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Starting Out with Java Early Objects 6e (Gaddis)
Chapter 7 Arrays and the ArrayList Class

TRUE/FALSE

1. An ArrayList object automatically expands in size to accommodate the items stored in it.

ANS: T

2. Java does not limit the number of dimensions an array may have.

ANS: T

3. The String[] args parameter in the main method header allows the program to receive
arguments from the operating system command-line.

ANS: T

4. When an array of objects is declared but not initialized, the array values are set to 0.

ANS: F

5. To determine if two arrays are equal you must compare each of the elements of the two arrays.

ANS: T

6. A sorting algorithm is a technique for scanning through an array and rearranging its contents in some
specific order.

ANS: T

7. Objects in an array are accessed with subscripts, just like any other data type in an array.

ANS: T

8. Any items typed on the command-line, separated by space, after the name of the class, are considered
to be one or more arguments that are to be passed into the main method.

ANS: T

9. A sorting algorithm is used to locate a specific item in a larger collection of data.

ANS: F

10. The Java compiler will display an error message when it processes a statement that uses an invalid
subscript.
 ANS: F

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. A search algorithm
a. arranges elements in ascending order
b. arranges elements in descending order
c. is used to locate a specific item in a collection of data
d. is rarely used with arrays
ANS: C

2. A ragged array is
a. a two-dimensional array where the rows have different numbers of columns
b. a one-dimensional array for which the number of elements is unknown
c. a two-dimensional array for which the number of rows is unknown
d. a partially initialized two-dimensional array of ranged values
ANS: A

3. A partially filled array is normally used

a. when only a very small number of values need to be stored
b. when you know how many elements will be in the array but not what the values are
c. with an accompanying parallel array
d. with an accompanying integer value that holds the number of items stored in the array
ANS: D

4. When an array is passed to a method

a. it is passed just as any other object would be passed
b. the method has direct access to the original array
c. a reference to the array is passed
d. All of these are true
ANS: D

5. Java provides a mechanism known as a __________ which makes it possible to write a method that
takes a variable number of arguments.
a. variable-length argument list
b. dynamic parameter list
c. unary-signature template
d. polymorphic byte code
ANS: A

6. The binary search algorithm

a. is less efficient than the sequential search algorithm
b. will cut the portion of the array being searched in half each time it fails to locate the search
value
c. will have a maximum number of comparisons equal to the number of elements in the array
d. will, normally, have the number of comparisons that is half the number of elements in the
array
 ANS: B

7. In order to do a binary search on an array

a. the array must first be sorted
b. you must first do a sequential search to be sure the element you are looking for is there
c. the values of the array must be numeric
d. All of these are true
ANS: A

8. The sequential search algorithm

a. returns 1 if the value being searched for is found or -1 if the value is not found
b. requires the array to be ascending order
c. uses a loop to sequentially step through an array, starting with the first element
d. All of these are true
ANS: C

9. A(n) __________ is used as an index to pinpoint a specific element within an array.

a. boolean value
b. element
c. range
d. subscript
ANS: D

10. An array of String objects

a. is arranged the same as an array of primitive objects
b. is compressed to four bytes for each element
c. must be initialized when the array is declared
d. consists of an array of references to String objects
ANS: D

11. You can use the __________ method to replace an item at a specific location in an ArrayList.
a. set
b. remove
c. replace
d. add
ANS: A

12. Which of the following is a correct method header for receiving a two-dimensional array as an
argument?
a. public static void passMyArray(int[]myArray1, int[]myArray2)
b. public static void passMyArray(int[][] myArray)
c. public static void passMyArray[][](int myArray)
d. public static void passMyArray(array myArray)
ANS: B

13. Which of the following import statements is required in order to use the ArrayList class?
 a. import java.util.Tools;
b. import java.util.ArrayList;
c. import java.util.Containers;
d. import java.util.API;
ANS: B

14. Which method is used to determine the number of items stored in an ArrayList object?
a. items
b. listLength
c. size
d. volume
ANS: C

15. The __________ method removes an item from an ArrayList at a specific index.
a. remove
b. pop
c. deleteAt
d. clear
ANS: A

16. Which of the following methods returns a string representing all of the items stored in an ArrayList
object?
a. show
b. toString
c. print
d. getList
ANS: B

17. Which of the following ArrayList class methods is used to insert an item at a specific location in an
ArrayList?
a. set
b. store
c. add
d. insert
ANS: C

18. To return an array of long values from a method, which return type should be used for the method?
a. long[ARRAY_SIZE]
b. array
c. long[]
d. long
ANS: C

19. Which of the following is a valid declaration for a ragged array with five rows but no columns?
a. int[][] ragged = new int[5];
b. int[][] ragged = new int[][5];
 c. int[][] ragged = new int[5][];
d. int[] ragged = new int[5];
ANS: C

20. If numbers is a two-dimensional array, which of the following would give the number of columns in
row r?
a. numbers.length
b. numbers.length[r]
c. numbers[r].length
d. numbers[r].length[r]
ANS: C

