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Person, 315.
Public Service Corporation, 89.
Purple Hats and Hard Work, 413.

RADICAL, his being afraid.
Rats, 387.

Reformers, 534-549.

Religion and Money, 427-430.

Revolution, out of date way of getting
things, 337; sacred, 339; unscien-
tific, 339; based on stupidity about
human nature, 340.

Ripley, Edward A., 499.

Rockefeller, his imagination, 78-79;
his cooperating with his competi-
tors, 83.

Roosevelt, a news-man, 477-482; an
American poet, 500-502; his news-
sense, 533.

Ruskin, 41.


SAVIOURS, what they are not
like, 400-401; what they can
do, 402-409.

Scabs, 331, 334.

Scares, about Crowds, 19-33; about
Machines, 34-48; about Power,

Scientific Method, 186-194.

Selfridge, H. Gordon, 133-135.

Self Will, and the English Tempera-
ment, 334; and the career of Christ,

Seventh Commandment, 455.

Shaw, Bernard, throwing stones, 8;

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if he had told what kind of a world
I want, 10; if he had told what he
wanted, 11; his attic of not-things,

Shoemakers, one who would help
most ministers, 126; one who needs
news, 508.

Shopping, like going to church, 128^
141; like going to the polls, 445-

Shop- Windows, and morals, 80; and
newspapers, 113.

Skyscrapers, and Democracy, 274;
and Art, 274; saying "Who are
you.^" 286; singing "I will" to"
God, 503, 504; and American
literature, 511.

Socialists, and their literature, 15;
and their philosophy, 22-23; and
their judgments of human nature,
76-79; and levelling down, 291-
294; and their fear of heroes, 297-
302; and their fear of words and
pictures, 303-306; and Pierpont
Morgan, 309; and class-conscious-
ness, 335-336; and Revolution, 337;
and Inventors, 390-396; and Per-
sonality, 397-399; self-respect,
400—401; and their not reckoning
with ideals, 420-421; and com-
petent capital, 422-430; and their
way of getting things for the people,
431-440; and the people's way of
getting things for themselves, 440-
448; and getting business men to
be good, 453; and the American
temperament, 485-492, 493-495;
and Education, 505-510, 513-515;
and sterilized business, 536-537;
and news, 539-542; and oppor-
tunism, 544-549; and the new hero,
554-556; in England and America,

Sorting people out to die, 390-396;
to work, 402-409.

Soul of a Corporation, the Public
Service Corporation that worked,
89; and soul of a government, 489,

Spending One's Money as a Religion,

Standard Oil Trust, 506, 507.

Standing up for the World, 156-162.

Steel Trust, 430.

Stein way Piano, 451.

Sterilized Business, 537.

Stewart, A. T., his invention of one
price, 2, 128-129; his forming the
character of ninety million people,

StriJtes, 49-57.

Sub-conscious Mind and Machinery,

Success, based on knowing what one
wants, 15; the science of moving
crowds, 25-30; science of being
believed in, 55; the science of
expectation, 62; science of seeing
first, 69-73; and long motives, 82,
189; and imagination about people.
83; and being like one's self, 99;
and not cheating one's self, 107-
179; and reputation of the world,
154; wins success, 164-175; and
use of machinery, 256.

Sugar Trust, 429.

Sunlight Soap Co., 436, 560.

Sun, New York, 178-181.

Syndicalism, See Labour Unions and
Industrial Workers of the World.

TAFT, Ex-President, his idea of
breathing, 472-473; his idea of

Taylor, Frederick, and Christ, 168-

172; and Tom Mann, 322; what

he knows, 520-522.
Taylor, T. C. 518.
Teasing People, vs. taking goodness

calmly, 84; preachers teasing peo-
ple to do right, 118-120.
Technique, 186-190, 196-200.
Telegraph Wires, 550.
Telephone, and brains, 243; one was

enough, 382.
Temperament and Government, 483-

Theatres, 230-235.
Three R's of Business, 424.
Thomas, D. A., expresses for Capital

its fear, 330; and its inefficiency,


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Tillet, Ben, the men who want things
and the men who get things, 849-
363; a would-be friend of the
people, 545.

Titanic, women with child and men
with ideas, 390-396.

Toleration, Dockers, 349-363; peli-
cans Upton Sinclair and Ella
Wheeler Wilcox, 364-370; Contem-
porary Inconsistent people, 543-547.

Trafalgar Square, its roar, 6-7; its
bewilderment of faces, 9.

