Love Conquers All by Robert C. Benchley

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* * * * *

I am frank to confess that this sounds perfectly terrible to me. I can't
imagine a worse place in which to spend a week-end than one where your
host is always boisterously forcing you to take part in games and dances
about which you know nothing. A week-end guest ought to be ignored,
allowed to rummage about alone among the books, live stock and cold food
in the ice-box whenever he feels like it, and not rushed willy-nilly
(something good could be done using the famous Willy-Nilly
correspondence as a base, but not here), into whatever the family itself
may consider a good time.

In such a household as the Wells household must be you are greeted by
your hostess in a robust manner with "So glad you're on time. The match
begins at two." And when you say "What match," you are told that there
is a little tennis tournament on for the week-end and that you and Hank
are scheduled to start the thing off with a bang. "But I haven't played
tennis for five years," you protest, thinking of the delightful privacy
of your own little hall bedroom in town. "Never mind, it will all come
back to you. Bill has got some extra things all put out for you
upstairs." So you start off your week-end by making a dub of yourself
and are known from that afternoon on by the people who didn't catch your
name as "the man who had such a funny serve."

Or if it isn't that, it's dancing. Immediately after dinner, just as you
are about to settle down for a comfortable evening by the fire, you
notice that they are rolling back the rugs. "House-cleaning?" you
suggest, with a nervous little laugh. "Oh, no, just a little dancing in
your honor." And then you tell them that your honor will be satisfied
perfectly without dancing, that you haven't danced since you left
school, that you don't dance very well, or that you have hurt
your foot; to which the only reply is an encouraging laugh and a
hail-fellow-well-met push out into the middle of the floor.

A pox on both your house parties!

* * * * *

And yet, in a way, that is just what one might expect from Mr. Wells. He
has done the same thing to me in his books many a time. I personally
have but little facility for world-repairing. I haven't the slightest
idea of how one would go about making things better. And yet before I am
more than two-thirds of the way through "Joan and Peter" or "The
Undying Fire" or "The Outline of History," Mr. Wells has me out on the
hockey-field waving a stick with a magnificent enthusiasm but no aim,
rushing up and down and calling, "Come on, now!" to no one in
particular.

No matter how discouraging things seem when I pick up a Wells book, or
how averse I may be to launching out on a crusade of any sort, I always
end by walking with a firm step to the door (feeling, somehow, that I
have grown quite a bit taller and much handsomer) and saying quietly:
"Meadows, my suit of armor, please; the one with a chain-mail shirt and
a purple plume."

This, of course, is silly, as any of Mr. Wells's critics will tell you.
It is the effect that he has on irresponsible, visionary minds. But if
all the irresponsible, visionary minds in the world become sufficiently
belligerent through a continued reading of Mr. Wells, or even of the New
Testament, who knows but what they may become just practical enough to
take a hand at running things? They couldn't do much worse than the
responsible, practical minds have done, now, could they?

XLIX

ABOUT PORTLAND CEMENT

Portland cement is "the finely pulverized product resulting from the
calcination to incipient fusion of an intimate mixture of properly
proportioned argillaceous and calcareous materials and to which no
addition greater than 3 per cent has been made subsequent to
calcination."

That, in a word, is the keynote of H. Colin Campbell's "How to Use
Cement for Concrete Construction." In case you should never read any
more of the book, you would have that.

But to the reader who is not satisfied with this taste of the secret of
cement construction and who reads on into Mr. Campbell's work, there is
revealed a veritable mine of information. And in the light of the recent
turn of events one might even call it significant. (Any turn of events
will do.)

* * * * *

The first chapter is given over to a plea for concrete. Judging from the
claims made for concrete by Mr. Campbell, it will accomplish everything
that a return to Republican administration would do, and wouldn't be
anywhere near so costly. It will make your barn fireproof; it will
insure clean milk for your children; it will provide a safe housing for
your automobile. Farm prosperity and concrete go hand in hand.

In case there are any other members of society who have been with me in
thinking that Portland cement is a product of Portland, Me., or
Portland, Ore., it might as well be stated right here and now that
America had nothing to do with the founding of the industry, and that
the lucky Portland is an island off the south coast of England.