21. What would be the result of executing the following code?

int[] x = {0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
a. An array of 6 values, all initialized to 0 and referenced by the variable x will be created.
b. An array of 6 values, ranging from 0 through 5 and referenced by the variable x will be
created.
c. The variable x will contain the values 0 through 5.
d. A compiler error will occur.
ANS: B

22. Given the following two-dimensional array declaration, which statement is true?
int[][] numbers = new int[6][9];
a. The numbers array has 54 rows.
b. The numbers array has 15 rows.
c. The numbers array has 6 rows and 9 columns.
d. The numbers array has 6 columns and 9 rows.
ANS: C

23. What will be the result after the following code is executed?
final int ARRAY_SIZE = 5;
float[] x = float[ARRAY_SIZE];
for (i = 1; i <= ARRAY_SIZE; i++)
{
x[i] = 10.0;
}
a. A runtime error will occur.
b. All the values in the array will be initialized to 10.0.
c. All the values in the array except the first will be set to 10.0.
d. The code contains a syntax error and will not compile.
ANS: D

24. For the following code, what would be the value of str[2]?
String[] str = {"abc", "def", "ghi", "jkl"};
a. a reference to the String object containing "ghi"
 b. "ghi"
c. a reference to the String object containing "def"
d. "def"
ANS: A

25. What would be the result after the following code is executed?
int[] numbers = {40, 3, 5, 7, 8, 12, 10};
int value = numbers[0];
for (int i = 1; i < numbers.length; i++)
{
if (numbers[i] < value)
value = numbers[i];
}
a. The value variable will contain the average of all the values in the numbers array.
b. The value variable will contain the sum of all the values in the numbers array.
c. The value variable will contain the lowest value in the numbers array.
d. The value variable will contain the highest value in the numbers array.
ANS: C

26. What would be the result after the following code is executed?
int[] numbers = {50, 10, 15, 20, 25, 100, 30};
int value = 0;
for (int i = 1; i < numbers.length; i++)
value += numbers[i];
a. The value variable will contain the average of all the values in the numbers array.
b. The value variable will contain the sum of all the values in the numbers array.
c. The value variable will contain the lowest value in the numbers array.
d. The value variable will contain the highest value in the numbers array.
ANS: B

27. What is the value of scores[2][3] in the following array?

int[][] scores = { {88, 80, 79, 92}.
{75, 84, 93, 80},
{98, 95, 92, 94},
{91, 84, 88, 96} };
a. 95
b. 84
c. 94
d. 93
ANS: C

28. What does the following statement do?

double[] array1 = new double[10];
a. It declares array1 to be a reference to an array of double values.
b. It will allow valid subscripts in the range of 0 through 9.
c. It creates an instance of an array of ten double values.
 d. It does all of these.
ANS: D

29. Which of the following statements is(are) true about this code?
final int ARRAY_SIZE = 10;
long[] array1 = new long[ARRAY_SIZE];
a. It declares array1 to be a reference to an array of long values.
b. It will allow valid subscripts in the range of 0 through 9.
c. It creates an instance of an array of ten long values.
d. All of these are true.
ANS: D

30. What does <String> specify in the following statement?

ArrayList<String> nameList = new ArrayList<String>();
a. It specifies that String objects may not be stored in the ArrayList object.
b. It specifies that everything stored in the ArrayList object will be converted to a
String object.
c. It specifies that only String objects may be stored in the ArrayList object.
d. It specifies that the ArrayList will be converted to a String array.
ANS: C
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something new, of superman! Education? Not to assimilate the
children to us, to the past, but to free them from us; not Vaterland,
but Kinderland, must be our concern. Children shall not “sit at our
feet” but stand upon our shoulders, that they may have a freer and
broader sweep of the horizon. And in our children we shall love the
Coming One, prepare the way for Superman, that free, great man
who shall have conquered present petty man with all his slave
instincts! Such, at all events, are the dreams of the great poetic and
prophetic philosopher of the German Fatherland of today.
All great things have first to wander about the earth as enormous and awe-
inspiring caricatures.—Nietzsche in Beyond Good and Evil.

Plato will always be an object of admiration and reverence to men who would
rather see vast images of uncertain objects reflected from illuminated clouds, than
representations of things in their just proportions, measurable, tangible, and
convertible to household use.—Walter Savage Landor in Imaginary Conversations,
Vol. 2.

Cultivation will breed in any man a certainty of the uncertainty of his most assured
convictions.—Samuel Butler in Life and Habit.

Knowledge is in an inchoate state as long as it is capable of logical treatment; it

must be transmitted into that sense or instinct which rises altogether above the
sphere in which words can have being at all, otherwise it is not yet vital.—Samuel
Butler in Life and Habit.
Lines for Two Futurists
Arthur Davison Ficke
 Why does all of sharp and new
That our modern days can brew
Culminate in you?

This chaotic age’s wine

You have drunk—and now decline
Any anodyne.

