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Broken Hearts Copy

Silverbrook University #2
R.G. Angel
Broken Hearts – Silverbrook University Book 2
By R.G Angel

Copyright © 2024 R.G. Angel

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s
imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or
given away to other people.

If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, then please purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

WARNING: 18+ only. Please read responsibly. THIS NOVEL CONTAINS TRIGGERING
CONTENT.

Book Cover by Laura at Spellbinding Design

Edited by Steph White (Kat's Literary Services)

Proofread by FairyProofmother
To the fearless romance readers who treat red flags not as warnings,
but as invitations to a wild ride: Cole is your kind of hero. Buckle up!
 Contents

Trigger Warning
Playlist
Prologue

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5
Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8
Chapter 9

Chapter 10
Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13
Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17
Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20
Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24
Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Epilogue
About R.G. Angel

Acknowledgements
 Trigger Warning

T
rigger Warning
This novel contains a prologue that deals with themes of self-
harm and suicidal ideation. If these topics are triggering for you,
please consider skipping the prologue. The main narrative, which
begins in Chapter 1 and takes place a year later, does not focus on
these themes, though there may be brief mentions of the
protagonist's past struggles. Your well-being is important, and we
encourage readers to prioritize their mental and emotional health.
 Playlist

What I wouldn’t give - Holly Brook

Day is Gone - Noah Gundersen & The Forest Rangers

Beautiful Things - Benson Boone
Think Twice - Eve 6

You can’t break a Broken Heart - Kate Voegele

Save Me - Ron Pope

I’ll believe you when - Matchbox 20

I hate u, I love U - Gnash ft Olivia O’Brien

Gravity - Sara Bareilles

The Scientist - Coldplay

I’m in love with a girl - Gavin DeGraw

Far away - Nickelback

No one’s gonna love you - Band of Horses

I won’t give up - Jason Mraz

Can’t let you go - Matchbox 20

Never be the Same - Red

 Prologue

Eva

H
ow long would it take for the wound on my hand to bleed out?
Bright blood beads and trickles in a slow rhythm, a stark red
against my skin that pulses with each heavy beat of my heart.
My palm, slick with blood, leaves a distinct print on the silk of my
dress—a rebellious scarlet against the pale rose—as I climb over the
railing.
Beneath me, Memory’s River swirls in the night’s obscurity, its
murky waters hidden yet audibly churning in the blackness. The river
and I, we’re old acquaintances, its rapid currents whispering
familiarly, mingling with the pulsating rhythm in my chest to create a
strangely soothing symphony.
Memory’s River—a name dripping with irony for a waterway that
has snatched away over twenty-one souls, transforming them into
mere recollections in our town. This was our infamous suicide point,
a place where people disintegrate into memories, obscured by
ripples and forgotten by the stream.
 I adjust my position on the bridge’s ledge, the rusty metal gnawing
at the delicate skin of my feet.
Could I get Tetanus? My head dismisses the concern almost as
quickly as it surfaces. The notion is laughably trivial when I’m
teetering on the precipice of oblivion.
Taking a steadying breath, I shift forward, my hand now saturated
with a fresh wave of blood. Numbness has stolen any semblance of
pain, likely a product of severed nerves.
Warm trails of tears mark my cheeks, a silent testament to the
despair gripping my heart, as I close my eyes tightly, willing my body
to release its grip.
A whisper escapes, “I’m sorry, Dad,” as my fingers loosen their
hold. The expected fall doesn’t come; instead, a viselike grip seizes
my wrist, halting my descent.
“No, not tonight, sweetheart—not tonight.”
 Chapter 1

Eva

J
ust over a year has passed since the stars saw my brush with
death. Since a stranger’s hand snatched me from the abyss.
My nights have been clipped short for as long as I can remember, a
habit etched into my bones, a remnant of a past life where the
morning hours were filled with the rich, resonant sounds of my
violin. Now, the silence of my room hangs heavy through the void
where music used to live, a constant reminder of what I lost.
Nightmares often jolt me awake, leaving my skin cold and clammy.
In these visions, no savior awaits—only the sharp sting of regret as I
fall toward the icy water below. I banish the thought with a fierce
shake of my head. Not today.
Silverbrook is supposed to be my chance to build a new life, one I
had thought was all mapped out but now has to be rebuilt from
scratch.
This school, this scholarship, is all I have left, and despite my worst
mistake lurking in these halls, I won’t let it—or him—claim anything
more from me. He has already stolen too much.
I stretch out my fingers, feeling the tightness in my knuckles
easing with each flex. The pins and needles that some days are
more persistent than others.
Giving up on sleep, I decide to quietly head to the kitchen to make
breakfast. My two roommates are still sleeping. Poppy is an early
riser too though, and even if I’m trying to be careful making myself
some eggs, I know she will be out soon enough. As for Vanessa? I
have no fear. No amount of noise can wake her when she sleeps.
Seated at the counter, I unfold my schedule. Packed almost to the
point of being overextended, it’s a welcome distraction from a past
that’s tethered to my heels. I trail my finger over the color-coded
classes. I have colored them based on difficulty, credit, and potential
impact on the major I will pick later.
Poppy’s door creaks open midway through my meal. She emerges,
her hair a wild tangle of brown curls. “Morning, early bird,” she
mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
“Morning,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light despite the serious
subject that is clouding my thoughts.
She wraps her hands around her coffee cup, her stomach growling
loud enough to echo off the kitchen walls. The sound is an
unexpected interruption to our quiet morning. She blushes, and I
once again realize that being as thin as she is, is probably not by
choice.
I open the oven and take out a plate, the contents of bacon and
eggs still warm. “It’s one of those days when I wake up early and
can’t go back to sleep, so I made breakfast for all of us.” The smell
of the food fills the kitchen, and I place the plate in front of Poppy.
“Here you go.”
Her eyes linger on the plate, a hungry gleam flashing briefly before
she shakes her head. “Oh no, I didn’t pay for my share of the food
this week. I didn’t put any money in the food jar.”
Shaking my head, I offer a warm smile. “And? We’re a team,
Poppy, all three of us.”
There’s a genuine sense of camaraderie in the simple act of
sharing a meal. It’s moments like these that make me grateful for
the friends who have become like family in my new life at
Silverbrook.
She sits beside me and leans in to look at my schedule, letting out
a low whistle. “That’s a lot of classes.” She takes a mouthful of eggs,
and I can’t help but smile, feeling some of the remaining darkness
vanishing at the view.
“I was thinking the same. I mean, I did it to try to graduate early.”
And to avoid drowning in self-pity. A grimace crosses my face at the
realization. “It’s going to be tough, no doubt about that.”
She shrugs. “Nothing is stopping you from dropping a class or two
if it becomes too hard. At least you tried.”
Her words lighten my mood further. Not every decision carries the
weight of life and death, as I once faced on that bridge. “I guess I
tend to go all in,” I concede with a sigh.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” she asks, finishing her coffee.
I tap the schedule. “Planning to scout out all my class locations.
Don’t want any added stress on the first day.”
 “That’s smart. Mind if I tag along?” she offers, and I can’t help but
feel grateful for her company.
“Of course not. It’ll be nice to have company,” I say, and for the
first time in a long while, I feel a flicker of excitement for the day
ahead.
We are already dressed, ready to go, when Nessa comes out of her
bedroom in nothing more than a T-shirt and underwear, her face full
of sleep. I shiver, looking at her long, toned, bare legs, cold on her
behalf.
She removes her headphones and frowns. “You girls know we
don’t start classes before next week, right?”
Poppy chuckles and nods.
“So why are you ready to go at the crack of dawn?”
I scoff, looking at my watch. “It’s ten a.m.”
“Yes…” she says slowly, like we are missing something. “Crack of
dawn.”
I shake my head. “We’re going to scout out the grounds. Do you
want to come with us?”
“Scout the grounds?” She snorts. “Definitely not, but I’ll wait for
you at the café on campus with a caramel latte and a croissant.”
“You have twenty minutes.” She nods, and she’s out and ready
within the time, looking as fabulous as always in her black-and-
purple dress. Her purple-streaked hair blends with the bold drama of
her red lips and smoky eyes. Nessa is the embodiment of goth chic,
and as much as I disappear in my middle-aged librarian outfits of
long, flowy skirts and cardigans, she shines with her unique style
and beauty. Our friendship, as unlikely as it seems, was sparked by
our shared status as the first recipients of the Phoenix Rising
Scholarship. This program, dedicated to giving people a second
chance at college, brought us together. It’s an odd pairing, but I
have this feeling that these girls and I? We’re in it for the long haul.
We walk to the coffee shop, Nessa’s platform boots clicking
authoritatively on the pavement.
“Try not to get lost, overanxious grandmas,” Nessa calls over her
shoulder, the smirk clear in her voice.
Poppy retorts with a grin, “Just don’t scare all the baristas away,
Wednesday Addams.”
Nessa’s laughter floats back to us as she saunters off, the bell
above the coffee shop door jingling in her wake. Poppy and I
exchange an amused glance before we set off toward campus.
The heart of campus is busier than I expect, and people rush
around us, but it should not be a surprise since the upper classes
have already started.
We decide to start with Albert Hall, where most of my classes will
take place. We are halfway through the main hall when Poppy’s
stride slows, her gaze fixed on something ahead. Following her line
of sight, I see a group of jocks, their laughter echoing across the
hall. One of them turns, his eyes catching Poppy’s, and the
recognition there is unmistakable.
As the jock approaches, a familiar tension wraps around Poppy, the
kind that speaks of shared heartbreak and past battles fought alone.
When he greets her with “Pauper,” it’s tinged with a familiarity that
doesn’t belong here, not in the halls of Silverbrook.
 I’m watching Poppy, ready to jump to her defense, but she needs
no champion. Her stance is firm, unyielding—she’s no damsel but a
warrior in her own right. It’s amid this silent standoff that Poppy
murmurs a single word under her breath, “Ethan.”
The name hangs between us, a new piece of her puzzle. The air
suddenly chills; I feel it before I see it—a presence that looms large
and threatening, turning the ground beneath my feet to ice.
Another jock appears, wrapping his arm around Ethan’s neck, and
my own past slaps me right in the face in the form of Cole
Westbrook. My personal nightmare, cloaked in blond hair, chiseled
muscles, and that ever-teasing smile. No one knows the darkness
lurking behind those bright-blue eyes. I didn’t, not until it cost me
my dream. My stomach tightens, a cold knot of anxiety that refuses
to unravel. On a campus with over fifteen thousand students, I had
to run into him in the first week.
Surprise flickers across his features, his smugness slipping.
“Juilliard,” he breathes out, and my scar sears with a remembered
betrayal, echoing one of the many nicknames he once whispered like
a caress.
I keep my face blank despite the nausea I feel seeing him again.
Your spirit is unbreakable; let your actions reflect that. Max’s voice
fills my head, and I repeat this sentence over and over again.
I need out; I am not ready to face him. How much time will you
need? The mocking voice in my head whispers Forever might never
be enough.
“Come on, let’s go back,” I urge Poppy, pulling at her arm.
 Cole steps in my way, his gaze cutting through me. “Julliard,” he
growls, frustration in his voice that he has no right to possess. I
won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. “Is that supposed
to mean something?” I ask, my voice a steady challenge though my
grip on Poppy tightens—a silent plea for support. “Some kind of
hazing code?” The clenching of my hand betrays my anxiety, a tell I
despise, especially under his scrutiny.
I break eye contact; it feels like he can see right through my soul,
allowing him to marvel at all the hurt and destruction he caused.
Just as I’m about to ask him to leave, my voice threatening to
betray my composure, Poppy jumps in. “It’s probably some jock
slang we can’t understand. Whatever the interest is, we’re passing.
Please go look for other… fresh meat.”
Gratefully, I nod, my appreciation unspoken but profound. As we
walk away, I can feel his eyes on my back, but I focus on the door.
Silverbrook will be my rebirth, not my downfall. Cole Westbrook may
be part of this world, but he won’t define my experience here. Not
again. Not today. Not ever.
 Chapter 2