It was a bright sunny afternoon in May, 1824, when Joseph Aspdin, an
intelligent bricklayer of Leeds, England, was carelessly calcining a
mixture of limestone and clay, as bricklayers often do on their days
off, that he suddenly discovered, on reducing the resulting clinker to a
powder, that this substance, on hardening, resembled nothing so much as
the yellowish-gray stone found in the quarries on the Isle of Portland.
(How Joe knew what grew on the Isle of Portland when his home was in
Leeds is not explained. Maybe he spent his summers at the Portland
House, within three minutes of the bathing beach.)

At any rate, on discovering the remarkable similarity between the mess
he had cooked up and Portland stone, he called to his wife and said:
"Eunice, come here a minute! What does this remind you of?"

The usually cheerful brow of Eunice Aspdin clouded for the fraction of a
second.

"That night up at Bert and Edna's?" she ventured.

"No, no, my dear," said the intelligent bricklayer, slightly irked.
"Anyone could see that this here substance is a dead ringer for Portland
stone, and I am going to make heaps and heaps of it and call it
'Portland cement.' It is little enough that I can do for the old
island."

And so that's how Portland cement was named. Rumor hath it that the
first Portland cement in America was made at Allentown, Pa., in 1875,
but I wouldn't want to be quoted as having said that. But I will say
that the total annual production in this country is now over 90,000,000
barrels.

* * * * *

It is interesting to note that cement is usually packed in cloth sacks,
although sometimes paper bags are used.

"A charge is made for packing cement in paper bags," the books says.
"These, of course, are not redeemable."

One can understand their not wanting to take back a paper bag in which
cement has been wrapped. The wonder is that the bag lasts until you get
home with it. I tried to take six cantaloups home in a paper bag the
other night and had a bad enough time of it. Cement, when it is in good
form, must be much worse than cantaloup, and the redeemable remnants of
the bag must be negligible. But why charge extra for using paper bags?
That seems like adding whatever it is you add to injury. Apologies,
rather than extra charge, should be in order. However, I suppose that
these cement people understand their business. I shall know enough to
watch out, however, and insist on having whatever cement I may be called
upon to carry home done up in a cloth sack. "Not in a paper bag, if you
please," I shall say very politely to the clerk.

L

OPEN BOOKCASES

Things have come to a pretty pass when a man can't buy a bookcase that
hasn't got glass doors on it. What are we becoming--a nation of
weaklings?

All over New York city I have been,--trying to get something in which to
keep books. And what am I shown? Curio cabinets, inclosed whatnots,
museum cases in which to display fragments from the neolithic age, and
glass-faced sarcophagi for dead butterflies.

"But I am apt to use my books at any time," I explain to the salesman.
"I never can tell when it is coming on me. And when I want a book I want
it quickly. I don't want to have to send down to the office for the key,
and I don't want to have to manipulate any trick ball-bearings and open
up a case as if I were getting cream-puffs out for a customer. I want a
bookcase for books and not books for a bookcase."

(I really don't say all those clever things to the clerk. It took me
quite a while to think them up. What I really say is, timidly, "Haven't
you any bookcases without glass doors?" and when they say "No," I thank
them and walk into the nearest dining-room table.)

But if they keep on getting arrogant about it I shall speak up to them
one of these fine days. When I ask for an open-faced bookcase they look
with a scornful smile across the salesroom toward the mahogany
four-posters and say:

"Oh, no, we don't carry those any more. We don't have any call for them.
Every one uses the glass-doored ones now. They keep the books much
cleaner."

Then the ideal procedure for a real book-lover would be to keep his
books in the original box, snugly packed in excelsior, with the lid
nailed down. Then they would be nice and clean. And the sun couldn't get
at them and ruin the bindings. Faugh! (Try saying that. It doesn't work
out at all as you think it's going to. And it makes you feel very silly
for having tried it.)

* * * * *

Why, in the elder days bookcases with glass doors were owned only by
people who filled them with ten volumes of a pictorial history of the
Civil War (including some swell steel engravings), "Walks and Talks
with John L. Stoddard" and "Daily Thoughts for Daily Needs," done in
robin's-egg blue with a watered silk bookmark dangling out. A set of Sir
Walter Scott always helps fill out a bookcase with glass doors. It looks
well from the front and shows that you know good literature when you see
it. And you don't have to keep opening and shutting the doors to get it
out, for you never want to get it out.