On the broken walls you stand,

Peering toward some stony land
With eye-shading hand.

Is it lonely as you peer?

Do you never miss, in fear,
Simple things and dear,

Half-remembered, left behind?

Or are backward glances blind
Here where the wind

Round the outposts sweeps and cries—

And each distant hearthlight dies
To your peering eyes?...

I too stand where you have stood;

And the fever fills my blood
With your cruel mood.

Yet some backward longings press

On my heart: yea, I confess
My soul’s heaviness.

Me a homesick tremor thrills

As I dream how sunlight fills
My familiar hills.

Me the yesterdays still hold—

 Me the yesterdays still hold
Liegeman still unto the old
Stories sweetly told.

Into that profound unknown

Where the earthquake forces strown
Shake each pilèd stone

Look; and exultance smites

Me with joy; the splintered heights
Call me with fierce lights.

But a piety still dwells

In my bones; my spirit knells
Solemnly farewells

To safe halls where I was born—

To old haunts I leave forlorn
For this perilous morn.

Yet I come! I cannot stay!

Be it bitter night, or day
Glorious,—your way

I must tread; and on the walls,

Where this flame-swept future calls
To fierce miracles,

Lo, I greet you here! But me

Mock not lightly. I come free—
But with agony.
 A New Winged Victory
Angel Island, by Inez Haynes Gillmore. [Henry Holt and Company, New York.]

A ngel Island is several rare things: original, profound, flaming. It

leaves you with a gasping sense of having been swept through
the skies; and also with that feeling of new life which comes
with a plunge into cold, deep seas. Angel Island is a new kind of
Winged Victory!
Innumerable books have been written about the conflict of the
sexes, about the emergence of the new woman. Most of them are
dull books. But Mrs. Gillmore’s is beautiful and exciting. I kept
thinking as I read it: here is something absolutely new, absolutely
authentic; something so full of vision and truth that it’s like getting
to the top of a mountain for the sunrise. Its freshness and its
clearness are like cool morning mists that the sun has shot through.
But to discard vague phrases and get to the story—for it is not a
tract, but a novel—or rather a poetic allegory—that that Mrs.
Gillmore has written. Five men of representative modern types—a
professor, a libertine, a soldier of fortune, a “mere mutt-man,” and
an artist—are shipwrecked on a tropical island. After a few days their
attention is caught by what appears to be huge birds flying through
the heavens. The birds come nearer and prove to be winged
women! Then comes the story of their wooing, their capture, their
ultimate evolution into what modern women have decided they want
to be: humanists.
However, this is going too fast. The only way to appreciate Angel
Island is to be conscious of the art of it as you read. Beginning with
the shipwreck, Mrs. Gillmore creates a series of brilliant pictures that
culminate in the flying orgies of the bird-women.
... All this was intensified by the anarchy of sea and sky, by the incessant
explosion of the waves, by the wind which seemed to sweep from end to end of a
liquefying universe, by a downpour which threatened to beat their sodden bodies
to pulp, by all the connotation of terror that lay in the darkness and in their
unguarded condition on a barbarous, semi-tropical coast....
The storm, which had seemed to worry the whole universe in its grip, had died
finally but it had died hard. On a quieted earth, the sea alone showed signs of
revolution. The waves, monstrous, towering, swollen, were still marching on to the
beach with a machine-like regularity that was swift and ponderous at the same
time.... Beyond the wave-line, under a cover of foam, the jaded sea lay feebly
palpitant like an old man asleep....
They had watched the sun come up over the trees at their back. And it was as if
they had seen a sunrise for the first time in their lives. To them it was neither
beautiful nor familiar; it was sinister and strange. A chill, that was not of the dawn
but of death itself, lay over everything. The morning wind was the breath of the
tomb, the smells that came to them from the island bore the taint of mortality, the
very sun seemed icy. They suffered—the five survivors of the night’s tragedy—with
a scarifying sense of disillusion with Nature....
The sun was racing up a sky smooth and clear as gray glass. It dropped on the
torn green sea a shimmer that was almost dazzling; but there was something
incongruous about that—as though Nature had covered her victim with a spangled
scarf. It brought out millions of sparkles in the white sand; and there seemed
something calculating about that—as though she were bribing them with jewels to
forget....
Dozens of waves flashed and crashed their way up the beach; but now they
trailed an iridescent network of foam over the lilac-gray sand. The sun raced high;
but now it poured a flood of light on the green-gray water. The air grew bright and
brighter. The earth grew warm and warmer. Blue came into the sky, deepened—
and the sea reflected it. Suddenly the world was one huge glittering bubble, half
of which was the brilliant azure sky and half the burnished azure sea.

