His Name Was George F.

Winter Is Not A Season In The North Middlewest; It Is An Industry.

Fortune Has Dealt With Me Rather Too Well. I Have Known Little Struggle, Not Much Poverty, Many Generosities. Now And Then I Have, For My Books Or Myself, Been Somewhat Warmly Denounced -- There Was One Good Pastor In California Who Upon Reading My Elmer Gantry Desired To Lead A Mob And Lynch Me, While Another Holy Man In The State Of Maine Wondered If There Was No Respectable And Righteous Way Of Putting Me In Jail.

A Village In A Country Which Is Taking Pains To Become Altogether Standardized And Pure, Which Aspires To Succeed Victorian England As The Chief Mediocrity Of The World, Is No Longer Merely Provincial, No Longer Downy And Restful In Its Leaf-shadowed Ignorance. It Is A Force Seeking To Conquer The Earth. Sure Of Itself, It Bullies Other Civilizations, As A Traveling Salesman In A Brown Derby Conquers The Wisdom Of China And Tacks Advertisements Of Cigarettes Over Arches For Centuries Dedicated To The Sayings Of Confucius.

Being A Man Given To Oratory And High Principles, He Enjoyed The Sound Of His Own Vocabulary And The Warmth Of His Own Virtue.

There Was Much Conversation, Most Of Which Sounded Like The Rest Of It.