Part 3

The intermingling of prose and verse qualities which we find in free verse makes it possible for the poet to be true to the finer shades of his message and its meaning. He is not bound by any fixed necessities of rhyme and meter. This probably accounts for the fact that we have seen expressed in this form the most rugged sentiments and, at the same time, the most delicate shading of artistry.

I once enjoyed a conversation with the late James Whitcomb Riley, wherein he spoke of the desirability of naturalness in poetry.

“Poetry should not sound stilted and constrained,” he said, “but natural and sincere. It should run along the same even and normal course that a high grade of every-day conversation does. One should not say, ‛the rippling brook along.’ He should say, ‘along the rippling brook.’”

One may notice in Mr. Riley’s work that the best of the poems he wrote during the period of his most serious work have just this quality. Consequently, they are rather free in their form. He does not break entirely away from rhyme and meter, but he does make them secondary.

This kind of work seems to hold its place longest. Probably the reason is that the message and not the form is the immortal part. Out of the past we have preserved a few high-sounding poems for their lilt and rhythm, but they are few and probably will be long outlived by others sounding a more genuine note. If anything of their kind was produced in the days of Moses or David, it has long since perished. Yet the great sentiments that swelled from the souls of these men and burst from their lips are still treasured among us. After all, it does not seem to be to the advantage of the poet to be abjectly the slave of his style. He seems to be all the better remembered when he is the master of his materials.

Some have the idea that free verse belongs in the same category with jazz music and cubist art, but it is not so. Free verse is no oddity. It is one of the best outlets poetry can ever offer for the expression of the moods and thoughts of the human soul. It is not the only form of poetry we should cultivate and preserve, but it is one that will have a real place in the great future of letters.

Music and History (1921)

It is often said that a nation’s life is mirrored in its literature. This is necessarily true because it is the mission of literature to express life. Even if such were not its purpose, the spirit of an age would naturally find its way into the writings of the period. Literature cannot but be a true reflection of the age which produces it.

The same is true of music in an approximate, if not an equal, degree. It also mirrors the life of the age from which it springs. Literature is a word picture of the life of its time. Music is a tone picture of the same thing.

A musical composition images the state of someone’s soul at a given moment. That condition of soul is a part of the great composite which we call the spirit of the times. It might about as well be called the personality of the age. It largely determines the thought, motive, and action of the period. It is the chief factor in the making of history. When one sees it spread out before him, he can almost write from it the story of the period represented. The issues of life have always proceeded from the heart, and the heart of any age expresses itself in its musical productions.

The great general types of music are all representative of either phases of human life or periods in its history. The age of great passions and majestic emotions produced the symphony. The day of calm devotion and religious faith gave us the oratorio and the hymn. The time of quiet ways and simple joys contributed the pastorale. The age of love brought us the lyric and the ballad.

These types of music we still have with us, for music is a permanent record. As we have them today, they tell us what the people of other ages have thought, felt, hoped, joyed, and suffered. We are now as busily engaged in building up a musical record of our times as they were in the making of a volume of work by which others might know their story when they were gone.

The Elizabethan period is outstanding in the history of English literature for the quantity and quality of the lyric verse which it produced. It has been said with entire truthfulness that during that period England was a veritable nest of singing birds. Among those who helped to produce that volume of song are William Shakespeare, Ben Johnson, and Christopher Marlowe. Thus far, the work done by the poets and singers of that period has successfully met all the tests of immortality. It is both read and sung throughout the English-speaking world.

The reason for the outstanding quality of the songs of that period is simply the fact that it was an amorous age in England. Love is the great inspirer of this type of poetry and song. Love is an elemental instinct, and rhyme and rhythm are the elemental ways of expressing things. Therefore, love finds its most suitable expression in lyric verse. Lovers must sing. If their suit is successful, their song is gay. If it meets with temporary or permanent disappointment, their song is grave. In either case, they must sing. Whenever the day of the lover comes in any day or time, and it always does come, the period during which he reigns will be an age of song.