All this is gorgeous enough—this clear, vivid painting of nature. But

when Mrs. Gillmore turns her hand to the supernatural, she is simply
ravishing. For instance:
The semi-tropical moon was at its full. Huge, white, embossed, cut out, it did not
shine—it glared from the sky. It made a melted moonstone of the atmosphere. It
faded the few clouds to a sapphire-gray, just touched here and there with the
chalky dot of a star. It slashed a silver trail across a sea jet-black except where the
waves rimmed it with snow. Up in the white enchantment, but not far above them,
the strange air-creatures were flying. They were not birds; they were winged
women!
Darting, diving, glancing, curving, wheeling, they interwove in what seemed the
premeditated figures of an aerial dance.... Their wings, like enormous scimitars,
caught the moonlight, flashed it back. For an interval, they played close in a group
inextricably intertwined, a revolving ball of vivid color. Then, as if seized by a
common impulse, they stretched, hand in hand, in a line across the sky—drifted.
The moonlight flooded them full, caught glitter and gleam from wing-sockets, shot
shimmer and sheen from wing-tips, sent cataracts of iridescent color pulsing
between. Snow-silver one, brilliant green and gold another, dazzling blue the next,
luminous orange a fourth, flaming flamingo scarlet the last, their colors seemed
half liquid, half light. One moment the whole figure would flare into a splendid
blaze, as if an inner mechanism had suddenly turned on all the electricity; the
next, the blaze died down to the fairy glisten given by the moonlight.
As if by one impulse, they began finally to fly upward. Higher and higher they
rose, still hand in hand.... One instant, relaxed, they seemed tiny galleons, all sails
set, that floated lazily, the sport of an aerial sea; another, supple and sinuous, they
seemed monstrous fish whose fins triumphantly clove the air, monarchs of that
aerial sea.
A little of this and there came another impulse. The great wings furled close like
blades leaping back to scabbard; the flying-girls dropped sheer in a dizzying fall.
Half-way to the ground, they stopped simultaneously as if caught by some invisible
air plateau. The great feathery fans opened—and this time the men got the
whipping whirr of them—spread high, palpitated with color. From this lower level,
the girls began to fall again, but gently, like dropping clouds.... They paused an
instant and fluttered like a swarm of butterflies undecided where to go.... Then
they turned out to sea, streaming through the air in line still, but one behind the
other. And for the first time, sound came from them; they threw off peals of girl-
laughter that fell like handfuls of diamonds. Their mirth ended in a long, eerie cry.

To me, that is wonderful work—one jeweled word after another. And

it’s sustained through the whole book. But of course, after this first
sense of ravishment with her pictures, you touch upon the deeper
wonder of Mrs. Gillmore—her ideas. There are enough ideas in Angel
Island to equip the women who are fighting for selfhood with
armour that is absolutely hole proof.
The winged women differ in type as widely as the men; and each
man chooses very quickly the type that appeals to him most. The
libertine wants the big blond one, whom they’ve named “Peachy”;
the professor likes Chiquita, the very feminine, unintellectual one;
Billy, the mere man, falls violently and reverently in love with the
radiant Julia, the leader of the group and the one your interest
centers in immediately. Julia has a personality: she appears to be
“pushed on by some intellectual or artistic impulse, to express by the
symbols of her complicated flight some theory, some philosophy of
life.” She seems always to shine. She is a creator. In short, Julia
thinks.
The men plan capture and finally accomplish it by a time-honored
method: that of arousing the women’s curiosity. Then follows a
tragic episode when they cut the captives’ wings, making flight
impossible. Of course, marriage is the next step, and later, children
are born on Angel Island—little girl children with wings, and boys
without them. But all this time Julia has refused to marry Billy,
though she’s in love with him. Her only reason is that something tells
her to wait.
Inevitably the women mourn the loss of their wings; and just as
they become reconciled to a second-hand joy in their daughters’
flights, Peachy’s husband informs her that flying is unwomanly—that
woman’s place is in the home, not in the air (!)—and that their
daughter must be shorn of her wings as soon as she’s eighteen.
What next? Rebellion, with Julia shining gloriously as leader. She
had been waiting for this. And in ten pages of profound, simple,
magnificent talk—if only every woman in the world would read it!—
she explains to the others that they must learn to walk. Peachy
objects, because she dislikes the earth. “There are stars in the air,”
she argues. “But we never reached them,” answers Julia. The earth
is a good place, and they must learn to live in it. Besides, their
children will fly better for learning to walk, and walk better for
knowing how to fly; and she prophesies that then will be born to one
of them a boy child with wings.
The women hide and master the art of walking. While they’re
doing this their poor wings have a chance to grow a little, and by the
time the men are ready to capture and subdue them a second time
they have achieved a combination of walking and flying that puts
them beyond reach. Then the men submit ... and Julia asks Billy to
marry her.
 That’s all, except one short chapter about Julia. She has a son
with wings! And then she dies—radiant, white, goddess-woman,
whose life had been so fine a thing. The beauty of it all simply
overwhelmed me.
All of which points to several important conclusions. First, that
Mrs. Gillmore is a poet and prophet of golden values. Second, that
prejudice is the most foolish thing in the world. A general prejudice
against that obvious form of comedy called farce might cause you to
miss The Legend of Leonore. And a stubborn caution in regard to
allegories—which, I concede, generally are unsubtle—might keep
you from Angel Island.
 Correspondence