Cole

P
arked outside of Eva’s apartment building, I wait. It feels like
hours, and I don’t miss some of the curious looks I get there,
sitting in my car, but I don’t care.
My phone rings, and I’m so lost in my anticipation of seeing her I
answer before I look at who’s calling.
“Oh, finally, I knew the photos I sent you last night would get a
reaction.”
Jenny’s high-pitched voice fills the car, making me wince.
The photos… Nudes that didn’t even make my cock stir and were
deleted as fast as they came so I could concentrate on my plan.
“Haven’t looked at the photos,” I reply with a sigh, my impatience
barely concealed. “Why are you calling, Jenny?”
“Thought maybe I could come down and we can have some fun.”
Her suggestion comes through as hopeful.
“Having fun with you isn’t in the cards. Nothing’s changed. I’m still
not interested.”
 “But—” I cut the call as I see Eva’s Chevy come down the road to
the parking lot of her building.
A smirk forms involuntarily as she struggles with her car door. It’s
the same old red clunker she’s had since high school, as stubborn
and defiant as she is. It kind of pisses me off—she drove that death
trap over two hundred miles to get here. But I’ve got to admit, it’s
so… her.
Having her here, at Silverbrook, feels like fate’s got my back for
once. The obsession is back with a vengeance. She vanished on
prom night, right after my vindictive, petty stunt—bailing on her in
front of the hotel’s door. It was a revenge move, one I’ve come to
bitterly regret. I thought we were even, but she was gone. I
searched for her, following a trail to New York, only to find her
absence at Julliard as mysterious and infuriating as the night she
vanished. Even my summer visits to Coach Sinclair’s house were
unfruitful; he carefully avoided mentioning his daughter, and my
attempts to casually inquire about her were met with nothing but
evasive responses.
Was it really all about prom? Is she actually pretending she’s not to
blame at all in this? She betrayed me first! She destroyed us first!
She broke my heart first!
The memory is vivid: a couple of weeks before prom, Jenny, an
unwelcome presence, approached me after practice. We had split
months ago, and I was mentally preparing to make my relationship
with Eva public. Jenny’s presence threatened to derail everything.
“Beat it,” I told her coldly.
 “You could’ve told me about your learning difficulties, babe. I’m not
with you for your brain,” she said, her grin sardonic.
I stood frozen, shocked. How did she know? Jenny’s hands traced
over my muscles as she continued, “You’re hot, sexy … and you
have a huge cock, that’s enough for me.”
Breaking free from her grip, I confronted her, “What are you
talking about?”
“Your dyscalculia,” she nonchalantly replied. “The chubby girl told
me. I don’t care, though.”
The realization struck like a lightning bolt. Eva, the only person I
had confided in about my dyscalculia, had betrayed me to Jenny.
The pain quickly turned into rage, demanding revenge. I decided on
public humiliation at prom—an eye for an eye.
It was meant to be a moment to even the score, something we
could discuss and resolve later. I had prepared what to say for when
she returned to school the following Monday. This backfired when
she fled, leaving me with nothing but questions. My acceptance
letters to various prestigious colleges were irrelevant pieces of paper
just for show. With my name, I could go to any university I wanted.
I had colleges waiting on my decision as I tried to track down Eva,
wanting to be near her to settle our unfinished business. But under
pressure from my father, I chose Silverbrook.
Leaning back in my seat, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel.
I’ve replayed our last encounter a hundred times, but here she is,
acting as if she’s erased everything, turning me into a ghost of her
past. I call bullshit. I know I’m still there, lurking in her thoughts,
just as she’s never left mine.
 The door to her car finally gives way, and she stumbles out, books
in hand. She’s dressed like an austere librarian, but I know better.
There’s a wild streak under that composed surface, and it’s waiting
to be reignited. I’ve always admired the way she carries herself, a
defiance in her walk, an unapologetic assertion of space. My woman
wears her generous curves like armor, like a challenge to anyone
who dares to question her worth. And damn, the view is something
else.
I trace a finger across my lips as I watch her now, appreciating the
way her dress hugs her form. The sight stirs my desire for her with a
passion that no other woman wakes. She’s oblivious to my scrutiny,
and it annoys me.
Sliding out of the car, my body instinctively braces for the impact of
her gaze. As she looks up, her bag halting midair, I lean casually
against my Lexus, smirking. She might pretend indifference, but the
slight rise of her chin, the way her eyes darken—it’s all the
confirmation I need. My girl’s still in this, whether she admits it or
not.
Watching her intently, I close the gap between us. There are far
too many people around us for her to start a scene or for me to be
assertive. We both know that.
“Are you lost? May I help you?” she asks with such polite coldness
it reminds me of the Eva from the start of senior year. The one that
was wary of me.
I give her my flirty grin. “Oh, look at you being a good girl and
offering me your help,” my voice is low, seductive. “Maybe you can
show me your bedroom or, better yet, come for a drive with me. I’ll
show you my room and a certain candy you were so fond of,” I add,
tilting my hips forward a little.
Her cold, detached look, obviously feigned, only serves to
aggravate me. “And why would I do that? That would be foolish, but
I’m sure you can find someone else to comply with your delirious
demand.”
Taking another step forward, I’m close enough to smell her
perfume now, and I lose focus for one second. It’s enough for her to
take a step back, and then, suddenly, she turns around, walking to
her building as if I am not there.
Laughter escapes me at the sight of her stiff, retreating form. Oh,
the chase will be delicious.
She might see me as a ghost from her past, but I’m more like a
hound. Flesh and blood, my presence in her life will be as tangible
as the bold curves she displays. This second chance isn’t hers alone;
I plan to use mine to reclaim what’s mine, utilizing everything at my
disposal—my tongue, my hands, my cock—to help her get over her
stupid grudge. It’s game on, and I’m more than ready to play.
The game we’re about to play excites me, yet her dismissal still
pisses me off. I’m confident, and I don’t need to be vain to know the
effect I have on women. I see it in the way they throw themselves
at me. As a Westbrook, the sole heir of a multibillion-dollar
conglomerate, I possess not just the name and legacy but also the
looks and physique to match. Life’s unfairness is evident—some have
it all. Well, nearly all. The missing piece? Little Evangeline Sinclair.
I storm into the house with a frustrated growl, my keys clattering
in the ceramic bowl by the door, announcing my mood before I enter
the room. Ethan and Liam are huddled over the counter, deeply
engrossed in Coach’s playbook.
Liam, ever the strategist, looks up and meets my scowl with an
unreadable expression. “The coach wants our input on the opening
plays,” he says, tapping the book with the authority of a seasoned
captain.
Dismissing the conversation with a wave, I retort, “You’re the
captain, Liam. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Ethan’s muffled laughter does little to improve my temper, but
Liam’s surprise is clear as his brows lift in mock astonishment.
“Where’s the all-knowing critic I’m used to?”
Rolling my eyes, I ignore the jab and cut straight to the chase with
Ethan. “Still got that tech prodigy in your contacts?”
Ethan’s smirk tells me I’ll be paying for every moment I’ve ever
teased him about Curly. Curly… Eva’s friend and probably one of my
best ways to get to her, but I suspect Ethan will be quite a
gatekeeper there.
“Do you mean my hacker?”
I throw him an exasperated look. “You know I do.”
“Ummm…” He nods. “Look who’s not so high and mighty now,
huh?”
Liam, sensing the shift in our conversation, exhales a heavy sigh.
The concern on his face is paternal, the look of a man who’s
witnessed too many of my reckless decisions. “Is this about those
girls you inquired about? You know what? Never mind.” He stands
up, the captain’s resolve hardening in his voice. “I’d tell you not to
do anything stupid, but you’d see it as a dare. Just…” He pauses, his
gaze seeking some divine patience. “Avoid getting arrested, alright?”
We wait in a silent pact for Liam’s departure before Ethan speaks,
his tone more serious than before.
“He’s pricey—really pricey,” Ethan says, grabbing his phone and
looking at it.
“Oh yeah, because money is clearly an issue for me,” I scoff,
sinking into the plush leather chair by the TV.
He looks up from his phone, seemingly hesitant. “You’re not going
to do something bad, right?” he asks, his loyalty to me wrestling
with his conscience.
I tilt my head, considering his question. “Define bad.”
“Something illegal.”
There’s a shadow of a smirk on my lips. “Ah, that I can’t promise,
but don’t play the saint with me. You want to know if whatever I’ll
do with Miss Evangeline Sinclair will get you in deeper shit with
Curly.”
“Her name is Poppy.”
I know how much he dislikes it when I call her Curly, and this is
exactly why I do it. I’m not a shit-stirrer for nothing.
“Listen, you and I? We’re not that different. We’re both trying to
crawl out of the pits they’ve tossed us into. My methods are more…”
“Unhinged?”
You have no idea, I think, but I scowl instead. “I was about to say
direct.”
Ethan studies me for a moment, his resolve folding. “Fine, text that
number and tell him that Ethan Hawthorne gave you the number.
He’ll call you.”
My phone buzzes—a text from Ethan. “Done,” it reads. Without
hesitation, my fingers fly over the screen, texting the number he
provided.
“You owe me one.”
I nodded. “I do—you’ll get a yes from Arsenal when the time
comes,” I speak with far more confidence than I actually feel, but
truth be told, Ethan’s training program is absolutely amazing, and I
know it will not take too much work for him, but I’m not about to
admit that.
Ethan’s gaze follows as I rise, stretching out the tension residing in
my muscles. A rush of adrenaline surges through me, fueled by the
anticipation of what’s next.
Just as I’m about to assure him there’s no need for stress, my
phone vibrates again. A private number flashes on the screen, and a
sly grin curves my lips. This is it, the moment of truth—the point
where the game truly begins. My thumb hovers over the answer
button, each second stretching out like a taunt.
Time to step more into my Angel’s reality, I think to myself, a silent
acknowledgment of the path I’m about to tread. I take the stairs up
to my room two at a time as I press the button, bringing the phone
to my ear. The line crackles and a voice on the other end awaits. The
game is on, and this move is mine.
 Chapter 3