Trains, achieving the impossible, 67;
the swing and rhythm of a great
creed, 203-204; for the spirit of
man and for the will of God, 241-
242; carrying green fields to Lon-
don, 242-244.

Traitor to one's class, 331; Davy
MacEwen, 331, 335; Sir Arthur
Markham, 331; Bishop Gore, 323,

Trusts, in the hands of strong men,
44; and cooperation, 83; and
guessing wrong, 108; and prospects
of the bully. 111; Pierpont Morgan,
308; the President says Yes and
No to, 455-464; and American
temperament, 483-504; and raising
the price of men, 506-507, 536.


UPWARD, Allen, 212-220.
U'ren, 84.

VAIL, Theodore N., Telephone-
Vail, 396; Moses and Vail, 497.
Van Dyke, Henry, 188.


WAGNER, Richard, as an in-
ventor of democracy in art,

Walsh, Stephen, 331.
Wedgwood, Josiah, and "Traitor to

one's Class," 331, 334.
Wells, H. G., retorts and experiments,

8; his rich, bottomless murk of

humanity, 12; the future of

America, 69.
Whiriing Unbelief, 372-373.
Whitman, Walt, 296.
Who are you? the people say, 469-

475; and who are we? 538-543.
Wilson, President, 449-561.

<< V^S, but," 483.

ZANGWILL and his millionaires
before and after taking, 227.
Zoo, 364.

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«X \ TINDY BOSH:" ''Crowds" is a forbidding tome of
%/%/ 561 closely printed pages, in which the author re-
▼ T cords a vast mass of incoherent and banal reflections
upon the general subject of democratic society. He is always
giving warning that something sagacious and revolutionary is
<5oming, but it is always lost in transit. . . .

. . . And so on and so on, for page after page and chapter
after chapter — a veritable avalanche of vague. New Thoughty
rumble-bumble. . . .

. . . Thousands of well-meaning but unreflective persons,
plowing through "Crowds" laboriously, come to the conclusion
that it is highly profound. But its actual intellectual content
is often but little above that of a second-rate college yell.
. . . — Baltimore Sun.

. . . An agitating and memorable book, filled with live
formulas and arrowy truths. . . — T.P.'s Weekly (London) .

The most religious book published in this country since Uncle
Tom's Cabin — Life.

Mr. Lee has done in this book something comparable to what
Kipling did in the Nineties, when he made us see the romance of
steam, and the loyalties and codes of soldiers and department
officials. Gerald Stanley Lee helps us to see the romance of
business, and the codes and loyalties which bind together the
great industrial fabrics.

Like Kipling, he is a poet; but he is a prose-poet, which makes
him, when he is not eloquent, a little absurd. — Chicago Even-
ing Post.


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The writer is built on a big scale, like his own America. He
IS, in fact, the very spirit of America, in its dash, its boisterous
hopefulness, its sublime audacities. Entirely American is his
dealing with personalities. The notabilities of the States and
of England are handled with an amazing frankness. . . .

Mr. Lee's idea of the superman is set out with a force, an
originality, a sense of the real inwardness of things, as compared
with their mere outwardness, which is genius. ... —
Christian World (London).

As much a distillation of genius as anything Cariyle or Ruskin
or Goethe ever wrote.

Most generations have had to die before anybody could
understand them. But this generation is more fortunate. It
is able to understand itself because a few great souls have given
it books to understand itself with.

An age which has such books as "Crowds" and "Leaves of
Grass" written about it, in which to know itself, has not the ex-
cuse of other ages for blundering oflf into the tomb, disgraced,
defeated, and ashamed.

In "Crowds" the present generation becomes conscious of
itself, and its most liberal energies will find release.

Lee may have the vision of a Wordsworth, the mental
strength of a Kelvin, the spirit of Jesus, and the aloofness of a
Landor, but he has made himself a child of his own time, entered
down into the^depths of his own era, shouldered its blunders and
stupidities and sins upon himself; has wrestled with it, struggled
with it, mastered it, and has now emerged with it purified,
glorified, translated, and done into a book — Richmond Pal-

When greatness comes your way do you flatter yourself that
you know it and at once take your hat oflf? . . . Here is
that precious thing, a new thought and a new word; here is a
man daring to be himself, and daring, moreover, to talk un-
feignedly from his soul and tell us the truth as it appears to him,
without bothering at all whether any one else ever had similar
thoughts or feelings since Noah slipped moorings and made for
Ararat. — Richard Burton in the Bellman.