Two Views of H. G. Wells

I am just reading The Passionate Friends, and every time I read
anything of Wells’s I wonder why it is I don’t like him better. The
World Set Free that has been running in The Century was intensely
worth while, I thought—really prophetic. One tasted something
almost divine; human nature is capable of such wonderful
undreamed of things! It was like Tennyson prophesying the
Federation of the World, airships, etc. Wells does seem inspired in
some ways. But every time I read any of his novels—well, you
remember I have a distinct mid-Victorian flavor that has to be
reckoned with. I wasn’t brought up in a minister’s family for nothing!
I suppose it’s what we used to call our conscience. Mine isn’t much
good, alas; I sometimes think of it as a little old Victorian lady. She
sits in the background of my consciousness and knits and knits and
nods her head. Meanwhile I go blithely about, espousing all sorts of
causes and thinking out all sorts of theories—imagining, you know,
that I’m perfectly free. Suddenly she wakes up—she lays aside her
knitting with a determined air and says, “Mary Martha, what are you
thinking about! Stop that right now; I’m ashamed of you.” And she
has authority, too, you know. I stop. Ridiculous, isn’t it?—but so it is.
And every time I read a Wells novel my little old lady folds her
hands and sits up very primly and says, “Aha, you’re reading
something of that man’s again. Well, I’m not asleep—I’m right on
the job and I know just what I think of him.” So you see! And the
worst—or the best—of it is that I agree with her. I can’t like him. I
read along and it’s all so reasonable—he’s so clever and he thinks;
but his conclusions are all so weak—if he comes to any. One passage
in The Passionate Friends has made me furious. How can a man
who’s at all worth while be so really wicked—(another word gone out
of style). I mean this:
It is manifestly true that for the most of us free talk, intimate association, and any
real fellowship between men and women turns with extreme readiness to love.
And that being so, it follows that under existing conditions the unrestricted
meeting and companionship of men and women in society is a notorious sham, a
merely dangerous pretence of encounters. The safe reality beneath those liberal
appearances is that a woman must be content with the easy friendship of other
women and of one man only, letting a superficial friendship towards all other men
veil impassable abysses of separation, and a man must in the same way have one
sole woman intimate.... To me that is an intolerable state of affairs, but is reality.

Now can you suppose that is Wells’s own reasoning that he puts into
the mouth of his unfortunate hero? Talk about Edith Wharton being
thin-lipped in the pursuit of her heroines—that’s a great deal better
than being loose-lipped; don’t you agree with me? It may be true,
and I rather think to some extent it is true, that a man cannot have
an absorbing friendship with a woman and not run the risk of falling
in love. But what does that prove? That he should be allowed free
rein and carry on as many liaisons veiled under the name of
friendship as he chooses? Or unveiled, rather, for Wells seems to
want everything in the open. He’s like a child who says: Here’s a
very dangerous beast in a flimsy, inadequate cage. Frequently he
escapes from it and has to be put back in. Let’s abolish the cage and
let the beast run about openly, doing what it wants. And the good
old-fashioned word for that beast is lust, and it should be caged; if
the cage is getting more and more inadequate it’s only a piece with
what Agnes Repplier calls our loss of nerve. How I liked that article
of hers! What in the name of sense are we in this world for if not to
build up a character? That’s all that amounts to anything, and it
comes from countless denials and countless responses to duty. And
what Goethe said, some time ago, is still everlastingly true:
“Entbehren sollst Du, sollst entbehren!” (Deny yourself, deny, deny.)
He ought to know, too, because he tried indulgence, goodness
knows, and knew the dregs at the bottom of that cup. And I can’t
forgive Wells. He knows better than to let people make all manner of
experiment with such things. They wouldn’t even be happy; for
happiness is built of stability, loyalty, character, and again character.
My husband said, after reading that passage in The Passionate
Friends, “The trouble with him and the class he writes of is that they
aren’t busy enough. Let ’em work for a living, be interested in
something vitally for ten hours out of the twenty-four, and they’ll
forget all about their neighbors’ wives and be content with good
men friends and casual women friends.”
The trouble lies with poor old human nature, I guess, and the way
it wants what it cannot and ought not to have. But Wells says all
unreality is hateful to him. Let’s tear down the barriers, let’s show up
for what we are. Poor Smith wants something his neighbor has—
well, let’s give it to him, whether it’s his neighbor’s success or his
wife or his happiness. Nature is still unbearably ugly in lots of ways.
When we can train it to be unselfish and disinterested then it will be
time to tear down barriers.
Lady Mary in The Passionate Friends is an unconvincing character,
too. I can conceive of a woman who will take all of a man’s
possessions, giving him nothing in return, not even fidelity, but I
cannot conceive of her justifying herself unless she is an utter moral
degenerate. The danger of such writers as Wells is that they are
plausible enough till you look below the surface. He tries to
represent Lady Mary as charming, but she, it seems to me, even
more than modern society which he arraigns, is “honeycombed and
rotten with evil.”
“M. M.”

