cart, we write that a "life wagon" has struck a "death cart." We call a murderer a "thug" or a "gunman" or a "yeggman." In England they simply call him "the accused, who is a grocer's assistant in Houndsditch. That designation would knock any decent murder story to pieces.

Hence comes the great difference between the American "lead," or opening sentence of the article, and the English type. In the American paper the idea is that the reader is so busy that he must first be offered the news in one gulp. After that, if he likes it, he can go on and eat some more of it. So the opening sentence must give the whole thing. Thus, suppose that a leading member of the United States Congress has committed suicide. This is the way that the American reporter deals with it:

Seated in his room at the Grand Hotel, with his carpet slippers on his feet and his body wrapped in a blue dressing gown with pink insertions, after writing a letter of farewell to his wife, and emptying a bottle of Scotch whisky, in which he exonerated her from all culpability in his death, Congressman Ahasuerus P. Tigg was found by nightwatchman Henry T. Smith, while making his rounds as usual, with four bullets in his stomach.

Now let us suppose that a leading member of the House of Commons in England had done the same thing. Here is the way it would be written up in a first-class London newspaper. The heading would be "Home and General Intelligence." That is inserted so as to keep the reader soothed and quiet, and is no doubt thought better than the American heading, "Bughouse Congressman Blows Out Brains in Hotel." After the heading, "Home and General Intelligence," the English paper runs the subheading, “Incident at the Grand Hotel." The reader still doesn't know what happened; he isn't meant to. Then the article begins like this:

The Grand Hotel, which is situated at the corner of Millbank and Victoria Streets, was the scene last night of a distressing incident.

"What is it?" thinks the reader.

The hotel itself, which is an old Georgian structure dating probably from about 1750, is a quiet establishment, its clientele mainly

drawn from business men in the cattledriving and distillery business from South Wales.

"What happened?" thinks the reader.

Its cuisine has long been famous for the excellence of its boiled shrimps.

"What happened?"

While the hotel itself is also known as the meeting place of the Surbiton Harmonic Society and other associations.

"What happened?

Among the more permanent of the guests of the hotel has been numbered, during the present Parliamentary session, Mr. Llewyllyn Ap Jones, M.P. for South Llanfydd. Mr. Jones apparently came to his room last night at about 10 P.M., and put on his carpet slippers and his blue dressing gown. He then seems to have gone to the cupboard and taken from it a whisky bottle, which, however, proved to be empty. The unhappy gentleman then apparently went to bed. . .

At that point the American reader probably stops reading-thinking that he has heard it all. The unhappy man found that the bottle was empty and went to bed-very natural; and the affair very properly called a "distressing incident," quite right. But the trained English reader would know that there was more to come and that the air of quiet was only assumed, and he would read on and on until at last the tragic interest heightened, the four shots were fired, with a good long pause after each for discussion of the path of the bullet through Mr. Ap Jones.

I am not saying that either the American way or the British way is the better. They are just two different ways-that's all. But the result is that anybody from the United States or Canada, reading the English papers, gets the impression that nothing is happening; and an English reader over with us gets the idea that the whole place is in a tumult.

When I was in London I used always, in glancing at the morning papers, to get a first impression that the whole world was almost asleep. There was, for example, a heading called "Indian Intelligence," which showed, on close examination, that two thousand Parsees had died of the blue plague, that a powder boat had blown up at Bombay, that some one had thrown a couple of bombs at one of the provincial governors, and that four thousand agitators had been sentenced to twenty years' hard labor each. But the whole thing was just called "Indian Intelligence." Similarly, there was a little item called, "Our Chinese Correspondent." That one explained, ten lines down, in very small type, that a hundred thousand Chinese had been drowned in a flood. And there was another little item labeled, "Foreign Gossip," under which was mentioned that the Pope was dead and that the President of Paraguay had been assassinated.

In short, I got the impression that I was living in an easy, drowsy world, as no doubt the editor meant me to. It was only when the Montreal Star arrived by post that I felt that the world was still revolving pretty rapidly on its axis and that there was still something doing.

