, chanting, gloriously contra-
dicting, rolled lustily through the wide, sunny spaces of His
Own Mind; and Bernard Shaw (all civilization trooping by),
the eternal boy, on the eternal curbstone of the world, threw
stones; and the Bishop of Birmingham preached a fine,
helpless sermon. . . .



When a new American, coming from his own big, hurried,
formless, speechless country, finds himself in what he had
always supposed to be this trim, arranged, grown-up, articulate



WHERE ARE WE GOING? 9

England, and when, thrust up out of the ground in Trafalgar
Square, he finds himself looking at that vast yellow mist of
people, that vast bewilderment of faces, of the poor, of the
rich, coming and going they cannot say where he naturally
thinks at first it must be because they cannot speak; and when
he looks to those who speak for them, to their writers or inter-
preters, and when he finds that they are bewildered, that they
are asking the same question over and over that we in America
are asking too, "Where are we going?" he is brought abruptly
up, front to front with the great broadside of modern life.
London, his last resort, is as bewildered as New York; and so,
at last, here it is. It has to be faced now and here, as if it were
some great scare-head or bill-board on the world, "WHERE

ARE WE GOING?"



The most stupendous feat for the artist or man of imagination
in modern times is to conceive a picture or vision for our
Society our present machine-civilization a common expec-
tation for people which will make them want to live.

If Leonardo were living now, he would probably slight for
the time being his building bridges, and skimp his work on
Mona Lisa, and write a book an exultant book about com-
mon people. He would focus and express democracy as only
the great and true aristocrat or genius or artist will ever do it.
A great society must be expressed as a vision or expectation
before men can see it together, and go to work on it together,
and make it a fact. What makes a society great is that it is
full of people who have something to live for and who know
what it is. It is because nobody knows, now, that our present
society is not great. The different kinds of people in it have not
made up their minds what they are for, and some kinds have
particularly failed to make -up their minds what the other
kinds are for.

We are all making our particular contribution to the common



10 CROWDS

vision, and some of us are able to say in one way and some
in another what this vision is; but it is going to take a supreme
catholic, summing-up individualist, a great man or artist
a man who is all of us in one to express for Crowds, and for
all of us together, where we want to go, what we think we are
for, and what kind of a world we want.

This will have to be done first in a book. The modern world
is collecting its thoughts. It is trying to write its bible.

The Bible of the Hebrews (which had to be borrowed by the
rest of the world if they were to have one) is the one great
outstanding fact and result of the Hebrew genius. They did
not produce a civilization, but they produced a book for the
rest of the world to make civilizations out of, a book which has
made all other nations the moral passengers of the Hebrews for
two thousand years.

And the whole spirit and aim of this book, the thing about
it that made it great, was that it was the sublimest, most
persistent, most colossal, masterful attempt ever made by
men to look forth upon the earth, to see all the men in it,
like spirits hurrying past, and to answer the question, "WHERE

ARE WE GOING?"

I would not have any one suppose that in these present
tracings and outlines of thought I am making an attempt to
look upon the world and say where the people are going, and
where they think they are going, and where they want to go.
I have attempted to find out, and put down what might seem
at first sight (at least it did to me) the answer to a very small
and unimportant question "Where is it that I really want
to go myself?" "What kind of a world is it, all the facts about
me being duly considered, I really want to be in?"

No man living in a world as interesting as this ever writes
a book if he can help it. If Mr. Bernard Shaw or Mr. Chester-
ton or Mr. Wells had been so good as to write a book for me in
which they had given the answer to my question, in w r hich they
had said more or less authoritatively for me what kind of a



WHERE ARE WE GOING? 11

world it is that I want to be in, this book would never have been
written. The book is not put forward as an attempt to arrange
a world, or as a system or a chart, or as a nation-machine, or
even as an argument. The one thing that any one can fairly
claim for this book is that one man's life has been saved with it.
It is the record of one man fighting up through story after story
of crowds and of crowds' machines to the great steel and iron
floor on the top of the world, until he had found the manhole
in it, and broken through and caught a breath of air and looked
at the light. The book is merely a life-preserver that is all;
and one man's life-preserver. Perhaps the man is representa-
tive, and perhaps he is not. At all events, here it is. Anybody
else who can use it is welcome to it.



The first and most practical step in getting what one wants
in this world is wanting it. One would think that the next step
would be expressing what one wants. But it almost never is.
It generally consists in wanting it still harder and still harder
until one can express it.

This is particularly true when the thing one wants is a new
world. Here are all these other people who have to be asked.
And until one wants it hard enough to say it, to get it outside
one's self, possibly make it catching, nothing happens.

If one were to point out one trait rather than another that
makes Bernard Shaw, for so brilliant a man, so ineffective as a
leader, or literary statesman, or social reformer, it would be his
modesty. He has never wanted anything.

If I could have found a book by Bernard Shaw in which
Mr. Shaw had merely said what he wanted himself, it is quite
possible this book would not have been written. Even if
Mr. Shaw, without saying what he wanted, had ever shown in
any corner of any book that one man's wanting something in
this world amounted to anything, or could make any one
else want it, or could make any difference in him or in



12 CROWDS

the world around him, perhaps I would not have written this
book.

Everywhere, as I have looked about me among the bookmen
in America, in England, I have found, not the things that they
wanted in their books, but always these same deadly lists or
bleak inventories these prairies of things that they did not
want.

Now, as a matter of fact, I knew already, with an almost
despairing distinctness, nearly all these things I did not want
and it has not helped me (with all due courtesy and admiration)
having John Galsworthy out photographing them day after day.
so that I merely did not want them harder. And Mr. Wells's
measles and children's diseases, too. I knew already that
I did not want them. And Mr. Shaw's entire, heroic, almost
noble collection of things he does not want does not supply me
nor could it supply any other man with furniture to make
a world with even if it were not this real, big world, with
rain and sunshine and wind and people in it, and were only
that little, wonderful world a man lives within his own heart.
There have been times, and there will be more of them, when
I could not otherwise than speak as the champion of Bernard
Shaw; but, after all, what single piece of furniture is there that
George Bernard Shaw, living with his great attic of not-things
all around him, is able to offer to furnish me for me single, little,
warm, lighted room to keep my thoughts in? Nor has he
furnished me with one thing with which I would care to sit
down in my little room and think looking into the cold,
perfect hygienic ashes he has left upon my hearth. Even if
I were a revolutionist, and not a mere, plain human being,
loving life and wanting to live more abundantly, I am bound
to say I do not see what there is in Mr. Galsworthy's photo-
graphs, or in Mr. Wells's rich, bottomless murk of humanity
to make a revolution for. And Mr. Bernard Shaw, with all his
bottles of disinfectants and shelves of sterilized truths, his hard
well-being and his glittering comforts, has presented the vision



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