The description of a “little old Victorian lady” who sits in the

background of our consciousness and plays conscience for us is
charming; but.... She’s a sweet-faced little lady to whom the
universe is as clear as crystal and as simple as plane geometry. She
is always knitting, and what she knits is a fine web of sentimentality
with which to cover the nakedness of truth—“for it is not seemly, my
dear, that anything, even truth, should be naked.”
This web of hers is as fine as soft silk and as strong as chain mail.
It’s sticky, too. And it clothes truth so thoroughly that she grows
unrecognizable to any but the most penetrating searcher—to H. G.
Wells, for instance. It’s natural enough that the old lady should
dislike Wells, for he’s found her out; he’s made the astonishing
discovery that underneath the web life is not sentimentally simple.
He discloses to her scandalized eyes various unfortunate facts which
she has done her best to conceal, as for instance the fact that there
is such a thing as sex.
“Sex,” says Wells in effect in every one of his novels, “is a
disturbing element, the disturbing element, in life. So long as sex
exists it is a physical impossibility that life should be the sweetly
pretty parlor game our little Victorian lady would have it.”
Right here the husband of the little lady has something to say:
“The trouble with him and the class he writes of,” he announces, “is
that they aren’t busy enough. Let ’em work for a living, be interested
in something vitally for ten hours out of the twenty-four, and they’ll
forget all about their neighbors’ wives and be content with good
men friends and casual women friends.” This is an excellent example
of what Wells finds the next most disturbing element in life
—“muddle-headedness,” the lack of ability to think straight, to think
things through. “Let Wells be vitally interested in something for ten
hours of the twenty-four!” Doesn’t he see that if Wells had ever
limited himself to ten hours of interest he would be making shirts
today? It is because Wells works twenty-five hours of the twenty-
four at being “vitally interested in something” that he is one of the
major prophets of our time. And the thing in which he is interested
is life itself, the great unsolvable mystery, life which extends below
the simple, polished surface that is all the Victorian lady knows as
the sea extends below its glassy smoothness on a summer day.
One of the greatest things that Wells has done for some of us who
came on him young enough so that our minds did not close
automatically at his first startling revelation, is this: he taught us to
look at life squarely, without moral cant, and with a scientific
disregard as to whether it pleased us personally or not. We may not
always agree with him—very likely we don’t—but at least we must
face the issue squarely and not take refuge in the vague
sentimentality and slushy hopefulness of the Victorian lady.
Wells states facts and very frequently lets it go at that. Witness
the shock this method is to our little old lady. She asks how anyone
at all worth while can be so “really wicked” as to write about sex and
society as he does.
She admits that what he says is a fact, but—it sticks out like a
jagged, untidy rock from the smooth surface of things; therefore it is
wicked. As a matter of fact that statement of his has no more to do
with morality, is no more wicked, or virtuous, than the statement of
a physical fact—to say, for instance, that glass breaks when hurled
against a stone wall. It is unfortunate, but it is not “wicked.”
No, the day of Victorianism is past. We are slashing away the web,
we are learning to think. It is a slow and painful process and we
know not yet where the struggle will end. But at least we shall be
nearer to the divine nakedness of truth. If Wells has done nothing
else than to prove to us how much of our thinking is dictated not by
our own souls but by the artificially-imposed sentimentality of the
“little old Victorian lady” he has done a full man’s work. And we who
owe our emancipation largely to his vision can never be too thankful
to him.
Frances Trevor.

Rupert Brooke and Whitman

You treated Brooke in a masterly way in the last issue. I saw many
things I hadn’t seen before, and understood the Wagner better. But I
disagree with you in one way.
The Wagner and the Channel Passage are merely clever realistic
satire—that’s always worth while. But it’s the thought behind the
Menelaus and Helen sort of thing that I don’t like. Of course there’s
no doubt that Helen grew wrinkled and peevish. But to say that
therefore Paris in his grave was better off than Menelaus living is just
a bit decadent, isn’t it? I’m forced to picture Brooke as the sort of
chap who couldn’t enjoy a good dinner if he had to wash the dishes
afterward:—instead of regarding dishwashing as a natural variety of
living that could be thoroughly enjoyable with shirtsleeves and a
pipe. I’m afraid he wouldn’t play American football for fear of getting
his face dirty. He’s just a bit finicky about life. He’s afraid to commit
himself for fear he’ll have to endure something about which he can’t
weave golden syllables. That’s the reason I don’t agree with you
about Whitman liking all of him. Whitman was frank about the whole
world, dirt and all, and he accepted it enthusiastically. Brooke writes
about dirt in such a way as to make it seem horrible.
This poem of Whitman’s will prove my point:
Afoot and light hearted, I take to the open road;
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good fortune—I myself am good fortune;

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, heed nothing;
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth—that is sufficient;

I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

Still, here I carry my old delicious burdens;

I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go.
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;
I am filled with them and I will fill them in return.

