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  Propaganda is a tool of modern governing in times of peace as well as in war. But it is most virulent and undemocratic in times of national crisis, when fears are most easily aroused and emotional shortcuts to persuasion are favored over factual debate.

  Therein lays the fundamental contemporary lesson that emerges from this book. Even in the hands of well-meaning writers, the zeal to marshal public opinion too easily careens into suppression of thought. Common Cause: A Novel of the War in America is a reminder of how easy it is for democracy to lose its way.

  Notes

  The “historical interest” Ferris Greenslet recognized in Samuel Hopkins Adams’s novel remains just as strong a century later. The storyline and the references to real people and events made it a primer on the United States involvement in the Great War. To enhance the experience for contemporary readers, we have annotated Common Cause: A Novel of the War in America in addition to writing this introduction.

  1. Samuel Hopkins Adams to Ferris Greenslet, August 12, 1914, Houghton Mifflin Papers (hereafter HMP), Houghton Library, Harvard University. In the original version of this quote, Adams used the archaic form of “cruel”: “crewel.” The change was made to avoid distracting the reader. For similar reasons, we have modernized other spellings in the text, for instance substituting “today” for “to-day.” Otherwise the text remains as it was originally published.

  2. Emmet Crozier, American Reporters on the Western Front: 1914–1918 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), 6.

  3. Samuel V. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams and the Business of Writing (Syracuse NY: University of Syracuse Press, 1999), 95; Ferris Greenslet, Under the Bridge: The Autobiography of a Publisher (London: Collins, 1944), 108. Kennedy’s biography is indispensable to anyone writing on Adams, as indeed it was for us in writing this essay.

  4. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 96, 101.

  5. Adams to Greenslet, September 5, 1917, HMP.

  6. Adams to Roger L. Scaife, May 24, 1918, HMP.

  7. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 130–31.

  8. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 78–79.

  9. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 194.

  10. Jeremy Bentham, “Of Publicity,” in The Works of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 2 (New York: Russell & Russell, 1962), 310–17.

  11. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 66.

  12. Montrose J. Moses, “Samuel Hopkins Adams,” Book News Monthly (January 1915): 215.

  13. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 79, 86.

  14. Hazel Hutchison, The War That Used Up Words (New Haven CT: Yale University Press, 2015), 134.

  15. Ruth H. Sanders, German: Biography of a Language (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 176.

  16. Greenslet, Under the Bridge, 81.

  17. Greenslet, Under the Bridge, 109.

  18. Hutchison, War That Used Up Words, 119.

  19. Franklin S. Hoyt to James T. Shotwell, July 11, 1917, National Board for Historical Service Records, Library of Congress.

  20. Minutes of the Censorship Board, September 5, 1918, Entry 1, Records of the Committee on Public Information, National Archives and Records Administration.

  21. George H. Putnam to Henry S. Burrage, May 15, 1915, Herbert Putnam Papers, Library of Congress. Herbert Putnam, the Librarian of Congress, and George Putnam were brothers.

  22. Wayne A. Wiegand, “An Active Instrument for Propaganda”: The American Public Library during World War I (Westport CT: Greenwood, 1989), 101.

  23. Hutchison, War That Used Up Words, 120.

  24. Porter Emerson Browne, “The Vigilantes,” Outlook, May 8, 1918, 67–69.

  25. Eugenie M. Fryer, “The Vigilantes,” Book News Monthly (January 1918): 150.

  26. Adams to Greenslet, November 2, 1918, HMP.

  27. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 116–19.

  28. George Creel, How We Advertised America (New York: Harper, 1920), 225.

  29. Samuel Hopkins Adams, “The Dodger Trail,” Collier’s, October 12, 1918, 30.

  30. Adams to Roger L. Scaife, May 24, 1918, HMP.

  31. Wayne Alfred Nicholas, “Crossroads Oratory: A Study of the Four Minute Men of World War I” (Ph.D. diss, Columbia University), 111–14.