As with the world news, so it is with the minor events of ordinary lifebirth, death, marriage, acc`dents, crime. Let me give an illustration. Suppose that in a suburb of London a housemaid has endeavored to poison her employer's family by putting a drug in the coffee. Now, on our side of the water, we should write that little incident up in a way to give it life, and put headings over it that would capture the reader's attention in a minute. We should begin it thus:

PRETTY PARLOR MAID DEALS DEATH DRINK TO CLUBMAN'S FAMILY

The English reader would ask at once, how do we know that the parlor maid is

pretty? We don't. But our artistic sense tells us that she ought to be. Pretty parlor maids are the only ones we take any interest in; if an ugly parlor maid poisoned her employer's family we should hang her. Then, again, the English reader would say, how do we know that the man is a clubman? Have we ascertained this fact definitely, and, if so, of what club or clubs is he a member? Well, we don't know, except in so far as the thing is self-evident. Any man who has romance enough in his life to be poisoned by a pretty housemaid ought to be in a club. That's the place for him. In fact, with us the word clubman doesn't necessarily mean a man who belongs to a club; it is defined as a man who is arrested in a gambling den or fined for speeding a motor, or who shoots another person in a hotel corridor. Therefore this man must be a clubman. Having settled the heading, we go on with the text:

Brooding over love troubles, which she has hitherto refused to divulge under the most grilling fusillade of rapid-fire questions shot at her by the best brains of the New York police force, Miss Mary de Forrest, a handsome brunette, thirty-six inches round the hips, employed as a parlor maid in the residence of Mr. Spudd Bung, a well-known clubman, forty-two inches round the chest, was arrested yesterday by the flying squad of the emergency police after having, so it is alleged, put four ounces of alleged picrate of potash into the alleged coffee of her employer's family's alleged breakfast, at their residence on Hudson Heights, in the most fashionable quarter of the metropolis. Doctor Slink, the leading fashionable practitioner of the neighborhood, who was immediately summoned, said that, but for his own extraordinary dexterity and promptness, the death of the whole family, if not of the entire entourage, was a certainty. The magistrate in committing Miss de Forrest for trial, took occasion to enlarge upon her youth and attractive appearance; he castigated the moving pictures severely and said that he held them, together with the public-school system and the present method of doing the hair, directly responsible for the crimes of the kind alleged.

Now when you read this over you begin to feel that something big has happened. Here is a man like Doctor Slink, all quivering with promptness and dexterity. Here is an inserted picture, a photograph, a brick house in a row marked with a cross and labeled, "The Bung Residence as It Appeared Immediately After the Alleged Outrage." It isn't, really; it is just a photograph that we use for this sort of thing and have grown to like. It is called, sometimes, "Residence of Senator Borah," or, "Scene of the Recent Spiritual Manifestations,” or anything of the sort. As long as it is marked with a cross + the reader will look at it with interest.

In other words, we make something out of an occurrence like this. It doesn't

matter if it all fades out afterward when

it appears that Mary de Forrest merely put ground allspice into the coffee in mistake for powdered sugar and that the family didn't drink it, anyway. The reader has already turned to other mysteries. But contrast the pitifully tame way in which the same event is written up in England. Here it is:

Suburban Item

Yesterday, at the police court of Surbitonon-Thames, Mary Forrester, a servant in the employ of Mr. S. Bung, was taken into custody on a charge of having put a noxious preparation, possibly poison, into the coffee of her employer's family. The young woman was remanded for a week.

Look at that. Mary Forrester a servant? How wide was she round the chest? It doesn't say. Mr. S. Bung? Of what club was he a member? None, apparently. Then who cares if he is poisoned? And "the young woman"! What a way to speak of a decent girl who never did any other harm than to poison a clubman! And the English magistrate? What a tame part he must have played! His name, indeed, doesn't occur at all; apparently he didn't enlarge on the girl's "good looks," or "comment on her attractive appearance," or anything. I don't suppose

that he even asked Mary Forrester out to lunch with him.