You road I enter upon and look around! I believe that you are not all that is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, neither preference nor denial;

The black and his woolly head, the felon, the diseased, the illiterate person, are
not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician; the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s
stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,
The early marketman, the hearse, the moving of furniture into town, the return
back from town,
They pass—I also pass—anything passes—none may be interdicted;
None but are accepted—none but are dear to me.
Mon enfant! I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money;
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Beside this, doesn’t the Menelaus and Helen seem like an orchid?—a
very beautiful, rich orchid, to be sure, but not of the Whitman family.
George Soule.
 More About the “New Note”
The idea of “the new note” might be worked out more fully, but after
all little or nothing would be gained by elaboration. Given this note
of craft love all the rest must follow, as the spirit of self-revelation,
which is also a part of the new note, will follow any true present-day
love of craft. You will remember we once discussed Coningsby
Dawson’s The Garden Without Walls. What I quarreled with in that
book was that the writer looked outside of himself for his material.
Even realists have done this—as, for example, Howells; and to that
extent have failed. The master Zola failed here. Why do we so prize
the work of Whitman, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Twain, and Fielding? Is it
not because as we read we are constantly saying to ourselves, “This
book is true. A man of flesh and blood like myself has lived the
substance of it. In the love of his craft he has done the most difficult
of all things: revealed the workings of his own soul and mind”?
To get near to the social advance for which all moderns hunger, is
it not necessary to have first of all understanding? How can I love
my neighbor if I do not understand him? And it is just in the wider
diffusion of this understanding that the work of a great writer helps
the advance of mankind. I would like to have you think much of this
in your attitude toward all present-day writers. It is so easy for them
to bluff us from our position, and I know from my own experience
how baffling it is constantly to be coming upon good, well-done
work that is false.
In this connection I am tempted to give you the substance of a
formula I have just worked out. It lies here before me, and if you
will accept it in the comradely spirit in which it is offered I shall be
glad. It is the most delicate and the most unbelievably difficult task
to catch, understand, and record your own mood. The thing must be
done simply and without pretense or windiness, for the moment
these creep in your record is no longer a record, but a mere mass of
words meaning nothing. The value of such a record is not in the
facts caught and recorded but in the fact of your having been able
truthfully to make the record—something within yourself will tell you
when you have not done it truthfully. I myself believe that when a
man can thus stand aside from himself, recording simply and
truthfully the inner workings of his own mind, he will be prepared to
record truthfully the workings of other minds. In every man or
woman dwell dozens of men and women, and the highly imaginative
individual will lead fifty lives. Surely this can be said if it can be said
that the unimaginative individual has led one life.
The practice of constantly and persistently making such a record
as this will prove invaluable to the person who wishes to become a
true critic of writing in the new spirit. Whenever he finds himself
baffled in drawing a character or in judging one drawn by another,
let him turn thus in upon himself, trusting with child-like simplicity
and honesty the truth that lives in his own mind. Indeed, one of the
great rewards of living with small children is to watch their faith in
themselves and to try to emulate them in this art.
If the practice spoken of above is followed diligently, a kind of
partnership will in time spring up between the hand and the brain of
the writer. He will find himself becoming in truth a cattle herder, a
drug clerk, a murderer, for the benefit of the hand that is writing of
these, or the brain that is judging the work of another who has
written of these.
To be sure this result will not always follow, and even after long
and patient following of the system one will run into barren periods
when the brain and the hand do not co-ordinate. In such a period it
seems to me the part of wisdom to drop your work and begin again
patiently making a record of the workings of your own mind, trying
to put down truthfully those workings during the period of failure. I
would like to scold every one who writes, or who has to do with
writing, into adopting this practice, which has been such a help and
such a delight to me.
Sherwood Anderson.
 To E
Sara Teasdale

The door was opened and I saw you there

And for the first time heard you speak my name,
Then like the sun your sweetness overcame
My shy and shadowy mood; I was aware
That joy was hidden in your happy hair,
And that for you love held no hint of shame;
My eyes caught light from yours, within whose flame
Humor and passion have an equal share.

How many times since then have I not seen

Your great eyes widen when you talk of love,
And darken slowly with a far desire;
How many times since then your soul has been
Clear to my gaze as curving skies above,
Wearing like them a raiment made of fire.
 To S
Eunice Tietjens

From my life’s outer orbit, where the night

That bounds my knowledge still is pierced through
By far-off singing planets such as you,
Whose faint, sweet voices come to me like light
In disembodied beauty, keen and bright,—
From this far orbit to my nearer view
You came one day, grown tangible and true
And warm with sympathy and fair with sight.