[Illustration: I thank them and walk into the nearest dining-room
table.]

A bookcase with glass doors used to be a sign that somewhere in the room
there was a crayon portrait of Father when he was a young man, with a
real piece of glass stuck on the portrait to represent a diamond stud.

And now we are told that "every one buys bookcases with glass doors; we
have no call for others." Soon we shall be told that the thing to do is
to buy the false backs of bindings, such as they have in stage
libraries, to string across behind the glass. It will keep us from
reading too much, and then, too, no one will want to borrow our books.

* * * * *

But one clerk told me the truth. And I am just fearless enough to tell
it here. I know that it will kill my chances for the Presidency, but I
cannot stop to think of that.

After advising me to have a carpenter build me the kind of bookcase I
wanted, and after I had told him that I had my name in for a carpenter
but wasn't due to get him until late in the fall, as he was waiting for
prices to go higher before taking the job on, the clerk said:

"That's it. It's the price. You see the furniture manufacturers can make
much more money out of a bookcase with glass doors than they can
without. When by hanging glass doors on a piece of furniture at but
little more expense to themselves they can get a much bigger profit,
what's the sense in making them without glass doors? They have just
stopped making them, that's all."

So you see the American people are being practically forced into buying
glass doors whether they want them or not. Is that right? Is it fair?
Where is our personal liberty going to? What is becoming of our
traditional American institutions?

I don't know.

LI

TROUT-FISHING

I never knew very much about trout-fishing anyway, and I certainly had
no inkling that a trout-fisher had to be so deceitful until I read
"Trout-Fishing in Brooks," by G. Garrow-Green. The thing is appalling.
Evidently the sport is nothing but a constant series of compromises with
one's better nature, what with sneaking about pretending to be something
that one is not, trying to fool the fish into thinking one thing when
just the reverse is true, and in general behaving in an underhanded and
tricky manner throughout the day.

The very first and evidently the most important exhortation in the book
is, "Whatever you do, keep out of sight of the fish." Is that open and
above-board? Is it honorable?

"Trout invariably lie in running water with their noses pointed against
the current, and therefore whatever general chance of concealment there
may be rests in fishing from behind them. The moral is that the
brook-angler must both walk and fish upstream."

It seems as if a lot of trouble might be saved the fisherman, in case he
really didn't want to walk upstream but had to get to some point
downstream before 6 o'clock, to adopt some disguise which would deceive
the fish into thinking that he had no intention of catching them anyway.
A pair of blue glasses and a cane would give the effect of the wearer
being blind and harmless, and could be thrown aside very quickly when
the time came to show one's self in one's true colors to the fish. If
there were two anglers they might talk in loud tones about their dislike
for fish in any form, and then, when the trout were quite reassured and
swimming close to the bank they could suddenly be shot with a pistol.

* * * * *

But a little further on comes a suggestion for a much more elaborate bit
of subterfuge.

The author says that in the early season trout are often engaged with
larvae at the bottom and do not show on the surface. It is then a good
plan, he says, to sink the flies well, moving in short jerks to imitate
nymphs.

You can see that imitating a nymph will call for a lot of rehearsing,
but I doubt very much if moving in short jerks is the way in which to go
about it. I have never actually seen a nymph, though if I had I should
not be likely to admit it, and I can think of no possible way in which I
could give an adequate illusion of being one myself. Even the most
stupid of trout could easily divine that I was masquerading, and then
the question would immediately arise in its mind: "If he is not a nymph,
then what is his object in going about like that trying to imitate one?
He is up to no good, I'll be bound."

And crash! away would go the trout before I could put my clothes back
on.

* * * * *

There is an interesting note on the care and feeding of worms on page
67. One hundred and fifty worms are placed in a tin and allowed to work
their way down into packed moss.

"A little fresh milk poured in occasionally is sufficient food," writes
Mr. Garrow-Green, in the style of Dr. Holt. "So disposed, the worms soon
become bright, lively and tough."