Eva

A
s Professor Marlowe speaks, I lean forward, my eyes sparkling
with recognition at each familiar line of Beowulf. Under my
breath, I whisper my favorite phrases, feeling a personal connection
with each ancient word. I am here, present and captivated, in the
medieval poetry class that I adore, where the words of the old
become a lifeline to my fervent love for literature.
His voice rises and falls with the rhythm of the alliterative verse,
making me feel the pulse of the old English poets beating in time
with my own heart. “Notice how the poet uses the tale of heroism to
reflect on the inevitability of decay,” he intones, and I’m lost in the
echo of his words, seeing not just a classroom but the mead halls of
yore.
Without hesitation, my hand lifts into the air, a signal flare of my
eagerness. “Isn’t this also a reflection of the time? The struggle to
hold on to traditions in the face of a new world encroaching?” I ask,
my voice carrying my curiosity and confidence.
 “Excellent point, Miss Sinclair,” Professor Marlowe replies, his
approving gaze adding a flush of pride to my cheeks. There’s a
moment where I feel like I’m part of something larger than myself, a
lineage of scholars and thinkers who’ve pondered these very texts.
I try to concentrate on the lecture, but a sudden chill runs down
my spine, a sense of being watched. I grip my pen tighter, my focus
faltering for a moment as I scan the room, seeking but not finding
the source of this unsettling feeling. Since I found Cole parked in
front of my building, I can feel his intense gaze boring into me
wherever I go. Even though I know he’s not here—a quick glance
over my shoulder reveals nothing but the normalcy of focused
students—the sensation lingers. An unseen shadow tracing my every
move.
Shaking my head, I despise how he invades my thoughts even in
his absence. I force myself to focus as Professor Marlowe delves into
Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the richness of the discussion
anchoring me back to reality. My pen dances across the page, eager
to capture every insight. Here, in this world of text and thought, I
am powerful, untethered from my fears, from my past.
Class ends all too soon, and the students scatter. “Miss Sinclair, a
moment, please,” Professor Marlowe calls out. “You possess a
passion for this subject that’s quite rare,” he says with a kind
earnestness as I reach his desk. “Would you be interested in
assisting with my research on the transition from oral to written
traditions?”
“Assist with your research?” I pause, a surge of excitement making
my heart race. “Yes, absolutely! I’d be honored.” My voice barely
contains my eagerness. Violin may not be part of my future
anymore, but poetry still is.
Stepping out of the classroom, I carry with me a sense of purpose
and achievement. Cole’s shadow may loom at the edges of my life,
but in the realm of medieval poetry, I am the one who commands
the narrative. Here, I am the master of my story, and no one, not
even Cole Westbrook, can take that away from me.
Still buzzing from the professor’s proposal, I feel my phone vibrate.
Dad’s name lights up the screen, kindling a warmth in my chest that
only his name can spark.
“Hey, Dad,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light, filled with the
same ease that our conversations usually hold.
“My plum fairy! How’s my brightest light?” His voice, a tender mix
of affection and perpetual worry, envelops me.
Making my way toward the library, I thread through the current of
students. “I’m great. Just heading to the library to work on one of
my projects. Poppy is coming to help me,” I add, wanting him to
know I have friends, a support system here. I really don’t need him
to worry more than he ought to.
“Always studying, eh?” He chuckles, and I can almost see the
crinkles around his eyes, the sign of his genuine smile. “Are you
eating well? And how about sleep? Are you sleeping well?”
My heart squeezes a little. I know what he is asking. How are the
nightmares? Something that we never really discuss. “Yes, Dad, I’m
doing really well. And my nightmares… they’re few and far between
now,” I say, omitting the fact that when they do come, they’re as
vivid as ever.
 “That’s my girl. I was thinking, maybe you’d like to come home this
weekend? Your old man misses you. You can bring your friends with
you. Have a girls’ weekend.”
A part of me yearns for the comfort of home, but then I remember
the email I received a few days ago. “I can’t this weekend, Dad.
Guess what? I won VIP tickets at the poetry mixer–Ronan in concert!
I’m taking my roommates.” My voice rises in excitement. I’m really
looking forward to it.
“Oh, right, right, Ronan, yeah, makes sense.” There’s a brief
silence, and I know he’s scratching at his beard the way he does
when he’s thinking hard. “Just be safe, okay? And have some fun for
me too.”
I smile, even though a lump forms in my throat. “I will, Dad.
Always safe, you know me.”
We both know he’s not just talking about the usual perils of college
life.
“I love you, kiddo. You know that, right? You’re the best thing that
ever happened to me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
“I love you too, Dad,” I respond in a whisper, the weight of what I
almost did—what I almost took from him—pressing down on me.
“And I’ll try to visit soon, I promise.”
“We’ll have your favorite chocolate chip pancakes,” he offers, a
peace offering to both our hearts.
“Sounds perfect. Bye, Dad.” Ending the call, I take a moment, my
hand trembling a little. The memories, still vivid, cast a shadow over
my heart. I inhale deeply, steadying myself against the wave of
emotions.
 Glancing back at the phone in my hand, it serves as a reminder of
the man who would have been shattered had I gone through with
my plan a year ago. The guilt is a stone in my stomach, but it’s also
a reminder—a promise to myself and to him—that I will never
wander that close to the edge again.
Another deep, steady breath helps to dispel the darkness and guilt.
What is done is done. I can’t change the past, but I can concentrate
on the future.
With a renewed sense of determination, I push open the library
doors and step into the tranquility, letting the scent of old books
wash over me, grounding me in the now. My past may be a shadow,
but it won’t darken my present, not with so much light left to give.
I settle at my usual table in the far alcove, somehow feeling like I
am in my private little nook. A quick glance at my watch tells me
there are about twenty minutes before Poppy arrives. Deciding to
use this time efficiently, I stand to gather the books we selected last
week.
Weaving through the narrow path between the ceiling-high
bookshelves, the solitude of the library’s far end envelops me. The
Roman history section, predictably, is tucked away in the quietest
corner. I reach for a book high above, my five-two frame stretching
on tiptoes, fingertips grazing the spine yet falling just short.
Suddenly, a familiar voice breaks the silence. “Let me grab that for
you.” Before I can react, Cole’s presence is behind me, a wall of heat
and tension. His body presses lightly against my back as he
effortlessly retrieves the book. His breath is warm against my ear.
“See, you need me, Angel.”
 Every muscle tenses, coiled tight. Swallowing the knot of panic and
unwanted arousal, I turn, meeting his piercing blue eyes. A surge of
emotions battles within me—pain, fear, longing—all colliding in a
chaotic storm.
“Do you remember what you and I used to do in the dark corners
of the library?” His voice drops to a purr, each word curling around
me like smoke, thick with unspoken promises.
Summoning every ounce of detachment possible, my reply is flat,
practiced. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Despite the controlled tone,
my heart betrays me, thudding wildly against my rib cage.
He rests his arm above my head and leans in, the ghost of a smile
playing on his lips, his gaze intense. “Really? Maybe I should remind
you.” His closeness is overwhelming; his scent, a mix of something
woodsy and familiar, infiltrates my senses.
For a moment, I’m transported back to a time when his proximity
was my solace, not my torment. But that time is gone now. It’s a
specter of a past I can’t afford to revisit.
Stepping back, I create a necessary yet thin barrier of air between
us. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” the words
come out steadier now.
“Oh, maybe I’ll kiss you then and see if you make that little noise
you used to make when I—”
“Hey, what’s going on here?”
Poppy’s voice feels like a relief as his eyes flash with annoyance.
His gaze flicks to her for a mere second before returning to me,
fixating on my lips as if drawn by a magnet. “We were only talking.
It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he says. His tone is smooth, but
I’m not a fool. No matter what I pretend, I know Cole Westbrook. I
know him so well that I can see the fire that got me burned,
brewing in his eyes.
I push past him. “It’s nothing, Poppy,” I say, and she wraps an arm
around me. It’s so good to feel her friendship, her interest in me.
“Eva, we need to talk about—” she begins, her voice laced with
concern as I start putting my belongings away with trembling
fingers.
Maintaining a composed expression is one thing, but the trembling
gives me away, my facade eroding. “Don’t, Poppy,” I say firmly,
knowing that I’m too fragile now to talk about it, especially to
someone who doesn’t know. The person I need to speak to is Max.
The plan is to go home and call him.
My savior who waltzed into my life when I was at my lowest; he is
the one who can help, who can listen and understand the Eva I was
then.
“But…”
I sigh, meeting her eyes. “We made a deal, and you didn’t want to
talk about Ethan. I didn’t press.”
She winces, and I feel a little guilty, but all I want is to get out of
here. She nods. “Okay, but know I’m here for you. Whenever.”
I soften, wanting to hug her. “I know, and you don’t know how
much that means to me.”
Exhausted and emotionally drained, I slip out of the library, leaving
the echo of Cole’s voice behind me. The cool afternoon air feels like
a soothing balm as I make my way to my car, the quiet hum of the
engine a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the day.
 As I drive, the houses and trees blur past in a wash of twilight
colors. The road is familiar, a path I’ve traveled back and forth, yet
tonight, it feels different, as if every turn brings me further from the
person I was and closer to someone I’m still trying to understand.
Once home, I lock myself in my room, a sanctuary of soft pillows
and comforting walls. I hesitate for a moment before picking up my
phone and dialing Max’s number. He is so much more than the man
who saved my life; he’s been a guiding light through some of my
darkest times.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say when he answers.
“Kiddo! How are you holding up?” His voice is gruff but warm, like
a well-worn leather jacket that’s seen too many storms.
Hesitation grips me, a bite on my lip betraying my uncertainty.
“Max, all this time, there was strength inside me, or so I believed. I
thought I had moved past everything, that the shadows of the past
had faded. Yet, now, facing even a glimpse of my past, I find myself
on the verge of crumbling.”
There’s a pause on the line, and I can almost picture Max’s
thoughtful frown. “Strength isn’t about never feeling weak. It’s about
feeling those moments and pushing through, anyway. Remember
that.”
His words are a gentle reminder, a nudge back toward the
resilience I know lives within me. “I… I need to know I can handle
this.”
“You can and you will. You know Blaze owns the military bar in
town. He can swing by, keep an eye on things if you need, and have
a word with whoever needs some talking to.”
 Blaze, another member of Max’s close-knit circle of ex-military
friends, is as intimidating as they come, but underneath his exterior,
there’s a protectiveness that could cause mayhem.
“Thanks, Max, but that won’t be necessary,” I admit, a small smile
finding its way to my lips.
“Just give the word, kiddo. And remember, it’s okay to feel the
weight of the world sometimes. Don’t let it keep you down. You’re
stronger than you think, and if you need a pick-me-up, go there.”
“Will do, I promise.”
As I hang up, Max’s words echo in my mind. Strength isn’t the
absence of weakness; it’s the will to continue in spite of it. I let out a
long breath, feeling a sense of reassurance wash over me. Maybe I
don’t have all the answers, but I’m not alone in this journey.
I glance around my room at the walls that have witnessed my
tears and laughter. I lift my chin, feeling a newfound resolve steeling
my spine, ready to confront whatever challenges lie ahead. With
people like Max and Poppy in my corner and the lessons I’ve
learned, I’m more than just a survivor. I’m a fighter, ready to face
another day.
 Chapter 4