Notice also that, according to the English way of writing the thing up, as soon as the girl was remanded for a week the incident is closed. The English reporter doesn't apparently know enough to follow Miss de Forrest to her home (called "the De Forrest Residence" and marked with a cross, +). The American reporter would make certain to supplement what went above with further information of this fashion:

Miss de Forrest, when seen later at her own home by a representative of the Eagle, said that she regretted very much having been put to the necessity of poisoning Mr. Bung. She had, in the personal sense, nothing against Mr. Bung, and, apart from poisoning him, she had every respect for Mr. Bung. Miss de Forrest, who talks admirably on a variety of topics, expressed herself as warmly in favor of the League of Nations, and as a devotee of the short ballot and proportional representation.

Any American reader who studies the English press comes upon these wasted opportunities every day. There are, indeed, certain journals of a newer type which are doing their best to imitate us. But they don't really get it yet. They use type up to about two inches, and after that they get afraid.

I hope that, in describing the spirit of the English press, I do not seem to be writing with any personal bitterness. I admit that there might be a certain reason for such a bias. During my stay in England I was most anxious to appear as a contributor to some of the leading papers. This is, with the English, a thing that always adds prestige. To be able to call oneself a "contributor" to the Times or to Punch or the Morning Post or the Spectator is a high honor. I have met these "contributors" all over the British Empire. Some, I admit, look strange. An ancient wreck in the back bar of an Ontario tavern (ancien régime) has told me that he was a contributor to the Times; the janitor of

the building where I live admits that he is a contributor to Punch; a man arrested in Bristol for vagrancy while I was in England pleaded that he was a contributor to the Spectator. In fact, it is an honor that everybody seems to be able to get but me.

I had often tried, before I went to England, to contribute to the great English newspapers. I had never succeeded. But I hoped that while in England itself the very propinquity of the atmosphere -I mean the very contiguity of the surroundings-would render the attempt easier. I tried and I failed. My failure was all the more ignominious in that I had had very direct personal encouragement. "By all means," said the editor of the London Times, "do something for us while you are here. Best of all, do something in a political way; that's rather our special line." I had already received almost an identical encouragement from the London Morning Post and, in a more qualified way, from the Manchester Guardian. In short, success seemed easy.

I decided, therefore, to take some simple political event of the peculiar kind that always makes a stir in English politics and write it up for these English papers. To simplify matters, I thought

it better to use one and the same incident and write it up in three different ways and get paid for it three times. All of those who write for the press will understand the motive at once. I waited, therefore, and watched the papers to see if anything relishing might happen to the Ahkoond of Swat or the Sandjak of Novi Bazar, or any other native potentate. Within a couple of days I got what I wanted in the following item, which I need hardly say is taken word for word from the press dispatches.

PERIM, VIA BOMBAY.-News comes by messenger that the Shriek of Kowfat, who has been living under the convention of 1898, has violated the modus operandi. He is said to have torn off his suspenders, dipped himself in oil, and proclaimed a jehad. The situation is critical.

Everybody who knows England knows that this is just the kind of news that the English love. On our side of the Atlantic we should be bothered by the fact that we did not know where Kowfat is, nor what was the convention of 1898. They are not. They just take it for granted that Kowfat is one of the many thousand places that they "own," somewhere in the outer darkness. They have so many Kowfats that they cannot keep track of them.

I knew, therefore, that everybody would be interested in any discussion of what was at once called "the Kowfat Crisis," and I wrote it up. I resisted the temptation to begin after the American fashion, "Shriek sheds suspenders," suiting the writing, as I thought, to the market I was writing for. I wrote up the incident for the Morning Post after the following fashion:

The news from Kowfat affords one more instance of a painful backdown on the part of the government. Our policy of spineless supineness is now reaping its inevitable reward. To us there is only one thing to be done. If the Shriek has torn off his suspenders he must be made to put them on again. We have always held that where the imperial prestige of this country is concerned there is

no room for hesitation. In the present instance our prestige is at stake the matter involves our reputation in the eyes of the surrounding natives, the Bantu Hottentots, the Negritos, the Dwarf Men of East Abyssinia, and the Dog Men of Darfur. What will they think of us? If we fail in this crisis their notion of us will fall 50 per cent. In our opinion this country cannot stand a 50per-cent drop in the estimation of the Dog Men. The time is one that demands action. An ultimatum should be sent at once to the Shriek of Kowfat. If he has one already we should send him another. He should be made at once to put on bis suspenders. The oil must be scraped off him, and he must be told plainly that if a pup like him tries to start a jehad he will have to deal with the British Navy. We call the Shriek a pup in no sense of belittling him as our imperial ally, but because we consider that the present is no time for half words and we do not regard pup as half a word. Events such as the

present, rocking the Empire to its base, make one long for the spacious days of a Salisbury or a Queen Elizabeth, or an Alfred the Great or a Julius Cæsar. We doubt whether the present Cabinet is in this class.

Not to lose any time in the coming and going of the mail-always a serious. thought for the contributor to the press waiting for a check-I sent another editorial on the same topic to the Manchester Guardian. It ran as follows:

The action of the Shriek of Kowfat in proclaiming a jehad against us is one that amply justifies all that we have said editorially since Jeremy Bentham died. We have always held that the only way to deal with a Mohammedan potentate like the Shriek is to treat him like a Christian. The Khalifate of Kowfat at present buys its whole supply of cotton piece goods in our market and pays cash. The Shriek, who is a man of enlightenment, has consistently upheld the principles of free trade. Not only are our exports of cotton piece goods, bibles, rum, and beads constantly increasing, but they are more than offset by our importation from Kowfat of ivory, rubber, gold, and oil. In short, we have never seen the principles of free trade better illustrated. The Shriek, it is now reported, refuses to wear the braces presented to him by our envoy at the time of his coronation, five years ago. He is said to have

thrown them into the mud. But we have no reason to suppose that this is meant as a blow at our prestige. It may be that after five years of use the little pulleys of the braces no longer work properly. We have ourselves, in our personal life, known instances of this, and can speak of the sense of irritation occasioned. Even we have thrown on the floor ours. And in any case, as we have often reminded our readers, what is prestige? If anyone wants to hit us, let him hit us right there. We regard a blow at our trade as far more deadly than a blow at our prestige.

The situation as we see it demands immediate reparation on our part. The principal grievance of the Shriek arises from the existence of our fort and garrison on the Kowfat River. Our proper policy is to knock down the fort, and either remove the garrison or give it to the Shriek. We are convinced that as soon as the Shriek realizes that we are prepared to treat him in the proper Christian

spirit, he will at once respond with true Mohammedan generosity.

We have further to remember that in what we do we are being observed by the neighboring tribes-the Negritos, the Dwarf Men, and the Dog Men of Darfur. These are not only shrewd observers, but substantial customers. The Dwarf Men at present buy all their cotton on the Manchester market, and the Dog Men depend on us for their soap.

The present crisis is one in which the nation needs statesmanship and a broad outlook upon the world. In the existing situation we need not the duplicity of a Machiavelli, but the commanding prescience of a Gladstone, or an Alfred the Great, or a Julius Cæsar. Luckily, we have exactly this type of man at the head of affairs.

After completing the above I set to work without delay on a similar exercise for the London Times. The special excellence of the Times, as everybody knows, is its fullness of information. For generations past the Times has commanded a peculiar minuteness of knowledge about all parts of the Empire. It is the proud boast of this great journal that to whatever far-away outlandish part of the Empire you may go, you will always find a correspondent of the Times looking for something to do. It is said that the present proprietor has laid it down as his maxim, "I don't want men who think; I want men who know." The arrangements for thinking are made separately.

Incidentally, I may say that I had personal opportunities, while I was in England, of realizing that the reputation of the Times's staff for the possession of information is well founded. Dining one night with some members of the staff, I happened to mention Saskatchewan. One of the editors at the other end of the table looked up at the mention of the name. "Saskatchewan," he said. "Ah yes; that's not far from Alberta, is it?" and then turned quietly to his food again. When I remind the reader that Saskatchewan is only half an inch from Alberta, he may judge of the nicety of the knowledge involved. Having all this in mind, I recast the editorial and sent it to the London Times as follows: