The Light Touch in Journalism

T was my good fortune, one afternoon last winter, to hear Professor Bliss Perry read his delightful paper before the Academy of Arts and Letters on the decline of satire as a correction of the evils, political, social, and what-not, of the day. A few weeks later I came by chance upon a reference, in Mr. Ogden's "Life and Letters of Edwin Lawrence Godkin," to one of the problems which confronted the editor of The Nation in the early days of that periodical. Writing to his intimate friend, Frederick Law Olmsted, he put the matter in this way: "It is very difficult to find a man to do the work of gossiping agreeably-on manners, lager beer, etc.—who will bind himself to do it, whether he feels like it or not. In fact, it is very difficult to get men of education in America to handle any subject with a light touch. They all want to write ponderous essays, if they write at all."

When these words were written in July, 1865-Lowell's "Biglow Papers," perhaps the only sustained piece of satire, well-nigh perfect in form and telling in substance, America has produced, had been appearing in The Atlantic Monthly, in the pages of which, prior to the outbreak of the Civil War, Doctor Holmes had introduced his genial Autocrat and his wise Professor to a multitude of delighted readers. A dozen years earlier George William Curtis had issued his "Potiphar Papers," and a few years later Charles Dudley Warner was to publish "My Summer in a Garden." Mr. Howells had spent the four previous years in Venice, and was on the threshold of his journalistic career on the staffs of The Tribune and The Nation.

Great as was the difficulty which Mr. Godkin experienced, half a century ago, in finding educated Americans who could handle any subject with a light touch, an editor of the present day would find it even more difficult to secure such writers. Indeed, if I were asked to point out offhand any American "men of education"-to use Mr. Godkin's convenient phrase-who

would be capable of writing an agreeable article on lager beer, for example, I doubt if I could name more than two or three.

In England, on the other hand, from the time of Swift satire and the art of gossiping on manners have been cultivated and practised by men of education. The tradition of the light touch is still preserved in The Spectator, in any number of which one is reasonably sure to find to-day an article on some topic like "Maps" or Cats" or the "Omniscience of Sailors." To bring knowledge and experience, a graceful style, and perhaps even wit, or at least a good anecdote or two, to the discussion of such subjects, is a task for which Englishmen of education seem to be better fitted than are Americans.

The truth probably is that the light touch is a gift and not an acquirement. One cannot imagine Mr. Howells or Edward S. Martin, or Jesse Lynch Williams, or Finley Peter Dunne writing a ponderous essay on any subject. It isn't in one of them to perpetrate such an atrocity. Nor can one imagine-but the list of those who can write nothing else would be too long! If one happens to be born with the gift of the light touch, which is only the expression of one's outlook upon and philosophy of life, and drifts into journalism or literature, the world is so much the gainer thereby. To the writer thus fortunately equipped subjects of contemporary interest present themselves on all sides. Almost every copy of a newspaper that one picks up offers in some paragraph an inviting theme to the humorous satirist. Imagine, for example, the fun which Eugene Field would have had with the decision of his fellow townsman, Judge Tuthill, of Chicago, that Shakespeare was an impostor and that Sir Francis Bacon was the author of the plays attributed to Shakespeare-a decision so nicely timed that it was delivered and published to an amused and slightly scandalized world on the very eve of the universal celebration of the three hundredth anniversary of the dramatist's death! For Field was a master of the light

touch in his peculiar if rather narrow province of personal journalism-in exposing and ridiculing the literary and kindred pretensions of his fellow citizens, making his "Sharps and Flats" in the Chicago Daily News the envy and admiration not only of his contemporaries but of his legitimate successors, the "colyumists" of the journalism of to-day.

The possession of a sense of humor gives a person the other fellow's point of view and prevents, or should prevent, him from making an ass of himself. The fanatic, whatever his fad may be-and America seems to have developed an unusually large crop of this species lately-has no sense of humor, and constantly offers himself or his ideas as the target for the jests and the ridicule of the man in journalism who is blessed with this gift of the light touch. The English tradition, however, as it was inherited and developed by writers like Lamb and Thackeray, and as it was instinctively followed by American writers like Curtis, Holmes, Warner, and Howells, dealt in a wholly impersonal way with contemporary manners and with the follies and foibles of classes of men, rather than with the intellectual eccentricities or political vagaries of individuals, and was on a correspondingly higher plane. It is easy to make fun of the fantastic ideas of a fat-witted alderman or of the pompous imbecilities of a notoriety-seeking police magistrate. It is not so easy to write a paper on "Lager Beer," or "Roast Pig," or "A Peal of Bells" in a way that will hold the interest of educated readers.