If a man cannot sing, Mr. Lee says, let the man keep silence:
*only men who are singing things shall do them.' . . . But

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Mr. Lee is all for the singers, and he sings himself and many
other things. He sings loud and souIfuUy, ore rotundo; 550
pages of song, a jumble of models from Eeclesiasticus, Carlyle,
Whitman. His song of the skyscrapers : . . .

Such stuff defies comment; you like it or you don't. If you
like it, you are labelled and had better keep still about it in
thoughtful company. It is in bad taste, because it is not sin-
cere. — New York Sun,

It is by its angle, and its emphasis, and by the sort of future
it suggests, that Mr. Gerald Stanley Lee's readers will judge the
message which he delivers with such volcanic sincerity in these
pages. — Morning Post (London).

Mr. Lee is likened sometimes to Emerson, sometimes to Car-
lyle, and with respect to the tax he puts on imagination there
is a likeness in both cases. But there is also a faint curious
trace of a third writer, oddly different from either, Oscar Wilde,
which serves to unite him to our own time, but adds to the com-
plexity of the formula. That he is as sincere as the older writers
we need not question, but his sincerity takes a different form:
it has not the simple earnestness of the day of Carlyle and Emer-
son, — preaching has become a far more difficult thing in our
sophisticated time, and a preacher is not allowed to take himself
too seriously. — Springfield Republican,

The book has clutch to it — no mistaking that. The pas-
sionate sincerity of it is something you cannot evade. Every
page is peppered with good things, things divinatory, wonderful
generalizations, startling particularizations. — St. Louis Mirror,

The note that Whitman struck when he was most patriotic
and aroused, or that Edward Carpenter achieves when he is at
his best, is the one which Mr. Lee, by some miracle, holds
throughout the book. Not that he is equally felicitous through-
out 560 pages, or expects the vibrations of his readers to remain
undiminished for so great a length of time as that required for
the reading of his volume, but that, having seen a vision, he is
able to retain it in his soul's eye and to interpret its meanings
with spontaneous and impassioned eloquence. ... — Chi-
cago Tribune^

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"But Tell Me What 'Tis All About, Quoth Little Peterkin?"

I have failed to make much headway in my attempt to read
"Crowds." So far as I can make head or tail of it, the whole
book is a sententious discussion of the self -propounded question:


Where left you Chrononhotonthologos?"

Certainly Mr. Lee's book is a trifle obscure. Those grappling
with it must be prepared to immerse their cogitative faculties
in cogibundity of cogitation. — Story Book,

"Crowds" consists of six hundred pages of hustled philosophy,
and the reader must be in the best of mental condition to keep
up with its pace. ... — Melbourne Victoria (Australia).

. . . Gerald Stanley Lee's book is full of **wild seraphic
fire" — it burns and toils and intensifies itself through all its
maze of books, parts, and chapters. It is rather a prose-poem
than an argument, or it is an argument conducted on the plane
of vision and prophecy.

. . . This is a new book in the sense that it is unlike any
other modern; a big book because it deals with an immense sub-
ject in a great brave way; a problem that has baffled, appalled,
and even overthrown gigantic intellects in all ages. — Dundee

A fat volume of some six hundred pages, filled to the brim
with vague windymush. The rev. gent. — he is, I believe, in
holy orders — performs in the best sacerdotal manner. That
is to say, he clothes commonplace and often downright silly
thoughts in ornate and stuflfy garments, and so gives them a
false air of importance. He is always announcing the obvious
in terms of the revolutionary, and with all the typographical
trappings of a blood-tub dime novel. . . .

We hear about the Economic Machine, Whirling Unbelief,
the Sidewalk of Truth, the Golden Rule Before and After Tak-
ing, the Meat Trust, the Blackness, the Lonely Hunger, and all
the other familiar scarecrows and hobgoblins of the Uplift. • The
author describes for us, with great particularity, just where and
when this or that Great Thought was hatched in him — how he
sat on a bench in the zoo at Regent's Park on a day in 1911 and
achieved the staggering idea that "possibly people are as dif-
ferent from one another inside, in their souls at least, as dif-

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ferent as these animals are"; how he once walked down Fleet
Street to Ludgate Hill and was flabbergasted by the sudden
riddle ** Where are we going?" And toward the end, he an-
nounces the greatest discovery of all, to wit : . . .

Well, well, don't laugh too soon! The odds are that . . .
** Crowds" will have a large sale in our fair republic. . . .