Cole

T
he locker room echoes with the sound of laughter and the
clatter of cleats against the tiled floor. Practice had been
grueling. But the camaraderie in the air after a tough session always
lifts my spirits.
“Seriously, Ethan, I saw you lurking around Curly’s apartment.
What are you, her personal stalker now?” I tease, tossing my towel
over my shoulder as I lean back against my locker.
Ethan rolls his eyes, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “It’s
not stalking, man. It’s… strategic positioning. And it’s funny how you
know that, though? Were you there too?”
Grinning, I repeat his words. “I was doing… strategic positioning
too.”
Liam shakes his head, wrapping his towel around his neck.
“Strategic positioning? Mate, that’s like Stalking 101.” His British
accent makes it sound softer than I knew he intended. “If I have to
get you out of custody, I’ll be seriously pissed.”
 “You’re not; things are starting to move in the right direction,”
Ethan replies as he towel-dries his hair, and I throw him a side look,
wondering if it is actually the truth or if he is, like me, lying to
himself.
Liam sighs, and it’s weary like he’s expecting too much shit coming
from us, and once again, I don’t think I can deny that.
He turns his inquisitive eyes toward me. “How’s Operation Eva
going?”
I shoot him a glare. “It’s a work in progress,” I reply, keeping it
vague. My obsession with her is my business, and the less they
know, the better.
“Work in progress, huh? I see.” He purses his lips, and I shrug.
It’s probably true that Poppy wouldn’t call the cops on Ethan; she’s
a stern girl, yes, but there isn’t as much animosity when she looks at
Ethan. Thinking of Eva… yeah, I can’t suppress a wince. My girl
would; she’d definitely put the cops on me, and, oddly enough, that
thought brings a smile. Her fierceness, those claws of hers, I love
them. Even if it means they’re sometimes out for me too.
“Why are you smiling?” Liam’s question catches me off guard. He
lets out a sigh, full of frustration and humor. “I’m only twenty-one.
I’m too young to parent your grown arse! I—” He runs his hand
through his hair. “Look, I’m not going to be here forever. I’m leaving
at year’s end, and I need a new captain. Just… do better.”
Ethan and I look at each other, and for once, we really understand
each other. We don’t think we have a choice.
The good mood has faded, and silence accompanies my getting
dressed, the aches from the start of season training hard to ignore.
Coach is pushing us to our limits, weeding out the weaker links. An
ice bath would be ideal today, but there are things to organize for
Operation Eva. Glances at my phone become frequent, debating
whether to accidentally bump into Eva on campus. Since that
incident in the library, I’ve taken a step back from our forced
encounters. Playing this dangerous game could easily backfire, yet
the thrill of the chase, the challenge she presents—it’s intoxicating.
At the library, I had only planned to toy with her, but I almost
slipped. If not for Poppy’s intervention, I know I’d have kissed her,
consequences be damned. There’s a need to rein in my impulsivity.
To work smarter.
I’m grabbing my bag, ready to leave the locker room’s charged
atmosphere, when Peter’s voice cuts through. “Hey, Westbrook,
hitting up the Delta Sigma bash tonight? It’s shaping up to be epic.”
His words halt me midstep. Parties aren’t usually my scene
anymore, but this one… it’s an opportunity, a hunting ground for
information on her roommates.
“Yeah, sure. I could use some unwinding,” I reply nonchalantly.
“Great! Heard it’s going to be one of the best this year. Everyone’s
talking about it,” Peters says, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
I nod, a plan slowly forming in my mind. A party at Delta Sigma—
notorious for their extravagance and lack of boundaries. It’s the
perfect scene for every girl who wants to be seen.
Okay, time to review the strategy.
By the time evening rolls around, I head to the party with a few
half-baked plans, all crazier than the next, and with a few items in
my pockets that, if I were to be checked, would raise far more
questions than I could answer.
Dressing for the party, I choose clothes I know she’d like and
hopefully remind her of the times when we were close. It’s
ridiculous, I know, especially since she won’t be there, but I can’t
help it.
The guys might see my obsession with Eva as only physical, and
part of me wishes it were just that—simple and superficial. It would
be so much easier if it were only skin deep, but it’s something far
more profound and personal.
The way Eva looked at me in high school—truly saw me—resonates
in my memory. She saw beyond the facade, the image I projected to
the world. She saw the flaws, the shortcomings, the struggles. And
yet, she stood by me, fighting to help me overcome them. Her
kindness, her genuine caring—it was something I hadn’t known I
needed until she gave it to me and I lost it. She made me believe I
was enough, just as I was. She made me feel seen, understood, and
valued—not for my athletic skills or my family’s wealth, but for who I
was beneath all that.
Gazing into the mirror, the reflection shows a man who’s achieved
much but still yearns for something more meaningful. Eva gave me a
taste of that, a glimpse of a connection that goes beyond the
superficial. And her betrayal when she revealed my secret to Jenny
and then her leaving after prom, abandoning the fight, it didn’t just
hurt—it tore a hole right through me.
As I head out, my thoughts are a mix of strategy and genuine
emotion. This party tonight is a step in my plan to get her back.
Beneath the schemes and the manipulation, there’s a simple truth—I
want to feel that connection again, to feel like I’m enough. She did
that for me, and I can’t let go of the hope that she might do it
again.
The Delta Sigma house is already buzzing when I get there, the
bass from the music vibrating through the ground. The air is thick
with anticipation and the promise of reckless abandon. I scan the
room, my eyes searching, always searching for her, even knowing for
a fact she’s at home right now. This is not her scene.
Looking through the crowd, I wince as my eyes connect with a
blonde girl. She smiles as she sways toward me, her Solo cup in one
hand, her body language screaming with intent.
“Cole Westbrook, the legend himself. Thought you’d be too cool for
this kind of party,” she says, her voice low and flirtatious.
A thought crosses my mind as she steps so close her tits brush
against my chest. I don’t have the energy for this tonight.
A forced half smirk appears, not really in the mood for this dance.
“Linda,” I greet her, not bothering to hide my disinterest.
“It’s Fiona,” she corrects me, but there’s a playful edge to her
voice.
Raising an eyebrow, my response is flat. “Right, Fiona.” The old me
would have taken this as an opportunity, but now it’s just another
tiresome routine.
“So, anyway, my friend Brooke”—she tilts her head toward a
brunette by the drinks station who’s now eyeing us—“is totally into
re-creating that night from last year, if you’re up for it.”
 The game has lost its appeal, especially since Eva reentered my
life. My cock, seemingly on life support, is unresponsive to anyone
but her.
“Not tonight, Fiona. I’ve got… other things on my mind,” I say, my
gaze drifting across the room, searching for a distraction, any
distraction from this unwelcome conversation.
“Oh, come on, don’t be such a killjoy,” She pouts, leaning in closer,
her perfume enveloping me. It’s too strong, too bold… I don’t like it.
It doesn’t smell like her; the voice in my head taunts.
Suddenly, my eyes zero in on someone. It’s not Eva, but it’s as
close as it gets. It’s her goth roommate, looking so bored that I
wonder what she’s doing here, but I’m way too pleased to have this
opportunity to question it.
A smile crosses my face as the evening takes a promising turn. I
stride in her direction, parting the flow of partying, sweating bodies.
Approaching Vanessa from behind, she seems absorbed in her own
world, unaware of my presence.
“Hey,” I call, but she’s in a bubble of isolation. Impulsively, I reach
out, my fingers brushing her shoulder.
She startles, turns around, and her bag falls down in the process.
Shiny keys catch my eye as I bend to pick up the bag. Seizing the
moment, I subtly pocket the keys and then hand the bag back to
her.
She glares as she takes her bag from my grip, her eyes shooting
daggers. “Don’t touch me,” she snaps, her voice sharp as a whip. “I
don’t remember us being on touching terms, Westbrook.”
 I can’t help but be taken aback by her intensity. “Just trying to get
your attention. You seemed lost in your own world,” I say,
attempting to sound casual.
She gives me a look that could freeze lava, her posture rigid, a
defensive barrier. “Oh, please. Save your charm for someone who
hasn’t seen a hundred guys like you. I’m not interested.”
Her sarcastic, blunt dismissal catches me off guard, and I
genuinely laugh. It’s refreshing; her spunk so different from the
usual reactions I get.
“I’m being friendly,” I insist, but she cuts me off.
“Friendly? With Eva’s friends? Since when? Let’s not pretend you
care about anyone here except yourself. And I’m telling you right
now, whatever you’re planning for her and think you can involve me
in, you’re at a loss. I will never be on your side for anything, and if
you try to hurt her…” She shows me her pointy black nails. “Your
balls will never recover.”
Her protectiveness is like a shield, her loyalty to Eva clear and
unapologetic. I’m momentarily thrown off by her fierceness, a quality
I hadn’t expected but begrudgingly respect.
Before I can respond, Liam suddenly appears beside us, his
protective stance unmistakable. “Is there a problem here, Cole?”
Hands raised in mock surrender, I take note of the unusual
intensity in Liam’s eyes. “No problem at all. Just chatting with Nessa
here.”
“Nessa? Since when did we become friends?” she asks, raising her
red lips in a sneer. “It’s Vanessa to you.”
 Responding with a bow, the words escape me in a tone of mock
deference. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Liam doesn’t seem convinced but stays close, his body language
signaling that he’s not about to leave Nessa’s side. Interesting.
Liam’s always been the team’s peacekeeper, but this… this is
something else.
Seizing the moment, I excuse myself under the guise of grabbing
another drink. Moving away from the pulsing heart of the party, a
thrill courses through me, the weight of Nessa’s keys in my hand
feeling like raw power. The chatter and music fade into a distant
hum as I focus on the task at hand. I find a quieter corner, my
actions swift and precise.
I press the key into the soft clay, a tool I acquired and kept, just in
case. My plan to enter Eva’s apartment, one way or another,
demanded such preparedness. As I ensure every detail, every notch
and groove of the key is perfectly imprinted, there’s no flicker of
guilt, no second-guessing. This isn’t just a key; it’s a means to an
end, a necessary step in my plan to get Eva back.
In my mind, I justify every action. Every decision. The prom night
stunt, the entire high school drama—it’s all child’s play compared to
what we shared. To me, it’s simple. Whatever it takes to get her to
see that everything that happened before had just been childish
incidents. So once she gets over it, we can be together again.
The imprint is perfect. I return to where Nessa is; her attention is
now on Liam. I slip the key ring back into her bag, a smooth,
practiced move, ensuring it’s exactly where it was. In that moment,
I’m acutely aware of the line I’m crossing, yet I don’t falter. Morals
Another random document with
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the crushing force of the whole ruling propaganda machinery, which
had been so successful in arousing hatred against Germany,
countless American workmen sensed the approach of a new order
as a result of the success of the Bolsheviki. A secondary impulse of
the same sort, felt even more strongly in some quarters, arose from
the Nottingham programme of the British Labour Party. But affairs
moved slowly, hope was deferred, and at length the new spirit lost
much of its freshness and power. The very acrimoniousness and
volume of the controversy over what had or had not been done in
Russia wearied most people of the whole matter. The many
expected revolutions in other countries, which missed fire so many
times, caused disillusionment. The doctrinaire and even religious
adherents of the Russian Communists began to make trouble for
every radical organization in the country by their quarrels and
divisions. At length, the war being over, the American labour
movement itself began to display a weakness in the face of renewed
attack on the part of its opponents, which showed how illusory had
been many of its recent gains and how seriously its morale had been
injured.
Economic radicalism never looked—on the surface—weaker
than it does in the United States to-day. On the strength of
statements by Mr. Gompers and some other leaders of the trade
unions, we are likely to assume that organized labour will have
nothing to do with it. The professed radicals themselves have been
weakened by dissensions and scattered by persecution. Yet a brief
survey of the formal groups which now profess radical theories will
indicate why the future of American radicalism should not be
assessed on the evidence of their present low estate.
The Socialist Party, even more than the Socialist Parties in other
countries, was placed by the war in a difficult situation. With its roots
not yet firmly in the soil, except in a few localities and among diverse
national elements, it was faced with the necessity, in accordance
with its principles and tradition, of denouncing the entrance of the
United States into hostilities. But this decision could command no
effective support from the workers organized on the economic field,
who under a different leadership adopted a different attitude. Nor
was the party strong enough among any other element of the
population to make its decision respected. The only immediate result
of the gesture was therefore to place this unarmed little force in the
most exposed position possible, where it drew the fire of all those
who were nervously afraid the people would not sanction the war.
Socialism was not judged on the basis of its economic tenets, but
was condemned as disloyal and pro-German; and the effect was to
render the party even more sectarian and unrepresentative than ever
before. It had adopted a position in which it could not expect recruits
except from moral heroes, and no nation nourishes a large
proportion of these. Such episodes make good legend, but they do
not lead to prompt victories. Even those who later have come to
believe that the Socialists were right about the war are likely to
express their belief in some other form than joining the party.
In this weakened condition, the Socialist Party after the war
developed internal fissures. Many bitter words have been exchanged
as to whether the “Left Wingers” were or were not a majority of the
party, whether they were or were not more orthodox than those in
control of the party machinery, and whether, if they were more
orthodox, their orthodoxy was wise. At any rate, they broke away and
formed two new parties of their own, a fact which is the chief point of
interest to one who is more concerned with the larger issues of
American radicalism than with the minutiæ of Socialist politics. The
Communist Party and the Communist Labour Party, whatever may
have been the legitimacy of their gestation in the bowels of
Socialism, certainly found their reason for being chiefly in logic which
originated in Moscow and Berlin rather than in the American
situation. At once selected for persecution by government officials,
they burrowed underground, doubtless followed by a band of spies
at least as numerous as they. From these subterranean regions have
come rumours of a fourth party—the United Communist, which
swallowed most of the Communist Labourites and some of the
Communists. At last accounts the Communists and the United
Communists were each attempting to prove the other counter-
revolutionary by reference to the latest documents from international
revolutionary headquarters.
 It is hazardous in the extreme for an outsider to speak of the
differences in doctrine among these groups. It is probably fair to say,
however, that the Communist parties are chiefly distinguished by
their total lack of interest in anything save a complete revolution,
because this is the only kind they believe possible. They reject as
“compromises” partial gains of all sorts; piecemeal progress by
evolutionary methods rather offends them than otherwise. Their eyes
are turned always toward some future revolutionary situation; for this
their organization and their theories are being prepared. This being
the case, the validity of their position will be tested by the event. If,
as the milder Socialists believe, economic changes may come
gradually by process of growth and smaller shocks, the Communists
are likely to remain a nearly functionless and tiny minority, even in
the labour movement. If, as the Communists believe, the present
order in the normal course of its development is destined to
experience a sudden collapse similar to that which occurred in
Russia near the end of the war, they will become the true prophets,
and their mode of thought and action will presumably have fitted
them to assume leadership.
The Farmer-Labour Party is a recent growth far less doctrinaire
than either the Socialist or the Communist groups. It has neither
prophet nor Bible, but is based rather on the principle of gathering
certain categories of people together for political action, trusting that
as they become organized they will work out their own programme in
relation to the situation, and that that programme will develop as time
goes on. The categories to which it appeals are chiefly the industrial
workers and the small farmers, who have in general common
economic interests as opposed to the large owners of land and
capital. It hopes that other elements in the population, realizing that
their major interests are much the same as those of the unionists
and the farmers, will join forces with them to produce a majority. As
an illustration of the operation of such tactics, the Farmer-Labourites
point to the success of the Independent Labour Party of Great
Britain, first in aiding the foundation of the British Labour Party, and
second in building up for that party an increasingly coherent radical
programme.
 In all these cases, however, not much confidence is placed in the
actual political machinery of elections. There is a widespread
scepticism about the ability to accomplish industrial changes by the
ballot, on account of experience with political corruption, broken
election promises, adverse court decisions, and political buncombe
in general. These parties are formed as much for the purpose of
propagating ideas and creating centres of activity as for mobilizing
votes. All radical parties lay great stress on the industrial power of
the organized labour movement. This is not to say that they do not
recognize the importance of the State in industrial matters. All agree
that control of political machinery will in the long run be necessary, if
only to prevent it from checking the advance of the people through
the courts and police. But they also agree that control of the State is
not held and cannot be attained by political machinery alone. The
present influence of the proprietors of industry on politics is due, they
see, chiefly to economic power, and the workers consequently must
not neglect the development of their own economic organization.
The Communists are completely hopeless of attaining results
through the present election machinery; the Socialists and Farmer-
Labourites believe it possible to secure a majority at the polls, which
may then execute its will, if the workers are well enough organized
for industrial action.
Outwardly the most successful of the radical movements is the
least doctrinaire of all. It is unnecessary to repeat the history and
achievements of the Nonpartisan League—an attempt on the part of
organized farmers to use the machinery of the State in order to gain
economic independence from the banking, milling, and packing
interests. Other groups of farmers have aimed at a similar result
through co-operation, with varying success.
In the industrial labour movement proper there have been
numerous radical minorities. The most uncompromising of these, as
well as the most characteristically American, was the Industrial
Workers of the World, who aspired to build up a consciously
revolutionary body to rival the unions composing the American
Federation of Labour. This decline is due not so much to
suppression as to their previous failure to enlist the continued
support of the industrial workers themselves. Like the Communists,
the I.W.W. predicated their success on a revolutionary situation, and
lacking that situation they could not build a labour movement on an
abstract idea. Over long periods not enough people are moved by a
philosophy of salvation to give staying power to such an organization
in the daily struggle with the employers. Other similar attempts, such
as the W.I.I.U., and the more recent One Big Union, have
encountered similar difficulties. They grow rapidly in crises, but fail
under the strain of continued performance.
The failure of American radicals to build up a strong movement
is in part due, of course, to the natural difficulties of the social and
economic situation, but it is also due to the mental traits which