As to Montessori Mothers

seemed to assume that children existed chiefly to be disciplined in this world and damned in the next. Those stern puritan parents were inconsistent, however, for, if so many of their offspring were predestined to an awful fate, why not, like the comfortable old lady in Mrs. Stowe's "Oldtown Folks," give them as good a time as possible beforehand? It has always been a question in my mind whether the parents were trying to cheat predestination or merely seeking to inure its victims. Of course, it could not be

helped that, in a succeeding generation, spoiled children, like Unitarianism, should result from so grim a theology, but a conscience was inherited, and when still another generation came along we again began to take our children seriously. Unlike our grandfathers, we have taken their minds more seriously than their morals. In our zeal we have built our big, standardized schools and have cheerfully dropped our children into the hoppers, to have the individuality ground out of them. Looking askance at the result, we have then begun to consider individuality and have worked ourselves all up over "child-study." And now comes Madame Montessori, and we have her methods as the dernier cri in education. It remains to be seen whether it will perish as a fad or remain as a gospel.

Personally, I hope it will remain as a gospel, for it does, indeed, seem to be a counsel of perfection. But with what difficulties in the way of its application! According to the dicta of the Montessori system, since each child differs from every other child, each must be taught separately. But as each child cannot have a teacher all to himself, he must be taught to educate himself. This, however, does not mean letting him alone. Far from it! He must be under the most careful and intelligent supervision, both at school and at home. He must be shown how to teach himself the use of his body and his mind, and he must learn a self-administered moral discipline. He is not taught very much from the outside, but he is "observed" carefully and continuously. As explained in detail, the plan sounds wholly admirable and convincing, with a sound scientific foundation.

The school, rightly conducted, is satisfactory. Children are usually most manageable in a troop, where all are under the same régime, for, individuality notwithstanding, it seems to be a child's dearest wish to be just like other children. He hates singularity. But sending the child to a Montessori school for a few hours in a day is the smallest part of the affair, and naturally it is at home that the difficulties are greatest. The system should be carried out consistently, and the mother needs to be a superwoman. In a little book written by a Montessori devotee and dealing with the relation between mother and children, the mother is told: "We must not be irritable or unjust or unintelligent-not even once." Now, a

woman may discipline herself into being an angel of goodness, but how, I ask, is she to make herself intelligent if nature has made her stupid? And yet, though stupid, she may yearn to have a Montessori child.

One of the requirements of the system is that the child shall have long periods of undirected play. A most excellent thing; but one doesn't see much play for the mother, who will surely need it. Even when the children are undirectedly playing she must be near enough to be alert to the possibilities of naughtiness, so as gently to lead the naughty child, as a little invalid, to the restful and calming bed for which he is to learn to ask when he feels naughtiness coming on. I have never seen anything to encourage the hope that he will do so. And, if the mother is going to find the affair so serious, what about the nurse who sees herself confronted by the necessity of managing the children according to what she is too apt to consider a feckless whim? For instance, at bedtime perhaps nurse inadvertently loosens the three-year-old baby's clothes and slips them off. An outsider cannot help sympathizing with her irritation when she has to keep another Montessori child, already half undressed on his own initiative (the system greatly prizes initiative), waiting for necessary attention while she helps put the clothes on again, down to the last sock, so that the infant may take them off for himself. If she fails to do it there are ructions, and she knows that down-stairs the mother is sighing out: "Oh, why won't Jane avoid trouble? It's such a simple thing to manage if she would only enter into the spirit of it!"

The Montessori zealot would eliminate the nurse and speaks scornfully of the mother who brings up her child "under the nursemaid system." But, if the nurse is given up, how is the mother to follow the Montessori rule of subordinating, in her intercourse with the child, its material needs to its spiritual requirements? For it must be fed and washed and clothed, and there is only just so much time and just so much strength. Besides, there really are some other claims on a woman. For instance, the Montessorian herself advises you, in view of the empty time coming, when your self-reliant children are grown up, to cultivate your relations with your husband. You are admonished to "clasp John's hand

closely, over the little heads which crowd between you." It does seem as if you would have to use both hands for the children if you are to be a real Montessori mother, and John may slip his away if you can never go off and play with him.

