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The atmosphere of the entire novel is just that close and enervating. Every page is like the next morning taste of a champagne supper, and is heavy with the smell of stale cigarettes. There is no fresh air in the book and no sunlight, only the “blinding light shed by the electric globes.” If the life of New York newspaper men is as unwholesome and sordid as this, Mr. Crane, who has experienced it, ought to be sadly ashamed to tell it. Next morning when Coleman went for breakfast in the grill room of his hotel he ordered eggs on toast and a pint of champagne for breakfast and discoursed affably to the waiter.

“May be you had a pretty lively time last night,
Mr. Coleman?”

“Yes, Pat,” answered Coleman. “I did. It was all because of
an unrequitted affection, Patrick.” The man stood near, a
napkin over his arm. Coleman went on impressively. “The ways
of the modern lover are strange. Now, I, Patrick, am a
modern lover, and when, yesterday, the dagger of
disappointment was driven deep into my heart, I immediately
played poker as hard as I could, and incidentally got
loaded. This is the modern point of view. I understand on
good authority that in old times lovers used to languish.
That is probably a lie, but at any rate we do not, in these
times, languish to any great extent. We get drunk. Do you
understand Patrick?”

The waiter was used to a harangue at Coleman’s breakfast
time. He placed his hand over his mouth and giggled.
“Yessir.”

“Of course,” continued Coleman, thoughtfully. “It might be
pointed out by uneducated persons that it is difficult to
maintain a high standard of drunkenness for the adequate
length of time, but in the series of experiments which I am
about to make, I am sure I can easily prove them to be in
the wrong.”

“I am sure, sir,” said the waiter, “the young ladies would
not like to be hearing you talk this way.”

“Yes; no doubt, no doubt. The young ladies have still quite
medieval ideas. They don’t understand. They still prefer
lovers to languish.”

“At any rate, sir, I don’t see that your heart is sure
enough broken. You seem to take it very easy.”

“Broken!” cried Coleman. “Easy? Man, my heart is in
fragments. Bring me another small bottle.”

After this Coleman went to Greece to write up the war for the “Eclipse,” and incidentally to rescue his sweetheart from the hands of the Turks and make “copy” of it. Very valid arguments might be advanced that the lady would have fared better with the Turks. On the voyage Coleman spent all his days and nights in the card room and avoided the deck, since fresh air was naturally disagreeable to him. For all that he saw of Greece or that Mr. Crane’s readers see of Greece Coleman might as well have stayed in the card room of the steamer, or in the card room of his New York hotel for that matter. Wherever he goes he carries the atmosphere of the card room with him and the “blinding glare of the electrics.” In Greece he makes love when he has leisure, but he makes “copy” much more ardently, and on the whole is quite as lurid and sordid and showy as his worst Sunday editions. Some good bits of battle descriptions there are, of the “Red Badge of Courage” order, but one cannot make a novel of clever descriptions of earthworks and poker games. The book concerns itself not with large, universal interests or principles, but with a yellow journalist grinding out yellow copy in such a wooden fashion that the Sunday “Eclipse” must have been even worse than most. In spite of the fact that Mr. Crane has written some of the most artistic short stories in the English language, I begin to wonder whether, blinded by his youth and audacity, two qualities which the American people love, we have not taken him too seriously. It is a grave matter for a man in good health and with a bank account to have written a book so coarse and dull and charmless as “Active Service.” Compared with this “War was kind,” indeed.

Pittsburg Leader, November 11, 1899