lusiveness of the Vatican or Bodleian Library. The novelty is all
superficial; the tradition is all interior and profound. The DAILY MAIL
has new editions, but never a new idea. Everything in a newspaper that
is not the old human love of altar or fatherland is the old human love
of gossip. Modern writers have often made game of the old chronicles
because they chiefly record accidents and prodigies; a church struck
by lightning, or a calf with six legs. They do not seem to realise that
this old barbaric history is the same as new democratic journalism. It
is not that the savage chronicle has disappeared. It is merely that the
savage chronicle now appears every morning.

As I moved thus mildly and vaguely in front of the bookstall, my eye
caught a sudden and scarlet title that for the moment staggered me. On
the outside of a book I saw written in large letters, "Get On or Get
Out." The title of the book recalled to me with a sudden revolt and
reaction all that does seem unquestionably new and nasty; it reminded
me that there was in the world of to-day that utterly idiotic thing,
a worship of success; a thing that only means surpassing anybody in
anything; a thing that may mean being the most successful person
in running away from a battle; a thing that may mean being the most
successfully sleepy of the whole row of sleeping men. When I saw those
words the silence and sanctity of the railway station were for the
moment shadowed. Here, I thought, there is at any rate something
anarchic and violent and vile. This title, at any rate, means the most
disgusting individualism of this individualistic world. In the fury of
my bitterness and passion I actually bought the book, thereby ensuring
that my enemy would get some of my money. I opened it prepared to find
some brutality, some blasphemy, which would really be an exception to
the general silence and sanctity of the railway station. I was prepared
to find something in the book that was as infamous as its title.

I was disappointed. There was nothing at all corresponding to the
furious decisiveness of the remarks on the cover. After reading it
carefully I could not discover whether I was really to get on or to
get out; but I had a vague feeling that I should prefer to get out.
A considerable part of the book, particularly towards the end, was
concerned with a detailed description of the life of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Undoubtedly Napoleon got on. He also got out. But I could not di