  32. Four Minute Men News, Edition B, January 1917.

  33. Nicholas, “Crossroads Oratory: A Study of the Four Minute Men of World War I,” 117, 119.

  34. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 103.

  35. Creel, How We Advertised America, 225.

  36. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 114; New York Times, September 23, 1917.

  37. New York Tribune, September 16 and 23, 1917.

  38. David Nasaw, The Chief: The Life of William Randolph Hearst (Boston MA: Houghton Mifflin, 2001), 261.

  39. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 115.

  40. Samuel Hopkins Adams, “Invaded America,” Everybody’s Magazine (December 1917): 10, 13, 86. The series ran monthly through March 1918.

  41. Adams, “Invaded America,” Everybody’s Magazine (February 1918): 30.

  42. Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 117.

  43. Louis Raemaeker, America in the War (New York: Century, 1918), 106.

  44. Samuel Hopkins Adams, “Common Cause,” Saturday Evening Post, July 27, 1918, 5–8ff.

  45. Greenslet to Adams, May 15, 1918, HMP.

  46. Greenslet to Adams, May 15, 1918, HMP.

  47. Scaife to Adams, June 1, 1918, HMP.

  48. Adams to Greenslet, July 11, 1918, HMP.

  49. Adams to Greenslet, August 20, 1918, HMP.

  50. Adams to Greenslet, August 28, 1918, HMP.

  51. Adams to Greenslet, September 17, 1918, HMP.

  52. Greenslet to Adams, December 2, 1918, HMP.

  53. Scaife to Adams, May 27, 1918, HMP.

  54. Scaife to Adams, July 31, 1918, HMP.

  55. Greenslet, Under the Bridge, 107.

  56. Greenslet to Adams, November 25 and December 2, 1918, HMP.

  57. Scaife to Adams, April 24, 1919, HMP; Kennedy, Samuel Hopkins Adams, 120.

  58. For this and other reviews, see Book Review Digest, February 1920, 5.

  59. R. J. Osborne to Adams, January 26, 1919, HMP.

  60. Sauk Country Democrat, n.d., files of HMP.

  61. Adams to Greenslet, February 15, 1918, HMP.

  62. Karen Falk, “Public Opinion in Wisconsin in World War I,” Wisconsin Magazine of History, 25, no. 4 (June 1942): 404.

  63. Adams to George Kull, n.d., reproduced in flyer Kull sent out to editors, attachment Kull to Adams, February 3, 1918, HMP.

  64. Frederic C. Howe, “Where Are the Pre-War Radicals?,” Survey (February 1926): 50.

  65. Harold Lasswell, Propaganda Technique in World War I (Cambridge MA: MIT Press, 1971, originally published 1927), 2–3.

  66. Wickham Steed, The Fifth Arm (London: Constable, 1940), 1.

  67. Sharon Weinberger, “Still in the Lead?,” Nature, January 2008, 390–93.

  Part 1

  1

  “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles!” Three thousand voices blended and swelled in the powerful harmony. The walls of the Fenchester Auditorium trembled to it. The banners, with their German mottoes of welcome, swayed to the rhythm.

  “Über alles in der Welt!”

  The thundering descent of the line with its superb resonances was as martial as a cavalry charge. Three thousand flushed, perspiring, commonplace faces above respectable black coats in the one sex and mildly ornate blouses in the other, were caught by the fire and the ferment of it and grew suddenly rapt and ecstatic. Wave after wave of massed harmonies followed in the onset. One could feel, rather than hear, in the impassioned voices a spirit instantly more fanatic, more exotic, a strange and exultant note, as of challenge. It was inspiring. It was startling. It was formidable. It was anything for which young Mr. Jeremy Robson, down in the reporters’ seats, might find an adjective, except, perhaps, American.

  Yet this was the American city of Fenchester, capital of the sovereign State of Centralia, in the yea
r of grace and peace, nineteen hundred and twelve, half a decade before the United States of America descended into the Valley of the Shadow of Death to face the German guns, thundering out that same chorus of “Germany over all in the world!”