. . . The way to get a reputation for sagacity is to trans-
late platitudes into mystical rumble-bumble. That exhorter
whose meaning is plain at first hearing, that propagandist who
thinks his thoughts out cleariy and puts them into sound and
simple English, has a hard time catching the crowd. The taste
of the moment is for more subtle and puzzling stuff — for non-
sensical gabble about Avatars, Oversouls and Zeitgeists, for
copybook maxims with their eyebrows penciled and fefathers
stuck in their hats, for long rows of meaningless italics and capi-
tals, for mellow, Maeteriinckian cadenzas on penny whistles,
and the platitudinous flapdoodle of the Rev. Dr. Orison Sweet
Harden. . . . — The Smart Set

, . . It is a remarkable book, written in American Cariyl-
ese, which, although at first it irritates, if one will persevere with
it open-mindedly becomes really fascinating. Mr. Lee is an
American with a wonderful gift for crushing his views of life
into nutshell paragraphs. Often there are as many as a dozen
nutshell paragraphs on a page. Then follow elaborations, many
of them original and arresting, as much by their style as their
matter. There is an amazing amount of thought in the book. —
Yorkshire Post.

, , . Mr. Lee is both brilliant and original in thought and
expression, and whatever he chooses to discuss is treated from an
entirely individual point of view. In his initial chapter he ex-
plains how he came to write the book, assuring us that " no man
living in a world as interesting as this ever writes a book if he
can help it." Readers in general will be thankful that Mr.
Lee couldn't "help it." These epigrammatic essays have the
flavor of Chesterton with a strong suggestion of Bernard Shaw.
Mostly, however, they are Gerald Stanley Lee — strikingly
individual and full of snap and sparkle. ... — San Fran-
cisco (Cal.) Bulletin.

There is a good deal that suggests Carlyle in "Crowds," and

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notably those chapters in Book Five which pour out contempt
upon the House of Commons, and by implication upon all legis-
lative assemblies. Perfectly Carlylean is the comparison made
between Oxford Street, which hums, in the author's picturesque
phraseology, and the House of Commons, which hems. It
would be doing less than justice to Mr. Lee, however, to suggest
that his book is primarily an imitative one. — The Nation^ New

. . . It is much like Montaigne's delightful pages; that is,
it has the same charm, the same originality of expression about
the commonplace things. . . . It is this that makes the
book renowned around the world. It is the poetry of truth,
the imagination applied to realities. . . . — Los Angeles
(Cal.) Times,

Now here is a book of nearly six hundred pages. I am wres-
tUng with the problem of compressing it into two columns.
There are whole chapters that I should like to print on the front
page of the Times or the Daily Mail, There are sentences in
this book that I should like to hang up in waiting-rooms, and
leave lying about in public places. I'm just dying to meet
somebody who will let me talk to them for a couple of hours on
a stretch about it.

It was this way: I didn't know it was a diflFerent kind of a
book from other books, and I took it up as unsuspectingly as
though I were handling a Sunday-school story. And all at
once I found that the writer was saying things — things that
meant something, things that mattered. I said to myself, **He
can't keep this up. " But he did — for five hundred and ninety-
five pages.

How good it is to meet with writing such as this that leaves
the beaten tracks of thought and turns our old truisms upside
down! It's tiring, I grant you. I've been floored with epi^
grams, and picked up and comforted with parables. I've
had all my mental furniture taken out, spring-cleaned, and put
back in diflFerent places. I'm sore and tired, and breathless
and happy. I wish I could tell you all about it — Labour
Leader (London).

. . . The big thing about this book is you are not going to

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read it without having your thinking machinery started. Every
page, every paragraph, every sentence almost is a challenge.
Often it is a very saucy, impertinent challenge. The author will
say something, and then it is as though he dares you to agree
with him and he defies you to disagree with him.

It is this that gives a book its value. You are not going to be
the same after you have read it that you were before. You will
think different thoughts, or if you persist in thinking your old
thoughts they won't be quite the same to you. One chapter
jars you out of the old ruts. The worjd of men and women
and of social and commercial systems will never look quite the
same as before you opened "Crowds." — Press Knicker.

. . . The opening chapter asks the question, "Where are
we going? " It begins with a rapid, racy and highly vivid sketch
of London when Mr. Lee slips over from New York, and finds
himself, almost before he had thought of it, walking down the
Strand, suddenly, instead of Broadway. Not all Americans
see like this; in fact, only one American can, and his name is
Gerald Stanley Lee and no other. . . .

. . . It may be a rather queer jumble, this brief and un-
usual description, but somehow when we go to Ludgate Circus
again we shall have to see the familiar St. Paul's, and the railway
bridge, and thejwide flowing river of people as we never saw
them before. . . . — Leicester Pioneer (England).

Once upon a time men were wont to take things easily, but
that was before Rockefeller, Carnegie, Morgan and Co. grew
richer and bought the world. Had Mr. Gerald Stanley Lee
lived in those days he would probably have spent a quiet, restful
life editing and annotating a new edition of Hobbs's "Levia-
than." As it is, Mr. Lee has apparently taken it into his head,
early one evening, to write a book about democracy. He has
retired to a quiet corner — if such a thing is to found in New
York — and been extra busy for a considerable number of
hours. Toward dawn he has laid down his patent self-filling
foimtain pen, leant back in his chair, and remarked to himself,
"I said I would write that book, and I guess I've done it."
. . . . Yet behind its trying and, at times, ridiculous Yan-
keeism lies a distinct contribution to the literature of democracy.
— Melbourne Victoria (Australia) .

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. . . Now it is not every one who climbs to the roof of
the world and breaks through the manhole in it, and I am
inclined to think that the iSrst breath of air one took in that
uncommon situation would be apt to take one's own breath
away. Mr. Lee, indeed, seems scarcely to have recovered his
through the 600 pages of his treatise, and in this predicament
it cannot be easy to instruct one's audience in a simple, coher-
ent, and convincing manner.

. . . The Crowd Man "will probably be a kind of every-
day great man or business statesman, the man who represents
all classes, and who proves it in the way he conducts his busi-
ness." Whether he is to be here, or in America, or everywhere,
I do not quite make out. He is to be an interpreter of sky-
scrapers: ....

He shall reckon with skyscraper men. He shall interpret
men that belong with skyscrapers. I have waked in the dawn,
and my heart has been glad with the iron and poetry in the

In the name and by the blessed memory of Walt — No!

I also have waked in the dawn, and my heart has been sorry
with the transcendental transcribings of the transcontinental
transcribblers. — Daily Chronicle.

. . . It is a vertiginous, chaotic, cinematographic book, a
combination of the snap-shot and the poem that carries us well
toward futurism. — Springfield Republican.

You have, perhaps, paused sometimes on a street corner be-
side a crowd gathered about a speaker standing elevated in its
midst, one wild of mien, gesticulating madly, pouring forth a
torrent, lurid with emphasis, of chaotic utterance. Strange
and startling has been the rushing confusion of his metaphor.
Bizarre and fascinating his amazing jumble of allusions, in sup-
port of his whirling argument, to everything on the earth's
surface, and in the heavens above and the waters beneath.
Rich and fantastic his rolling clouds of pronouns in reckless con-
fusion, one with another. Then, perhaps, as you have stood,
held somehow as by a spell by this picturesque phenomenon^
analogous, as it were, to some volcanic eruption of nature, you
have felt the struggling movement of a real idea in this vocifer-
ous flood. And then the gentleman's roar for a moment has
beat upon you unheeded while you have contemplated as in a

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quiet place the substance of his thought. Very much such an
experience as this has been ours with this strange book. This
writer, writing continually at the top of his voice, indeed in
a regular yell, has got hold here of an alluring idea, an idea
capable of endless, curious, striking, and philosophic appUca-

The idea of "Sartor Resartus," the world seen as clothes, is
hardly a more spectacular and spacious vehicle for the inter-
pretation by the imagination of the universe than this idea of
the world seen as crowds. . . — New York Tribune,

. . . A huge, incoherent, and optimistic study of democ-
racy. It is reaUy the most impossible of books to review in
any detail, because it is just one enormous jumble of ordinary,
fantastic, and acute ideas. Mr. Lee is American to his finger-
tips, and he does not spare us an ounce of his nationality. He is
cheerful, slangy, dogmatic, strenuous — and all the other things
we expect from a typical American. And he is also, as I said,
crammed full of all sorts of notions which come tumbUng on the
heels of one another Uke an avalanche. His very first para-
graph is a kind of trumpet-call of his belief. . . . In its
own way (and I don't quite know what that way is) it must be a
remarkable performance. Reading it gives one an uneasy, be-
wildering sensation — rather like what one feels in a dream
when one knows that something very important is taking place,
but one can't actually reaUze what it is. For Mr. Lee is a

Online LibraryGerald Stanley LeeCrowds: a moving-picture of democracy → online text (page 42 of 44)