observable now in the colleges, where the young literati turn up
their noses at everything American,--magazines, best-sellers, or
one-hundred-night plays,--and resort for inspiration to the
English school of anti-Victorians: to Remy de Gourmont, to Anatole
France. Their pose is not altogether to be blamed, and the men to
whom they resort are models of much that is admirable; but there
is little promise for American literature in exotic imitation. To
see ourselves prevailingly as others see us may be good for
modesty, but does not lead to a self-confident native art. And it
is a dangerous way for Americans to travel. We cannot afford such
sophistication yet. The English wits experimented with cynicism in
the court of Charles II, laughed at blundering Puritan morality,
laughed at country manners, and were whiffed away because the
ideals they laughed at were better than their own. Idealism is not
funny, however censurable its excesses. As a race we have too much
sentiment to be frightened out of the sentimental by a blase
cynicism.

At first glance the flood of moral literature now upon us--social-
conscience stories, scientific plays, platitudinous "moralities"
that tell us how to live--may seem to be another protest against
sentimentalism. And that the French and English examples have been
so warmly welcomed here may seem another indication of a reaction
on our part. I refer especially to "hard" stories, full of
vengeful wrath, full of warnings for the race that dodges the
facts of life. H. G. Wells is the great exemplar, with his
sociological studies wrapped in description and tied with a plot.
In a sense, such stories are certainly to be regarded as a protest
against truth-dodging, against cheap optimism, against "slacking,"
whether in literature or in life. But it would be equally just to