As a matter of fact, there are a good many self-styled Montessori mothers who have very little idea of what it would mean to carry out the system thoroughly and intelligently. Some of them just sit back and let the children do as they like, and call it the Montessori method. It is such a relief not to have to enforce commands, and such a comfort to believe that the easiest way for themselves is the best way for the children. Their children are not spoiled! Good Heavens, no! They are only cultivating their individuality. Then there are other mothers who begin enthusiastically and continue to try conscientiously to live up to the rules, but all sorts of untoward things happen and make gaps in the training, and the result is a patchwork to which the child adapts himself more or less successfully. The truth is, the Montessori system does not easily get a fair chance under the conditions of American life.

The most thoroughgoing of the Montessorians seem to be looking forward to a time when our children shall be brought up, not by their mothers but by "mothers-bychoice," as it appears that the teachers of the future are to be called. The children are ultimately to be gathered together in groups, "cared for by scientifically trained mothersby-choice," leaving the "mothers-bychance" free to do other useful jobs for the community. This has a startling sound, but when, in the happenings of travel, one sees mothers-by-chance, albeit persons who hold themselves above the common run, badtemperedly slapping their children or denying to them the affection which they lavish on dogs, one pauses in the act of remonstrance and says: "Oh, well, some children . . ." In the end, the conservatives may find a crumb of comfort in the reflection that the arrangement would not be likely to last for more than one generation. These Montessori-trained young people will hardly permit outside interference with their children. I cannot believe it even of my home-trained Montessori granddaughter, who, at three years old, shows signs of becoming a competent boss.

THE FALLACY OF THE SHORT CUT IN ART EDUCATION

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VOBODY but a grumbler or an automaton will quarrel with the short cut when it is also the happy one. The happy short cut means duty done, time saved, leisure enjoyed. It is the triumph of wings over wayfaring. But the short cut as we have known it does not always end thus gloriously. Often it is only the old ignoble Icarian adventure, sought and suffered all over again by new souls, since even the Icarian adventure is better than none.

In discussing the shortcomings of the short cut in art education, we do not belittle the revolutionary spirit of those now defying the ancient dictum that art is long. The revolutionary spirit is the perennial leaven in our bread of progress. The world owes a fair hearing to all revolutionaries worth their salt, from our new friend Doctor Flexner, battering at a public-school curriculum because it teaches children "not life but Latin," back to our old friend Pithecanthropus, ape-man of Java, denouncing as obsolete the all-fours method and establishing the race on a strictly biped basis. No doubt an early Areopagus of apes sat in judgment on the new manner in walking and solemnly voted its adoption. Perhaps in their dim, paleolithic way, those old dears could recognize, somewhat as we ourselves do, that people who are pledged to progress must welcome criticism, yet must weigh it, too.

We criticise most seriously whatever concerns us most seriously-for instance, education. Long ago our democratic enthusiasm for quantity in education was tempered by misgivings as to quality and fitness. Rapidly changing plans are being tried and diverse views are current. Some of us hark back to the three R's of the red schoolhouse, an institution which, had it continued to flourish, might have produced too many Presidents, while some of us hark forward to the nine arts of the all-play school, which if overworked will not produce enough people fit to be presided over. Our fathers, you

see, had eaten the sour grapes of memorytraining in English kings, cube root, and the dative of disadvantage; not only were our own teeth set on edge thereby, but our children's teeth are now being filled with what we hope is the fine gold of dramatic expression and eurythmics. Mere memory-training, it was found, may give us parrots instead of citizens. Let us, therefore, try what self-expression may do! Day before yesterday, educators were imploring us not to harass children with don'ts. To-day, with equal fervor, they pray us not to hamper children with desks. Undon'ted and undesked, the sacred fire of self-expression flaming from his forelock, the modern child is urged to choose what to learn-“Faites votre jeu, messieurs!" Similar changes mark our art education. A generation ago students grew gray over drawing from the (slightly soiled) plaster cast before being promoted to working from life. To-day they hear from certain quarters that only by forswearing representation altogether shall they reach the ultimate heights.

The Calvinistic "bitter road," the futuristic "short cut"! Warned against both, why choose either? The new ideal of the work-play-study school may be cited as avoiding extremes of all-work and all-shirk. Doctor Dewey, writing of industrial training in public schools, declares that "its aim must be, first of all, to keep youth under educative influences for a longer time." John Jay Chapman, inveighing against our American vice of diffuseness in education and our lack of depth in our studies, tells us that "leisure is necessary-a slowing down, a taking of things, not easily, but slowly, determinedly, patiently." These two men, viewing the question from opposite poles, hold no brief for the "hackingthrough" method. They do not counsel the short cut. Would that some of our new critics of art education might show equally sound judgment! But it is in art education far more than in general education that the nimble theorist finds room for a carnival of