  All the Federated German Societies of the State of Centralia in annual convention1 assembled might sing their federated German heads off for all that Jeremy Robson cared. He mildly approved the music, not so much for the sense as for the sound, under cover of which he was enabled to question his neighbor, Galpin, of The Guardian, concerning the visiting notabilities upon the stage. For young Mr. Robson was still a bit new to his work on The Record, and rather flattered that an assignment of this importance should have fallen to him. The local and political celebrities he already knew—the Governor; the Mayor; Robert Wanser, President of the Fenchester Trust Company; State Senator Martin Embree; Carey Crobin, the “Boss of the Ward”; Emil Bausch, President of the local Deutscher Club; and a dozen of the other leading citizens, all ornamented with conspicuous badges. Galpin obligingly indicated the principal strangers. Gordon Fliess, of Bellair, head of the Fliess Brewing Company; the Reverend Theo Gunst, the militant ecclesiast of a near-by German Theological Seminary; Ernst Bauer, of the Marlittstown Herold und Zeitung; Pastor Klink, the recognized head of the German religious press of the region; Martin Dolge, accredited with being the dictator of the State’s educational system; and the Herr Professor Koerner, of the University of Felsingen, special envoy from Germany to the United States for the propagation of that wide-spread and carefully fostered Teutonic plant, Deutschtum, the spirit of German Kultur in foreign lands.

  At the close of the musical exaltation of Germany above all the world, including, of course, the hospitably adoptive nation under whose protection the singers sat, the exercises proceeded with a verbal glorification of the Fatherland. The Governor, in complimentary and carefully memorized German, lauded the Teutons as the prop of the State. The Mayor, in strongly Teutonized English, proclaimed them the hope of the city. Several other speakers, whose accents identified them as more American than their sentiments, acclaimed the upholders of Deutschtum as salt of the earth and pillars of Society. Then a chorus of public school children, in the colors of imperial Germany, rose to sing “Die Wacht am Rhein,”2 and everybody rose with them, or nearly everybody. They sang it directly in the face of his Imperial Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm, gazing, bewreathed, down at them from over the stage, with stern and martial approval.

  “They do it mighty well,” commented young Jeremy Robson.

  “Ay-ah. Why wouldn’t they!” returned Galpin.

  “You mean they’ve been specially drilled for it?”

  “Specially nothing! That’s part of their regular school exercises.”

  “In the German schools?”

  “In the public schools. Our school. Paid for out of our taxes. ‘Come to order.’ Tap-tap-tap with Teacher’s ruler. ‘Der bupils will now rice and zing “Die wacht am Rhein.”’ But try ’em with ‘America,’ and they wouldn’t know the first verse.”

  “You seem to feel strongly about it.”

  “Not in working hours. Haven’t got any feelings. I’m a reporter.”

  From this point the programme was exclusively in German. The next speaker, Pastor Klink, rose and glorified God, a typically if not exclusively German God. Emil Bausch, following, extolled the Kaiser rather more piously than his predecessor had glorified the Kaiser’s Creator. Martin Dolge apostrophized the spirit of Deutschtum,3 which, if one might believe him, was invented by the Creator and improved by the Kaiser. Just here occurred an unfortunate break in the programme. The next speaker on the list had been called out, and an interim must be filled while he was retrieved. The chairman motioned to the band leader for music. Whether in a spirit of perversity or by sheer, unhappy chance, the director led his men in the strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  In justice to our citizens of German descent and allegiance, it must be admitted that they are of equable spirit. Nobody openly resented the playing of the national anthem. A glance of disapproval passed between the professorial envoy from Germany and Pastor Klink, and some of the others on the stage frowned momentarily. But their habitual tolerant good nature at once reasserted itself. Of course, no one rose; that gesture was reserved for the German national music. No one, that is, who counted in that assemblage. But from the reporters’ seats Jeremy Robson and Galpin dimly made out a figure, long-coated, straw-hatted and slim, in the first row of the balcony’s farthest corner, standing stiffly erect.