It is easy to understand why one should want to have bright worms, so
long as they don't know that they are bright and try to show off before
company, but why deliberately set out to make them tough? Good manners
they may not be expected to acquire, but a worm with a cultivated
vulgarity sounds intolerable. Imagine 150 very tough worms all crowded
together in one tin! "Canaille" is the only word to describe it.

* * * * *

I suppose that it is my ignorance of fishing parlance which makes the
following sentence a bit hazy:

"Much has been written about bringing a fish downstream to help drown
it, as no doubt it does; still, this is often impracticable."

I can think of nothing more impracticable than trying to drown a fish
under any conditions, upstream or down, but I suppose that Mr.
Garrow-Green knows what he is talking about.

And in at least one of his passages I follow him perfectly. In speaking
of the time of day for fly-fishing in the spring he says:

"'Carpe diem' is a good watchword when trout are in the humor." At
least, I know a good pun when I see one.

LII

"SCOUTING FOR GIRLS"

"Scouting for Girls" is not the kind of book you think it is. The verb
"to scout" is intransitive in this case. As a matter of fact, instead of
being a volume of advice to men on how to get along with girls, it is
full of advice to girls on how to get along without men, that is, within
reason, of course.

It is issued by the Girl Scouts and is very subtle anti-man propaganda.
I can't find that men are mentioned anywhere in the book. It is given
over entirely to telling girls how to chop down trees, tie knots in
ropes, and things like that. Now, as a man, I am very jealous of my
man's prerogative of chopping down trees and tying knots in ropes, and I
resent the teaching of young girls to usurp my province in these
matters. Any young girl who has taken one lesson in knot-tying will be
able to make me appear very silly at it. After two lessons she could tie
me hand and foot to a tree and go away with my watch and commutation
ticket. And then I would look fine, wouldn't I? Small wonder to me that
I hail the Girl Scout movement as a menace and urge its being nipped in
the bud as you would nip a viper in the bud. I would not be surprised if
there were Russian Soviet money back of it somewhere.

A companion volume to "Scouting for Girls" is "Campward, Ho!" a manual
for Girl Scout camps. The keynote is sounded on the first page by a
quotation from Chaucer, beginning:

"_When that Aprille with his schowres swoote
The drought of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathus every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertue engendred is the flour._"

One can almost hear the girls singing that of an evening as they sit
around the campfire tying knots in ropes. It is really an ideal camping
song, because even the littlest girls can sing the words without
understanding what they mean.

But it really lacks the lilt of the "Marching Song" printed further on
in the book. This is to be sung to the tune of "Where Do We Go From
Here, Boys?" Bear this in mind while humming it to yourself:

_MARCHING SONG

Where do we go from here, girls, where do we go from here?
Anywhere (our Captain[5]) leads we'll follow, never fear.
The world is full of dandy girls, but wait till we appear--
Then!
Girl Scouts, Girl Scouts, give us a hearty cheer_!

A very stirring marching song, without doubt, but what would they do if
the leader's name happened to be something like Mary Louise Abercrombie
or Elizabeth Van Der Water? They just couldn't have a Captain with such
a long name, that's all. And there you have unfair discrimination
creeping into your camp right at the start.

In "Scouting for Girls" there is some useful information concerning
smoke signals. In case you are lost, or want to communicate with your
friends who are beyond shouting distance, it is much quicker than
telephoning to build a clear, hot fire and cover it with green stuff or
rotten wood so that it will send up a solid column of black smoke. By
spreading and lifting a blanket over this smudge the column can be cut
up into pieces, long or short (this is the way it explains it in the
book, but it doesn't sound plausible to me), and by a preconcerted code
these can be made to convey tidings.

For instance, one steady smoke means "Here is camp."

Two steady smokes mean "I am lost. Come and help me."

Three smokes in a row mean "Good news!"

I suppose that the Pollyanna of the camping party is constantly sending
up three smokes in a row on the slightest provocation, and then when the
rest of the outfit have raced across country for miles to find out what
the good news is she probably shows them, with great enthusiasm, that
some fringed gentians are already in blossom or that the flicker's eggs
have hatched. Unfortunately, there is no smoke code given for snappy
replies, but in the next paragraph it tells how to carry on a
conversation with pistol shots. One of these would serve the purpose for
repartee.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Supply Captain's name.

