H.L. Mencken

Morning Union/October 4, 1925

I

One day, toward the middle of August of last year, I sent 25 cents to the Kiwanis Magazine of Chicago for a copy of its current issue. My desire was to refresh myself with idealism, to bathe my soul in the spirit of service. The Kiwanis Magazine, as I knew, was the organ of Kiwanis International. It was read every day by thousands of resilient and eminent men of business—“leaders in their respective lines.” One of its principal contributors was the Hon. Roe Fulkerson, a man whose writings had been an inspiration to multitudes. I looked forward to a spiritual debauch, and expected to come out of it full of pep, and hot for service in my chosen craft.

But no Kiwanis Magazine arrived. It seemed strange. Two weeks passed, and then three weeks, and then a month. What had happened to service? I sent in a complaint. No answer. The year faded into autumn and then winter. Christmas came, and after it New Year. I began to give up hope. Finally, one day—I think it was late in January—there arrived a letter. It was from a firm of public accountants in Chicago. They said they were examining the books of the Kiwanis Magazine, and wanted to know if the item of 25 cents, there credited to my account, was correct.

I replied instantly that it was. I added that I regretted the fact immensely. What I wanted, I explained at length, was not a credit of 25 cents, but a copy of the Kiwanis Magazine. My soul ached and thirsted for its inspiration; I yearned to be uplifted; I wanted to learn how to serve. All this I conveyed to the firm of public accountants, closing with a respectful demand that the magazine be sent at once. No answer. I followed with a postcard, perhaps somewhat tart. No answer. Another. No answer.

II

This January passed, and after it February. March dawned with the usual meteorological phenomena. My rheumatism, by now, was bothering me, and I was in a low state mentally. I was doomed, it seemed, to draw no inspiration from the fountain head. The boons and usufructs of Kiwanis were not for me. So I turned, on the fourth of the month, to the next best source. That is to say, I went to Washington to witness the inauguration of the Hon. Mr. Coolidge as President of the United States.

The show was disappointing, and I got home with a chill. My mental depression, by now, was extreme. I was beginning to have hallucinations. The sound of a phonograph set me to trembling. But suddenly, and at one benign stroke, I was cured. On my reading table, as I rolled into bed, I found a pile of magazines, all arrived while I was in attendance upon Dr. Coolidge. The first was the Christian Herald. I threw it into the fire unopened. The second was the American Standard. I put it aside for Sunday. The third was Hot Dog. I dropped it into my waste basket. But the fourth, O, hallelujah, was the Kiwanis.

I was still reading it at 3 a.m., page after page describing the altruistic work of the Kiwanians of Red Lion, Pa. and Nashville, Tenn.; portraits of eminent Kiwanis orators, lecturers on service, prophets of New and Better Business Ethics, heralds of the millennial dawn; long juicy, exhilarating articles by Dr. Fulkerson and other wizards of the inspirational word; solemn treatises by Kiwanis philosophers on the esoteric meaning of Kiwanis, the secret work of Its votaries; sermons in tabloid form by Kiwanis ecclesiastics. I read until 3 a.m., until 3.05, until 3.10. I fell asleep at last to dreams of introducing the principles of Kiwanis into journalism, of launching myself into constructive work, of consecrating myself to the ideal of service.

In the morning, alas, I am always somewhat sour. As I rolled out of bad, my mood of exaltation was brutally dashed. I had sent 25 cents for the magazine. The price marked on the cover was 15 cents. Where was my change?

III

For months thereafter this question worried me. Could it be that the very chiefs and captains general of Kiwanis, the syndics of the Kiwanis Magazine itself, would stoop to bilk a poor literary man out of 10 cents? The thought seemed somehow obscene, and so I put it out of my mind. But it kept on recurring. Specifically, it recurred on March 5, on March 11, on March 23 und on March 29. In April it recurred five times; in May eight times; in June three times; in July six times.

Over and over again I was tempted to write to the publisher, to the editor, to the public accountants, to the chief of police of Chicago, to Dr. Fulkerson, to the Kiwanis Club in my town, to the secretariat of the League of Nations. The thought of that lost 10 cents began to ride me. It popped up a dozen times a day. But I always put it away as hideous. If Kiwanis itself was engaged in highjacking, then what would become of idealism in the world? If, in the very citadel of service, a Christian and a patriot could be mulcted of 10 cents, then our boys died in vain at Chateau Thierry and Dr. Frank Crane was a lobster.

My trust and hope, I need not say, were rewarded. On Aug. 25 I received from the Kiwanis International an elegantly engrossed statement of account. It showed that on some unnamed date in the past I had deposited 25 cents in the Kiwanis treasury. It showed that on March 4, 1926, I had received goods and service to the value or amount of 15 cents. And it showed, by simple mathematical devices, that the sum of 10 cents remained to my credit. This balance was enclosed with the statement. There were five postage stamps the United States, each bearing the portrait of the immortal Washington and each of them value of 2 cents. Five times two is ten. Kiwanis had made good, and to the last cent.

But let us go back. My order, as I have said, was sent in in August, I got my magazine on March 4, say six and a half months later. I got my change on Aug. 25, 1925, almost exactly a year later. Should I rejoice that my confidence in Kiwanis, in the long run, was justified—that its lofty principles triumphed over every weakness and temptation in the end? My reply is that I have already rejoiced, to the perhaps excessive profit of the ink and paper trusts. What haunts me is the uneasy feeling that I had to be confident far too long.

Is that feeling hypercritical? Do I yield once more to my lamentable tendency to cavil, my lust to destroy? I think not. Kiwanis is not of ordinary flesh. Kiwanis is Kiwanis. Its purpose is to improve Business Methods, to Give More Than Mere Goods, to preach the Gospel of Service. Once a week, in every town of the republic, its great minds meet to further that exalted aim. They sing songs, they blow a few spitballs, they get down their chicken croquettes and peach pie, and then they belch gently and give ear to their prophets.

The words of such prophets I enjoy immensely. That is why I sent for that copy of the Kiwanis Magazine. It delights me to follow their syllogisms. I approbate their eloquent demands for Something More. When I have my shoes shined, I like the professor to inquire about my kidney trouble. Buying a box of collars, I am exhilarated when the haberdasher throws in a bottle opener. I chose my tailor because he sings beautifully and is a prominent Elk. My barber’s charm is not in his mere shears. but in his flow of economic and sociological ideas. No manicure girl can touch me who is not comely, a swell dresser, and a lover of the films. My bootlegger gets my trade because he is supporting 10 orphans in a mission on the Yang-Tse-Kiang.

In brief, I am a natural Kiwanian. I believe that business is also a form of idealism. I love and venerate service. But is it service to take six and half months to fill a 15 cents order? And is it service to rob a poor man of the interest on 10 cents for a solid year? The answer I leave to the president of Kiwanis International, to the vice presidents and ex-presidents thereof, to the regional directors, to the club secretaries, to the Hon. Mr. Fulkerson, and to the heirs and assigns of the author of “Sweet Adeline.”