Then I who still had loved your distant voice,

Your songs, shot through with beauty and with tears
And woven magic of the wistful years,
I felt the listless heart of me rejoice
And stir again, that had lain stunned so long,
Since I had you, yourself a living song.
 The Critics’ Critic
Agnes Repplier on Popular Education

T hrough all of Miss Repplier’s latest essays in The Atlantic runs a

note of appeal for the sterner virtues, which she thinks are in
danger of dying out under modern conditions. So persistently is
this note, admirable in itself, sounded, that we wonder if it doesn’t
hark back a bit to Sparta, and the casting away of the unfit. When it
comes to the question of an education broad enough to fit the needs
of every child, we may all pause and take a deep breath. We may
not approve of a school of moving pictures, advocated by Judge
Lindsey, and yet we may not wish to go to the other extreme of
severe discipline advocated by Miss Repplier. If only all children were
of exactly the same type, so that the same kind of schooling would
suffice for all their needs! Or even if they could come from the same
kind of homes with more or less similar ideals!
Let us hear what she and Mr. Lindsey have to say about Tony—
(Tony is a boy who does not like school as it is at present
organized). “Mr. Edison is coming to the rescue of Tony,” says Judge
Lindsey. “He will take him away from me and put him in a school
that is not a school at all but just one big game.... There will be
something moving, something doing at that school all the time.
When I tell him about it Tony shouts ‘Hooray for Mr. Edison!’ right in
front of the battery, just as he used to say ‘To hell wid de cop!’” On
the other hand:—“The old time teacher,” says Miss Repplier, “sought
to spur the pupil to keen and combative effort, rather than beguile
him into knowledge with cunning games and lantern slides.... The
old time parent set a high value on self discipline and self control.”
 But can she believe for one moment that Tony’s parents ever
dreamed of “setting a high value on self discipline and self control?”
Or that Tony’s sister was taught to “read aloud with correctness and
expression, to write notes with propriety and grace, and to play
backgammon and whist?” ...
Figurez-vous! And so, if we can reach little Tony’s darkened vision
by the simple method of moving pictures, keep him off the streets
until he learns at least not to become a hardened criminal—are we
not that much to the good? Tony will never, never be ambassador to
the court of St. James (or if he is going to be, he’ll be it in spite of
movies!) but he may be a fairly honest, happy fruit vendor some
day, instead of No. 207 in a cell. Useless to cite the dull boys in
school, who absolutely refused pedagogic training and later blazed
their way—luminaries—through the world, when once they had
found the work that interested them. To interest, stimulate, and
arouse is the prelude to work; and precious few kiddies, except
those who don’t really need it, do enough work that they dislike to
strengthen their little characters. But even if they do, are those who
will not to have nothing?
Of course, education is a thing that can’t be disposed of in a few
well meaning phrases. Miss Repplier may be right, too, in what she
says of the education of Montaigne. You remember he learned to
talk Latin under a tutor, at an early age, in much the same way that
our modern young ones learn French and German.
“All the boy gained by the most elaborate system ever devised for
the saving of labor,” she says, “was that he over-skipped the lower
forms in school. What he lost was the habit of mastering his
prescript lessons, which he seems to have disliked heartily.” But how
does any one know that that was all he gained? I should hardly
select Montaigne as my model, if I were trying to point out the ill
effects of any particular type of education. Besides, whatever its
effect may have been on him, I should hate to lose the mental
picture of the little lad Latinizing with the “simple folk of Perigord.”
Charming little lad, and wonderful old father, doing his best to
elevate and help his boy. No, decidedly; whatever Miss Repplier may
do to dispose of Tony and his ilk, I am glad she had nothing
whatever to do with the education of Montaigne!

The Little Review

Since it appears to be my duty to read all the critical journals and
dissect their contents for these columns, I can’t in good faith neglect
The Little Review. I have just devoured the first issue. What can I say
about the superb “announcement”? I agree ardently with it. It
needed to be said; the magazine needed to be born. There’s no
quarrel between art and life except where one or the other is kept
back of the door. Anyone with a keen appreciation of art can’t help
appreciating life too, and Mrs. Jones who runs away from her
husband can’t fairly stand for “life.” Besides, why should anybody
object to a thing because it’s transitorial? Everything is transitorial. It
must either grow or perish.
Mr. Wing’s criticism of Mr. Faust is admirable—direct,
unpretentious, sound. But you must let me register a slight objection
to Dr. Foster’s Nietzsche article. It seems to me there’s just too much
enthusiasm to be borne by what he actually says. When I came to
the end of that third paragraph on page fifteen I sneaked back to
Galsworthy’s letter and found an answering twinkle in its eye. I felt
like going up to Dr. Foster with a grin, putting my hand on his
shoulder and saying, “My dear man, a candidate for major prophet
doesn’t need political speeches. It is really not half so important that
we unregenerate should give three cheers for him as that we should
live his truth. Won’t you forget a little of this sound and fury and tell
us as simply as you can just what it is that you want us to do?”
I went from his article with the impression that here was a man
who was very enthusiastic about Mr. Nietzsche. I’m sure that’s not
the impression Dr. Foster intended to make. But I have a feeling that
pure enthusiasm wasting itself in little geysers is intrinsically
ridiculous. Enthusiasm should grow trees and put magic in violets—
and that can’t be done with undue quickness, or in any but the most
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