After reading or hearing the songs of the Elizabethan period in England, there is little in the history of the times that needs to occasion surprise to one. The writers of that period were simply representative of their time. Therefore, they expressed its spirit in their singing. The soul of the England of their time breathes in their verse.

We have developed our distinct types of music in America. Each of these is also representative either of a period in our history or an element in our national spirit.

It was in the stirring days of the revolutionary period that the American spirit was fully awakened. That consciousness naturally found expression in a type of song. It was such songs as “Yankee Doodle” that gave it voice. In the heat and fervor of our next great war was born the majestic national anthem to which the recent trials have given a new meaning.

The fraternal strife of the Civil War naturally required two sets of songs to express its spirit. The North sang its courage up with “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp the Boys are Marching,” “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” and “Marching Through Georgia.” At the same time, the soul of the South was speaking in the words and music of such songs as “Dixie,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Maryland, My Maryland.”

The Spanish-American War and the World War just ended each brought its contribution of song to the lore of our times. Those who come after us will long be able to recall the spirit of these two periods by singing their songs again.

We have also had our lyric age in America. The quality of its output does not even suggest comparison with that of the Elizabethan work, but we have had it. The crude backwoodsmen who occupied the stage during the earlier days of our wilderness life were normal people. They not only had their loves, hopes, joys, and sorrows, but they also sang about them. The result was often pitifully sentimental, but it was sincere.

Down to a recent time, there was more militarism in the American spirit than most people realized. We had a goodly supply of the courage of battle left over from our several wars and their corresponding victories. America found expression for that spirit in the work of such men as John Philip Sousa, and others of similar, though less widely recognized talent. For a long while, the sound of the stately march has served as an outlet for our patriotic feelings. We now share the general decline in militaristic feeling, but the march will remain. If war dies from the earth, as so many fondly hope it will, our stirring marches will still be treasured as tone pictures of the days that were.

Particularly is the folk song a page from the history of a people. One might gather more of the spirit of the old South from hearing a collection of its songs than from the reading of many pages of its story. The same would be true of any section of any land.

Ragtime and Jazz represent two successive steps in the development of the recent world spirit. It was a spirit of nervousness and restlessness, a spirit willing to go to any length for the sake of novelty and action. It helped to make the world war possible and is still keeping the planet in a turmoil of restlessness and dissatisfaction. Jazz has been defined as animalism expressed in tone. It might also be called the anarchy of music.

There are those who hope for a calmer day in the world’s temper and feeling. When that time comes, its spirit will express itself in a renewal of dignified and stately music. We may assume this to be true because the thought and action of any age, whatever its spirit, is traced upon the long scroll of time in the form of a golden thread of song.

We have noted only the products of the lesser musical ability of America. To fail to call attention to the fortunate exceptions would be to fail to do justice to the better culture and taste of our country. The fact that we have had some real masters is one not to be overlooked. Our Cadmans and MacDowells bear testimony to the fact that our faces are forward. There is a spirit of culture in America, and it has found expression in some of the finer and more enduring forms of musical composition. It has obstacles to surmount, but it makes progress. America has a national future. It follows that she has a musical future. The one vouchsafes the other. The other expresses the one.

Correspondence (1929)

Two important influences go out from an office. One is that of the representatives who make outside personal contacts. The other is the stream of correspondence that issues forth into the outside world. The second is no less important than the first.

As good correspondence is an art, so a good correspondent is an artist. He is not easy to find. It is as surprising as it is regrettable how few people have taken the trouble really to master the use of the English language. One can more easily find a master of mechanics than a master of words any time. Yet each person owes it not only to his language but to himself to know how to use his native tongue correctly and effectively.

In all writing, and especially in writing letters upon which great interests turn, two things are important. One is to say the right thing. The other is not to say the wrong one.

The president of a great bank once said to me: “I write my own advertisements and dictate my own letters, not necessarily because I know better than anyone else what to say, but rather because I probably do know better than anyone else what not to say.”

The other day I saw a series of collection letters supposed to have been prepared by an expert. They were verbose and flowery. They were supposed to be seasonal—something about which both collector and collectee care exactly nothing. They had a jollying and blarneying tone which is always nauseating. The clear, courteous, definite letter is the one that wins.

I once saw an irate letter that came to the director of a money-raising project for a philanthropic interest. It told him plainly that the writer objected to the whole scheme, and would consider it an insult to be asked for a subscription. A secretary answered the letter patiently, courteously, and explainingly, but without asking for a subscription. Return mail brought a letter from the erstwhile objector enclosing a subscription for fifty dollars. The right kind of correspondence will contribute largely toward the success of any business.

The Sabbath Desecration (1910)

We are sometimes accustomed to make rather gloomy comparisons between our days and those of our fathers. The ground for our doing so is oftener grounded in sentiment than fact, and yet there are some differences which are deplorable. This is especially true with reference to the observance of the precepts laid down in our religious teachings. We feel painfully lacking when we reflect upon the sturdy faith of the pioneers who blazed the way not only for our economic but also for our religious advancement. Perhaps nowhere do we feel that there is more discouraging contrast than in the matter of Sabbath observance. A little girl in one of our large cities heard the minister say in his sermon, one Sunday, that in heaven every day would be like Sunday. She told her mother, upon arriving home, that she expected to find heaven a grand place, for if every day were to be like Sunday, then the ceaseless round of theaters, cards, and ball games would certainly be delightful. Between this conception of the Sabbath Day and that of the stern Puritan who refused to allow his children to play and be happy on Sunday, there lies a long distance. Both are extreme views and neither could be said to be altogether desirable, but if American life continues in its present direction, the one may become as real as the other once was. We do not want our Sabbath Day to be a season of agonizing gloom and long faces. Nothing could be farther from the apparent attitude of Jesus toward it. Neither do we want it to be a day of selfish pleasure and frivolity. But we do want it to be a day of meditation, prayer, and quiet service. To keep the day holy does not necessarily imply absolute passivity, but in a Christian land, the Sabbath Day should be a day of rest. And yet the doors of many business houses are wide open; petty amusements reap a harvest of small coin, theatrical performances are given, and often the authorities fail to close even the saloons. Not only must we face these facts, but also that many so called Christians fail in very questionable ways to keep the day sacred. We may well ask whence this great difference between our age and that of the preceding generation. We are so justified by the fact that every effect has a cause.

The tempter has many ways of accomplishing his purposes. He can not only quote to his purpose, but he can also utilize the social forces to his own advantage. Where such a force is the cause of men doing that which they should not do, we can best do the work of our Lord by fighting the force and not the act. We can not kill the dragon by cutting off the heads; we must strike at the life-giving root of the evil.

One reason why the Sabbath is less a day of rest than formerly is probably to be found in the fact that this is more an age of idleness than was the former one. Our fathers appreciated and observed their day of rest because they could not help but feel their need of it. They worked hard in the woods or fields from the early morning till late at night, and moreover, their work was of such a muscular nature that their evenings and Sundays found them both weary in body and hungry in mind. The Sunday rest would relieve the one, and attendance upon Sunday services would satisfy the other. Thus, it was apparently to their own advantage to live the day unto the Lord. Not only this, but the father did not toil out his days to maintain his sons and daughters in lives of idleness and profligacy. Every member of the family had his or her share in the work of making ends meet. Thus, the whole family found itself weary enough to be ready for rest and prayer on the Sabbath. It is but natural that one who loafs the week away or goes on a continual round of pleasure-seeking should fail to realize any need for rest and relaxation on Sunday. They are the people who are usually found complaining that the preachers and Christians want to make a man sit still all day Sunday and do nothing. The argument that laboring men want ball games and other amusements to occupy themselves on Sunday is fallacious. If they work on week days as they ought to work, they will not be found complaining of too much rest on Sunday. Then, in this case, it is not so much against Sabbath desecration as it is against idleness that we need wage our war. If we can remove the cause, its effects must disappear. A sermon on honest week-day labor is really a sermon on Sabbath observance.