usually accompany remoteness from reality. This is illustrated in the
history of the I.W.W., if we accept William Z. Foster’s acute analysis.
The regular trade-union movement, slowly evolving towards a goal
but half consciously realized, overcoming practical obstacles
painfully and clumsily, as such obstacles usually are overcome, was
too halting for these impatient radicals. They withdrew, and set up
rival, perfectionist unions, founded in uncompromising revolutionary
ardour. These organizations were often unable to serve the rank and
file in their practical difficulties, and consequently could not supplant
the historic labour movement. But they did draw out of that
movement many of its most sincere and ardent spirits, thus depriving
it of the ferment which was necessary to its growth. The I.W.W., for
their part, failing to secure any large grip on reality, regressed into
quarrels about theory, suffered divisions of their social personality,
and at length—except in the far West—became little more than
economic anchorites. As Foster says, “The I.W.W. were absolutely
against results.”
Too much of American radicalism has been diverted to the easy
emotional satisfaction which is substituted for the arduous process of
dealing with reality. We suffer a restriction of the personality, we cry
out against the oppressor, we invent slogans and doctrines, we fill
our minds with day dreams, with intricate mechanisms of some
imaginary revolution. At the same time we withdraw from the actual
next step. Here is the trade-union movement, built up painfully for
over a century, a great army with many divisions which function
every day in the industrial struggle. How many radicals know it in any
detail? How many have paid the slightest attention to the technique
of its organization, or have devoted any time to a working out of the
smaller problems which must be worked out before it can achieve
this or that victory? Here are our great industries, our complex
systems of exchange. How many radicals really know the technique
of even the smallest section of them? Radicals wish to reorganize
the industrial system; would they know how to organize a factory?
If radicalism arises from the instinct for economic maturity, then it
can find its place in the world only by learning its function, only by
expressing its emotion in terms of the actual with which it has to
deal. A period of adolescence was to be expected, but to prolong the
characteristics of that period is to invite futility. And as a matter of
fact American radicalism now exhibits a tendency to establish more
contacts with reality. Instead of withdrawing from established unions
to start a new and spotless labour movement, radicals are beginning
to visualize and to carry out the difficult but possible task of
improving the organization of the existing unions, and of charging
them with new energy and ideas. Unions which were founded by
radicals—such as the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America—
are devoting their efforts not to talking of a future revolution, but to
organizing the workers more firmly in the present, to establishing
constitutional government in industry through which tangible
advances may be made and safeguarded, and to improving the
productivity of industry itself. Engineers, encouraged by labour
organizations, and in some cases actually paid by them, are
investigating the problem of economic waste, and are demonstrating
by line upon line and precept upon precept how the chaos of
competition, industrial autocracy, and a controlling profit motive are
reflected in idle hours, low wages, high prices, and inferior products.
The co-operative movement is slowly providing a new and more
efficient machinery of distribution, while co-operative banks are
building up a reserve of credit for those who wish to experiment with
undertakings conducted for other purposes than the profit of the
proprietor. Such functional use of the labour movement is more
dangerous to the existing disorder than volumes of phrases or a
whole battalion of “natural rights.”
Extremists call such activities compromise. They are
compromise in the sense that any hypothesis must be changed to fit
the facts, but they involve no compromise with scientific truth. The
alchemist compromised when he gave up the search for the
philosopher’s stone and began to learn from the elements. He
surrendered a sterile dogma for a fruitful science. In proportion as
radicals learn how to put their emotions to work, in proportion as they
devise ways to function in the world in which we live, will they make
possible not only unity among themselves, but a rapprochement with
other Americans. A man who believes there is no real possibility of
change short of complete revolution can unite with a man who has
no theory about the matter at all so long as they do not discuss
abstract doctrine, but concentrate upon the problem of how to bring
about a particular effect at a particular time. The most radical
theories, if expressed in terms of concrete situations, will be
accepted by those who are wary of generalities, or do not
understand them. The theories will be tested in the fact. The
operation of such a process may be blocked by those who
dogmatically oppose all experiment, but in that case the forces of
reason and of nature will be so clearly on the side of the radical that
there can be no doubt about his ultimate fruitfulness.
George Soule
 THE SMALL TOWN
AMERICA is a nation of villagers, once remarked George
Bernard Shaw in a moment of his most exclusive scorn for what he
believed was our crude and naïve susceptibility to the modes and
moods, to say nothing of the manners, of the professional patriots
during that hectic period when Wilhelm was training to become the
woodman of Amerongen. Now Shaw is the oracle of the Occident,
and when he speaks there is no docile dog this side of Adelphi
Terrace presumptuous enough to bark. At least there should not be;
and in any event, neither history nor H. G. Wells records any spirited
protest on America’s part to the Shavian accusation. It was allowed
to stand invulnerable and irrefutable. Of course, in our hearts we
know Shaw is right. We may for the moment be signifying rus in
urbe, but between you and me and the chief copy-reader of the
Marion (Ohio) Star, in urbe is a superfluous detail.
Show me a native New Yorker and I will show you something as
extinct as a bar-tender. There are no native New Yorkers. All New
Yorkers come from small towns and farms. Ask Dad, ask the Sunday
editor, ask the census-taker—they know. And what is true of New
York is true of Boston and Chicago. The big men, the notable men of
the big cities, hail from the small towns, the Springfields, the
Jacksons, the Jamestowns, Georgetowns, Charlestowns—yes, and
from the Elizabeths and Charlottes—of the nation.
Under the circumstances any back-to-the-land movement in this
country seems futile if not ridiculous. The land is still confident and
capable of taking care of itself. It needs no aid from the city chaps
and asks none. The Freudians are not deceived for a moment over
the basis of a return-to-the-farm enterprise. They recognize it for
what it is—a sentimental complex superinduced by the nervous
hysteria of the city. But even the amazingly small proportion of the
population that is not Freudian refuses to become influenced by the
cry of the sentimentalists. Because it is keenly, though
unpretentiously, aware of the genuinely rural state of its culture and
civilization.
The civilization of America is predominantly the civilization of the
small town. The few libertarians and cosmopolites who continue to
profess to see a broader culture developing along the Atlantic
seaboard resent this fact, though they scarcely deny it. They are too
intelligent, too widened in vision to deny it. They cannot watch the
tremendous growth and power and influence of secret societies, of
chambers of commerce, of boosters’ clubs, of the Ford car, of
moving pictures, of talking-machines, of evangelists, of nerve tonics,
of the Saturday Evening Post, of Browning societies, of circuses, of
church socials, of parades and pageants of every kind and
description, of family reunions, of pioneer picnics, of county fairs, of
firemen’s conventions without secretly acknowledging it. And they
know, if they have obtained a true perspective of America, that there
is no section of this vast political unit that does not possess—and
even frequently boast—these unmistakably provincial signs and
symbols.
I do not mean to imply that such aspects make America an unfit
place in which to live. On the contrary, America’s very possession of
them brings colour and rugged picturesqueness, if not a little pathos,
to the individual with imagination sufficient to find them. Mr. Dreiser
found them and shed a triumphant tear. “Dear, crude America” is to
him a sweet and melancholy reality. It is a reality that has been
expressed with a good deal of prophecy—and some profit—by the
young novelists. Small-town realism with a vengeance, rather than a
joy, has been the keynote of their remarkable success during the
past year. However, they pulled the pendulum of cultural life too far
in one direction. They failed, for the most part, of appreciating the
similarity of human nature in city as in country, with the result that
their triumph is ephemeral. Already the reaction has set in. There are
now going on in the work-rooms of the novelists attempts to
immortalize Riverside Drive, Fifth Avenue, Beacon Street, Michigan
Boulevard, and Pennsylvania Avenue.
 Unless they penetrate into the soul of these avenues, unless
they perceive that these avenues are not spiritually different from
Main Street, though they may be clothed in the habiliments of
metropolitan taste and fancy, they will fail to symbolize correctly
America. They will be writing merely for money and controversial
space in the literary supplements.
For the soul of these avenues is a soul with an i substituted for u.
It is the soul of the land. It is a homely, wholesome provincialism,
typifying human nature as it is found throughout the United States.
We may herd in a large centre of population, assume the
superficialities of cosmopolitan culture and genuinely believe
ourselves devils of fellows. It takes all the force of a prohibition law to
make us realize that we are more sinned against than sinning. Then
are we confronted sharply by the fact that the herd is appallingly
inefficient and inarticulate in a conflict with isolated individualism.
The prohibition movement originated in farming communities and
villages where the evils of alcohol are ridiculously insignificant. No
self-respecting or neighbour-respecting villager could afford to be
known as a drinking man. His business or his livelihood was at
stake. Then why did he foster prohibition? Why did he seek to fasten
it upon the city resident who, if he drank, did not lose apparently his
own or his neighbour’s respect? Chiefly because of his very
isolation. Because he was geographically deprived of the
enjoyments which the city man shared. I can well imagine a farmer in
the long sweating hours of harvest time or a small town storekeeper
forced to currying favour with his friends and neighbours 365 days in
a year, resolutely declaring that what he cannot have the man in the
city shall not have. The hatching of all kinds of prohibitory plots can
be traced to just such apparent injustices of life. Dr. Freud would
correctly explain it under the heading of inferiority-complex.
City men have marvelled at the remarkable organization of the
reformers. It is not so much organization, however, as it is a national
feeling perceived and expressed simultaneously. Cities may conduct
the most efficient propaganda against such a feeling, they may
assemble their largest voting strength to assail it. All in vain. The
country districts roll up the majorities and the cities are left
unmistakably high and dry.
So it is with most of the laws and movements of America. The
rural sections have but to will them and they become in due time
established facts. An idea merely has to take root in the mind of
some socially oppressed individual. He talks it over with his friends
at lodge meeting or during an informal hour at a board of trade
meeting. He receives encouragement. He imparts the idea to his
wife, who carries it to her literary club, where it is given further airing.
It spreads to the volunteer firemen’s clubrooms, to the grange
picnics and the church socials. It is discussed in the pulpits. Finally it
reaches the ears of the village and county politicians who, impressed
by its appeal to the moral force of the community, decide after hours
in the back room of the post-office or the national bank to interest the
congressman or assemblyman from their district in its merits as a
possible law upon the statute books. The congressman and
assemblyman, acutely aware of the side on which their bread is
buttered, agree to do “everything within their power” to put the
measure through. Having the assistance of other congressmen and
assemblymen, most of whom are from rural districts, their tasks
assuredly are not difficult.
Before the appearance of the automobile and the movie upon
the national horizon, the small town was chiefly characterized by a
distinctly rural and often melancholy peacefulness. A gentle air of
depression hung over it, destructive of the ambitious spirit of youth
and yet, by very reason of its existence, influencing this spirit to seek
adventure and livelihood in wider fields. Amusements were few and
far between. It was the day of the quilting party, of the Sunday
promenade in the cemetery, of buggy-riding, of the ice-cream festival
and the spelling bee. The bucolic note was ever present.
Such an environment, while joyous to the small boy, became
hopelessly dull and lifeless to the youth of vitality and imagination.
Restlessness with it tormented him day and night until it grew into an
obsession. Especially did he dislike Sunday, its funereal quiet with
stores closed and other possible avenues of excitement and
adventure forbidden. He began to cherish dreams of a life strange
and teeming in distant cities.
As he grew older and a measure of independence came to him
he fled, provided there was no business established by a patient and
hard-working ancestry which might lure him into remaining home.
And even that did not always attract him. He was compelled to go by
his very nature—a nature that desired a change from the pall of
confining and circumscribed realism, the masks of respectability
everywhere about him, the ridiculous display of caste, that saw a
rainbow of fulfilled ideals over the hills, that demanded, in a word,
romance.
He, who did not feel this urge, departed because of lack of
business opportunities. Occasionally he returned disillusioned and
exhausted by the city and eager to re-establish himself in a line of
work which promised spiritual contentment. But more often he
stayed away, struggling with the crowd in the city, returning home
only for short vacation periods for rest and reminiscence, to see his
people and renew boyhood friendships. At such times he was likely
to be impressed by the seeming prosperity of those boys he left
behind, of the apparent enjoyment they found in the narrow
environment. The thought may have occurred to him that the life of
the small town had undergone a marked change, that it had adopted
awkward, self-conscious urban airs.
Suddenly he realizes that the automobile and the movie and to
some extent the topical magazine are mainly responsible for the
contrast. The motor-car has given the small town man an ever-
increasing contact with the city, with life at formerly inaccessible
resorts, with the country at large. And the movie and the magazine
have brought him news and pictures of the outside world. He has
patronized them and grown wiser.
The basis, the underlying motive, of all cultural life in the small
town is social. The intellectual never enters. It may try to get in but
the doors are usually barred. There is practically no demand for the
so-called intellectual magazines. Therefore, they are seldom placed
on sale. But few daily papers outside of a radius of fifty miles are
read. Plays which have exclusive appeal to the imagination or the
intellect are presented to rows of empty seats. On the other hand,
dramas teeming with primitive emotions and the familiar devices of
hokum attract large audiences, provided the producing managers
care to abide by the present excessive transportation rates. There is
but little interest manifested in great world movements, such as the
economic upheaval in Eastern Europe. Normalcy is, indeed, the
watchword so far as intellectual development is concerned.
It is in the social atmosphere that the American village has its
real raison d’être. Therein do we meet the characteristics that have
stamped themselves indelibly upon American life. The thousand and
one secret societies that flourish here have particularly fertile soil in
the small towns. Count all the loyal legionaries of all the chapters of
all the secret societies between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and
you have a job suited only to the most irrepressible statistician. And
the most loyal live in the small towns and villages of the United
States. The choice is not limited. There are societies enough to suit
all kinds of personalities and purses.
The Knights of Pythias, the Knights of the Maccabees, the Odd
Fellows, the Elks, the Eagles, the Loyal Order of the Moose, the
Modern Woodmen, the Masons with their elaborate subdivisions of
Shriners and Knights Templar—all count their membership
throughout the nation. And the women, jealous of their husbands’
loyalty to various and complex forms of hocus-pocus, have
organized auxiliary societies which, while not maintaining the
secrecy that veils the fraternal orders, nevertheless build up a
pretentious mystery intriguing to the male mind.
No town is a self-respecting town unless it can boast half a
dozen of these societies. They are the fabric of which the basis of
the social structure is built. They are the very essence of America.
They dot the national landscape. Every city, as if to prove
conclusively its provincial nature, displays one or more temples
devoted to the rituals of fraternal organization.
Recently the South has revived the order of the Ku Klux Klan
which flourished after the Civil War as a means of improving upon
the orderly course of the law in dealing with the Negro race. Here is
the apotheosis of the secret society, with its magnificent
concealment of identity in a unique form of dress, its pretensions to
100 per cent. Americanism, its blatant proclamations of perpetuating
the great and glorious traditions of the republic. The Negro has
already organized to offset this propaganda. He knew that unless he
could show secret orders of imposing strength he had no right even
to the questionable heritage of habitation here. He would be outside
the spirit of the times. He owed it to America, to “dear, crude
America,” to organize lodges and secret societies; and he has done
so.
Undoubtedly the secret society plays a large part in the
greatness of America. It has made the American class-conscious. It
has made him recognize his own importance, his own right to the
national distinction of good-fellowship. It provides him temporary
surcease from domestic and business details, though there are
countless numbers of men who join these orders to make business
details, so far as they affect them, more significant.
The amazing prevalence of conventions in America is an
outgrowth of the secret societies. Life to many 100 per cent.
Americans is just one lodge convention after another. Held in a
different city each year, a distinction that is industriously competed
for, the convention has become a fixed fact in American cultural life.
Here is the one occasion of the year when the serious diddle-daddle
is laid aside, and refuge and freedom are sought in such
amusements as the convention city can offer. The secret order
convention has inspired the assembly of all kinds and descriptions of
conventions—trade conventions, religious conventions, educational
conventions—until there is no city in the land boasting a first-class
hotel that does not at one time or another during the year house
delegates with elaborate insignia and badges.
Probably the first parade held in America was that of a class-
conscious fraternal organization eager to display its high standard of
membership as well as a unique resplendence in elaborate regalia.
The parade has continued an integral part of American life ever
since. There is something of the vigour, the gusto and crudeness of
America in a parade. It has come to represent life here in all its
curious phases.
The parade had become an event of colourful significance when
P. T. Barnum organized the “greatest show on earth.” He decided to
glorify it—in his dictionary “to glorify” really meant “to
commercialize”—and once and for all time associate it chiefly with
the circus. He succeeded, mainly because the residents of the
villages were receptive to the idea. They saw a bizarre relief from the
monotony of existence. The farmers rolled down from the hills in
their lumber-wagons and found an inarticulate joy, storekeepers
closed shop and experienced a tumultuous freedom from the petty
bickerings of trade, men and women renewed their youth, children
were suddenly thrown into a very ecstasy of delight. Thus, the circus
parade became part and parcel of American civilization.
And the precious and unique spirit created by the circus parade
has been carried on in innumerable representations. To-day America
shelters parades of every conceivable enterprise. Firemen have a
