Publishers and authors have become frightened. If the realm of art is to be invaded by reformers who fail to distinguish between beauty and filth, it is self-evident that there will be precious little art in America in the next hundred years. The pictures that we hang upon our walls may be torn down next, and the passion for dreariness may cause the entire United States to become one sad Sahara of utilitarianism, with no gleam of loveliness. The mania for standardizing us is growing; it is strange that the authorities do not pounce upon a play like “R. U. R.,” lest it put false notions into the minds of the simple people. There is a tremendous lesson in that drama. Crush us too much, make too many automatons, and one day the lifeless, bloodless, unimaginative host may rise in sudden might and defeat the very purpose of their masters. The easy triumph of Prohibition gives the reformer little to do--save to seek other avenues of sadistic expression. If we are to be dictated to as to which books we shall read, we will find a way to discover smut--and nothing but smut--just as we have found synthetic gin. And if the lifting of an elbow--a necessary gesture when one takes an old-fashioned drink--got on a Puritan’s nerves, I cannot think that the smoke curling from your cigarette and mine gives him anything but pain and genuine anguish of mind. Tobacco companies are worried, and some of them have been spending vast sums to offset the crusade against the weed. Meanwhile, the easy-going American says, “Well, of course, they did put Prohibition over on us, but--oh, they would not dare rob us of our cheroots. We simply wouldn’t stand for _that_.” But I am afraid that we are as spineless as ever. When meetings are organized to protest against the reformers, they are often ill attended. A dash of rain dampens the ardor of the lackadaisical citizen who prefers his own fireside to speeches that hit hard at this and that false cause. The trouble is that the fanatics have not made things quite hard enough for us. If there were a real lack of liquor; if complete drouth settled down over the land, we might rise in a great body and speak what we inwardly feel. But most of us are too lazy to fight back. Meanwhile, the organized minority gird on their armor, devising ways and means to torture us further. And in slippered comfort we sip our home brew or our dearly bought bootleg toddies, and decide that the effort required to get together is too great. We will let things drift. There must come a change; and after all, so long as Prohibition hasn’t really succeeded, what’s the use of worrying? The reformer knows this characteristic lethargy of the American people, and he smiles, assembles his cohorts, calls us, in the vernacular of the day, “easy marks,” and proceeds with his reforming.