But all Sabbath breakers are not idlers. Some of them work as steadily as the sturdy pioneer ever worked. But the occupation is of a different nature. Where our fathers toiled with their hands, men now toil with their brains. Our fathers wore out their bodies, while men now shatter their nervous systems. Tired limbs induce rest, while weary minds and unstrung nerves only hinder it. It is easy when evening comes to let go of the ax or the plow, but it is not so easy to forget the knotty business problem or perplexing professional difficulty. The need of such toilers is recreation. We need to get such men to take down the almighty dollar from its place as their guiding star and hang the higher and better things of life in its place. In this case, a sermon against the “ambition which o’erleaps itself” is a sermon against Sabbath desecration.

The two facts mentioned above as causes of Sabbath breaking contribute to making this an extremely nervous age. Humanity is restless. It wants to be about doing something, and it seems not to know just where to direct its efforts. People seem to be afraid of themselves, and hence the quiet chamber and closet of secret prayer is often unappreciated. If we chance to feel a serious thought coming upon us, we get afraid, and at once seek the crowd for fear that it may mature in our minds. We forget that great visions must be seen in solitude and then carried out among the crowd. Our lonely Sinais must precede our deeds of leadership. Every Calvary is preceded by its Gethsemane, and quietness and solitude are not to be despised. We need to learn the lesson of Isaiah, “In quietness and confidence shall be your strength; in returning and rest shall ye be saved.” Only small minds are always tossing upon a sea of restlessness. Great lives know how to be tranquil. Such hearts know how to keep the Sabbath holy. Thus, when we preach and work against restlessness, feverishness, and worry, we preach and work against Sabbath desecration.

If we can but induce men to so toil that they will become body-weary and soul-hungry, we shall not only further God’s creative plan, but we shall also help humanity to really understand the worth of a Sabbath Day of rest. The anxious nervousness of the masses and the cupidity of enterprising amusement promoters spring to meet each other as by magnetic attraction. When the masses learn to love the quiet of the home and sanctuary and no longer so persistently seek that which does not satisfy their nameless and misunderstood hunger, then such cupidity will no longer be sustained and encouraged. When we learn the habits of health, and life, and work that helped to make our fathers strong, then shall we have back again the faithful observance of the holy Sabbath Day that helped to make our fathers good.

The Light (1915)

The bringing into existence of light had an early and important place in the creation of the universe. It has held an important place in all the age-long continuance of the creative process which has been going on ever since that early day—so much so that it has marked the Creator as essentially a God of light, neither in whom nor in whose purposes is there any darkness at all.

In the different realms of life, light must take different forms. In the physical universe, it takes the form of the illuminating ray that makes daylight out of darkness. In the life of man, it takes the form of the knowledge of the truth which makes him free. Wherever the influence of God goes, it carries with it the illuminating agency of schools, teachers, and books. No land remains ignorant under the sway of the gospel. The Christianization of a land is simply the carrying of the creative process on into new realms of life, and early in every such creative process is heard the majestic edict: “Let there be light.” The answer to the edict is ever the same: “And there was light.”

God permitted darkness as a stage in creation, but never as a permanent condition. He may permit the darkness of ignorance or sin or both—for they go hand in hand—in a life as a stage in its development. But wherever a continuance of the conditions is insisted upon a day longer than necessity requires, the results must be disastrous.

There is a certain life-giving strength in light. There is a wide difference between the pale and twisted plant that grows under a board in the garden and the plant from the same parent that has had the good fortune to grow in the sunlight. Much the same difference may be observed in the case of two lives between which there has been a similar difference.

There is nothing in the purpose or the kingdom of God that needs fear the light. What will not stand the light is not of His designing. The best that His gospel and His power can ask is to be investigated and tested. There need be no fear of what will happen when all men investigate for themselves.

The Yoke (1915)

There seems to exist a general misconception of the purpose of a yoke. Because of it the command of Jesus to accept and wear His yoke is often much more dreadful than there is reason that it should be. We often fail to catch or refuse to believe the added assurance that “the yoke is easy.” This assurance is true both in figure and fact.

Anyone who has been personally familiar with the working of oxen under the yoke is sure to understand that the yoke is used not to increase the burden they bear, but to furnish them with a means of bearing the burden they already have.