day in every small town of the land on which they joyously pull
flower-laden hose-carts for the entertainment of their fellow-citizens.
Bearing such labels as Alerts, Rescues and Champion Hook and
Ladder No. 1, they march proudly down Main Street—and the world
goes hang. The volunteer firemen’s organization is an institution
peculiar to the American small town,—an institution, too, that is not
without class-consciousness. The rough-and-ready, comparatively
illiterate young men form one group. The clerks, men engaged in the
professions and social favourites compose another. This class is
usually endowed by the wealthiest resident of the town, and its
gratitude is expressed usually by naming the organization for the
local Crœsus.
The Elks parade, the Knights of Pythias parade, veterans of
various wars parade, the Shriners and Knights Templar parade,
prohibitionists parade, anti-prohibitionists parade, politicians parade,
women parade, babies parade—everybody parades in America.
Indeed, America can be divided into two classes, those who parade
and those who watch the parade. The parade is indelibly identified
with the small town. It is also inalienably associated with the large
city, composed, as it is, of small-town men.
There has lately taken place in the villages throughout the
country a new movement that has civic pride as its basis. It is the
formation of boosters’ clubs. Everybody is boosting his home town,
at least publicly, though in the privacy of the front porch he may be
justly depressed by its narrowness of opportunity, its subservience to
social snobbery, its intellectual aridity. “Come to Our Town. Free
Sites Furnished for Factories,” read the signs along the railroad
tracks. “Boost Our Town” shout banners stretched across Main
Street.
Is there not something vitally poignant in such a proud
provincialism? Is not America endeavouring to lift itself up by its
boot-straps, to make life more comfortable and interesting? The
groping, though crude, is commendable. It is badly directed because
there is no inspiration back of it, because its organizers are only
remotely aware how to make life here more interesting. However,
there is the effort and it is welcome.
Perhaps, when the towns—and for that matter the cities—realize
that artistic sensitiveness is necessary to achieve comfort and
interest we shall have boosters who are as enthusiastic on the front
porch as in the board of trade meeting. When will our towns take
artistic advantage of their river-fronts? The place for the most
beautiful walk and drive and park presents usually unsightly piers,
factories and sheds. Railroad tracks are often laid in the very heart of
the town. For many years the leading hotels in practically all of our
towns and cities were built in close proximity to the railroad station.
In seeking to save a traveller time and convenience hotel proprietors
subjected him to the bodily and mental discomforts that are related
to the vicinity of a railroad station. Of late there is a marked tendency
to erect hotels in quiet residential streets away from the noise and
confusion of shops and railroad yards.
The billboard menace, while diminishing, is still imposing. It is to
the everlasting shame of the towns and cities that in an era of
prohibitions no legislative effort has been made to stop the evil of
desecrating our finest streets with advertising signs. Such
commercial greed is inconceivable to the foreign visitor. It is one of
his first impressions, though he charitably takes refuge in public in
attributing it to the high tension of our existence.
While the first symptoms of artistic appreciation are beginning to
be faintly discerned upon the American horizon, the old and familiar
phases of social life in the country are still being observed. The
picnic of first settlers, the family reunion, the church supper, the
sewing circle, the Browning society—all have national expression.
The introduction of such modern industrial devices as the automobile
has not affected them in the least. It can truly be asserted that the
flivver has even added to their popularity. It has brought people of
the country districts into closer contact than ever before. It has given
a new prestige to the picnics and the reunions.
What offers more rustic charm and simplicity than a family
reunion? Practically every family in the farming districts that claims
an ancestral residence in this country of more than fifty years holds
one annually. It is attended by the great and the near-great from the
cities, by the unaffected relatives back home. Babies jostle great-
grandparents. Large and perspiring women bake for days the cakes
and pies to be consumed. The men of the house are foolishly
helping in making the rooms and the front lawn ready. At last the
reunion is at hand—a sentimental debauch, a grand gorging.
Everybody present feels the poignancy of age. But while the heart
throbs the stomach is working overtime. The law of compensation is
satisfied. “A good time was had by all” finds another expression in
the weekly paper, and the reunion becomes a memory.
At pioneer picnics one finds the family reunion on a larger scale.
The whole township and county has for the time become related. It is
the day of days, a sentimental tournament with handshaking as the
most popular pastime. Organized in the rugged primitiveness of the
early part of the 19th century by men who were first to settle in the
vicinity, the pioneer picnic has been perpetuated, until to-day it is
linked inalterably with America’s development. It has weathered the
passing of the nation from an agricultural to a great industrial
commonwealth. It has stood the gaff of time. And so it goes on for
ever, a tradition of the small town and the farming community. While
it has been divested almost entirely of its original purpose, it serves
to bring the politicians in touch with the “peepul.” Grandiloquent
promises are made for a day from the rostrum by a battalion of
“Honourables”—and forgotten both by the “Honourables” and the
public intent upon dancing and walking aimlessly about the grounds.
The politicians smile as they continue to preserve their heroic pose,
and the “peepul,” satisfied that all is well with the world, turn to
various gambling devices that operate under the hypocritical eye of
the sheriff and to the strange dances that have crept up from the
jungle, for it is a day filled with the eternal spirit of youth. There is
ingenuous appeal in the fair samples of the yokelry present. There is
a quiet force beneath the bovine expressions of the boys. The soul
of America—an America glad to be alive—is being wonderfully and
pathetically manifested. No shams, no superficialities, no self-
conscious sophistication are met. Merely the sturdy quality of the
true American civilization, picturesque and haunting in its
primitiveness.
The county fair belongs in the same classification as the first-
settler picnic. It is the annual relaxation by farmers and merchants
from the tedious tasks of seeing and talking to the same people day
after day. It offers them a measure of equality with the people in the
city with their excursion boats, their baseball games, their park
sports. And they make the most of their opportunity. They come to
see and to be seen, to risk a few dollars on a horse race, to admire
the free exhibitions in front of the side-shows, to watch with wide
eyes the acrobatic stunts before the grandstand; to hear the “Poet
and the Peasant” overture by the band, proud and serious in a stand
of its own.
Three or four days given to such pleasures naturally bestow a
fine sense of illusion upon the visitors. They begin to believe that life
has been specially ordered for them. They see through a glass
lightly. They care not a whiff about the crowded excitements of the
city. They have something infinitely more enjoyable than a
professional baseball game or an excursion ride down the river. They
have days of endless variety, of new adventures, of new thoughts.
They, too, know that America cannot go wrong so long as they
continue to find illusion. And they are correct. They may not suspect
that American culture is crude. They do know, however, that it is
dear. They should worry.
Against such a background have the flavour and essence of
American life been compounded. Their influence has extended in all
directions, in all walks of industry. They have left their impress upon
the character of the country, upon the mob and the individual.
Sentimental attachment to the old ties, to boyhood ideals and
traditions remains potent though a little concealed by the mask, be it
affected or real, of sophistication. It is the voice of a new land, of a
vigorous and curious nationalism that is being exerted. There
obviously cannot be among such a naturally healthy people a
supercilious contempt for sentiment. We may laugh a little haughtily
at the amazing susceptibility of folks to the extravagant eloquence of
itinerant evangelists. We may look on an “old home week” with a
touch of urban disdain. We may listen to the band concert on a
Saturday night in the Court House Square with a studied
indifference. We may assume an attractive weariness in watching
the promenaders on Main Street visit one ice-cream emporium after
another. But deep down in our hearts is a feeling of invincible pride in
the charming homeliness, the youthful vitality, the fine simplicity, yes,
and the sweeping pathos of these aspects of small-town civilization.
Louis Raymond Reid
 HISTORY

“Nescire autem quid antea quam natus sis

acciderit id est semper puerum esse.”
Cicero.

“History is bunk.”
Henry Ford

THE burghers of Holland, being (like the Chinese) inclined

towards a certain conservatism of both manners and habits,
continued the tradition of the “front parlour”—the so-called “good-
room”—well into the 20th century. Every farmer had his “front
parlour” filled with stuffy air, stuffy furniture, and an engraving of the
Eiffel Tower facing the lithographic representation of a lady in mid-
seas clinging desperately to a somewhat ramshackle granite cross.
But the custom was not restricted to the bucolic districts. His late
Majesty, William III (whose funeral was the most useful event of his
long life), had been married to an estimable lady of Victorian
proclivities, who loved a “tidy” and an “antimacassar” better than life
itself. An aristocracy, recruited from the descendants of East India
Directors and West India sugar planters, followed the Royal
Example. They owned modest homes which the more imaginative
Latin would have called “Palazzi.” Most of the ground floor was taken
up by an immense “front parlour.” For the greater part of the year it
was kept under lock and key while the family clustered around the oil
lamp of the “back parlour” where they lived in the happy cacophony
of young daughters practising Czerny and young sons trying to
master the intricacies of “paideuo—paideueis—paideuei.”