LIII

HOW TO SELL GOODS

The Retail Merchants' Association ought to buy up all the copies of
"Elements of Retail Salesmanship," by Paul Westley Ivey (Macmillan), and
not let a single one get into the hands of a customer, for once the
buying public reads what is written there the game is up. It tells all
about how to sell goods to people, how to appeal to their weaknesses,
how to exert subtle influences which will win them over in spite of
themselves. Houdini might as well issue a pamphlet giving in detail his
methods of escape as for the merchants of this country to let this book
remain in circulation.

The art of salesmanship is founded, according to Mr. Ivey, on, first, a
thorough knowledge of the goods which are to be sold, and second, a
knowledge of the customer. By knowing the customer you know what line of
argument will most appeal to him. There are several lines in popular
use. First is the appeal to the instinct of self-preservation--i.e.,
social self-preservation. The customer is made to feel that in order to
preserve her social standing she must buy the article in question. "She
must be made to feel what a disparaged social self would mean to her
mental comfort."

It is reassuring to know that it is a recognized ruse on the part of the
salesman to intimate that unless you buy a particular article you will
have to totter through life branded as the arch-piker. I have always
taken this attitude of the clerks perfectly seriously. In fact, I have
worried quite a bit about it.

In the store where I am allowed to buy my clothes it is quite the thing
among the salesmen to see which one of them can degrade me most. They
intimate that, while they have no legal means of refusing to sell their
goods to me, it really would be much more in keeping with things if I
were to take the few pennies that I have at my disposal and run around
the corner to some little haberdashery for my shirts and ties. Every
time I come out from that store I feel like Ethel Barrymore in
"Declassee." Much worse, in fact, for I haven't any good looks to fall
back upon.

[Illustration: They intimate that I had better take my few pennies and
run 'round the corner to some little haberdashery.]

But now that I know the clerks are simply acting all that scorn in an
attempt to appeal to my instinct for the preservation of my social self,
I can face them without flinching. When that pompous old boy with the
sandy mustache who has always looked upon me as a member of the
degenerate Juke family tries to tell me that if I don't take the
five-dollar cravat he won't be responsible for the way in which decent
people will receive me when I go out on the street, I will reach across
the counter and playfully pull his own necktie out from his waistcoat
and scream, "I know you, you old rascal! You got that stuff from page 68
of 'Elements of Retail Salesmanship' (Macmillan)."

* * * * *

Other traits which a salesperson may appeal to in the customer are:
Vanity, parental pride, greed, imitation, curiosity and selfishness. One
really gets in touch with a lot of nice people in this work and can
bring out the very best that is in them.

Customers are divided into groups indicative of temperament. There is
first the Impulsive or Nervous Customer. She is easily recognized
because she walks into the store in "a quick, sometimes jerky manner.
Her eyes are keen-looking; her expression is intense, oftentimes
appearing strained." She must be approached promptly, according to the
book, and what she desires must be quickly ascertained. Since these are
the rules for selling to people who enter the store in this manner, it
might be well, no matter how lethargic you may be by nature, to assume
the appearance of the Impulsive or Nervous Customer as soon as you enter
the store, adopting a quick, even jerky manner and making your eyes as
keen-looking as possible, with an intense expression, oftentimes
appearing strained. Then the clerk will size you up as type No. 1 and
will approach you promptly. After she has quickly filled your order you
may drop the impulsive pose and assume your natural, slow manner again,
whereupon the clerk will doubtless be highly amused at having been so
cleverly fooled into giving quick service.

* * * * *

The opposite type is known as the Deliberate Customer. She walks slowly
and in a dignified manner. Her facial expression is calm and poised.
"Gestures are uncommon, but if existing tend to be slow and
inconspicuous." She can wait.

Then there is the Vacillating or Indecisive Customer, the Confident or
Decisive Customer (this one should be treated with subtle flattery and
agreement with all her views), The Talkative or Friendly Customer, and
the Silent or Indifferent one. All these have their little weaknesses,
and the perfect salesperson will learn to know these and play to them.

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