  Around it buzzed a small disturbance. There were sounds of laughter, which spread and mingled with a few calls of disapprobation. A woman beside the erect figure seemed to be making an effort at dissuasion. It was unavailing. On the stage there were curious looks and queries. Presently the whole house was gazing at the slender, lone figure.

  “Who’s the kid?” asked Jeremy Robson, interested.

  “Don’t know him,” answered Galpin, staring.

  “I like his nerve, anyway.”

  “It’s better than his style,” commented the other, grinning. “If he’s going to stand to attention, why doesn’t he take off his hat?”

  “Here’s another one,” said The Guardian reporter, turning toward the lower tier box on their right.

  An iron-gray, square-jawed man with shrewd and pleasant eyes, who, in his obviously expensive but easy fitting suit of homespun, gave the impression of physical power, was shouldering his way to the rail. A small American flag occupied a humble position in a group of insignia ornamenting the next box. The man plucked it out and made as if he would raise it above his head, then changed his mind. Holding it stiffly in front of him he turned to face the distant figure, and so stood, grim, awkward, solid, while the chosen voice of the Nation’s patriotism sang to unheeding ears below.

  “Movie stuff,” observed Jeremy Robson with that cynicism which every young reporter considers proper to his profession.

  “That’s Magnus Laurens,” said his mentor. “Nothing theatrical about Magnus. He’s a reg’lar feller.”

  The novice was impressed. For Laurens was a name of prestige throughout Centralia. Its owner controlled the water-power of the State and was a growing political figure.

  “What’s he doing it for?” he inquired.

  “Because he’s an American, I suppose. Queer reason, ain’t it!”

  “There’s another, then,” returned Robson, as there arose, from a front row seat on the stage, the strong and graceful figure of Martin Embree, State Senator from the Northern Tier, where the Germans make up three fourths of the population.

  “Trust Smiling Mart to do the tactful thing,” observed Galpin. “He’s the guy that invented popularity, and he’s held the patent ever since.”

  The Senator was wearing his famous smile which was both a natural ornament and a political asset. He directed it upon Magnus Laurens who did not see it, turned it toward the slim patriot in the gallery who may or may not have observed it, and then carried it close to the ear of the chairman. Snatches of his eager and low-toned persuasion floated down to the listening Robson.

  “. . . all up. Can’t . . . harm. National . . . after all. If don’t want . . . leave . . . me.”

  The chairman shook his head glumly, broke loose from the smile, spoke a word to the erring orchestra leader. The music stopped. The figure in the balcony sank into the dimness of its background. Magnus Laurens sat down. Senator Embree, smiling and gracious still, returned to his chair.

  “There’s my story,” said young Jeremy Robson, ever on the lookout for the picturesque. “If I can find that kid,” he added.

  “Try Magnus Laurens,” suggested his elder. “Maybe he knows him.”

  Throughout the address of the Herr Professor Koerner, young Mr. Robson sat absently making notes. The notes were wholly irrelevant to the learned envoy’s speech. Yet it was an interesting, even a significant speech, had there been any in those easy days, to appreciate its significance. The lea
rned representative of German propaganda impressed upon his hearers the holy purpose of Deutschtum. German ties must be maintained; German habits and customs of life and above all the German speech must be piously fostered at whatever distance from the Fatherland, to the end that, in the inevitable day when Germany’s oppressors, jealous of her power and greatness, should force her to draw the sword in self-defense, every scion of German blood might rally to her, against the world, if need be. Amidst the “Hochs!” and “Sehr guts!” which punctuated the oratory, the negligent reporter for The Record sat sketching the outlines of his word-picture of the stripling in the gallery and the magnate in the box, standing to honor their country’s anthem, amidst the amused and patronizing wonderment of the Federated German Societies of Centralia.4 As the session drew to a close, he left.