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NEW ADVENTURES 
 
 MICHAEL MONAHAN 
 
NEW 
 ADVENTURES 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL MONAHAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "PALMS OF PAPYKU8," 
 ' NOVA HTBKRNIA," " AT THE BIGN OF THE VAN," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 

 
 Copyright, 1917, by 
 GEOEGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA 
 
 OCT 16 1317 
 
 )C!,A476580 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN QUINN 
 
 A GESTURE OF FRIENDSHIP AND ADMIRATION 
 
Tons les livres en general et meme les plus admirables 
 me paraissent infiniment moins precieux par ee qu'ils con- 
 tiennent que par ce qu'y met celui qui les lit. Les 
 meilleurs, a mon sens, sont ceux qui donnent le plus a 
 penser, et les ctoses les plus diverses. 
 
 Anatole France. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MANNAHATTA 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Cajaj op the City 15 
 
 A Holiday in Gotham 19 
 
 Trial by Newspaper. 25 
 
 Our ''Brand of Cain" 29 
 
 The Shakespeare Tercentenary: 
 
 An Elizabethan Performance 37 
 
 Sir Herbert Tree's "Shylock" 42 
 
 A Shakespearian Exhibit 51 
 
 MANNAHATTA II 
 
 Spaghetti 57 
 
 Newyorkitis 61 
 
 Old Men eor Love 64 
 
 The Craze for Beauty 69 
 
 Changes in Babylon 74 
 
 The Great White Way 78 
 
 The Morgan Library 83 
 
 In Nubibus 91 
 
 ix 
 
X CONTENTS 
 
 PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 One Balzac the Lover 99 
 
 Two Balzac the Artist 122 
 
 Three The Fortunate Hoax of Pagan Was- 
 
 TENEYS 145 
 
 Four The Maid Again 160 
 
 Five Our Best-loved Poet 169 
 
 Six Alma Lupa 187 
 
 Seven A Note on Lafcadio Hearn 193 
 
 Eight The Kiss 199 
 
 Nine The "Free" Poets 206 
 
 REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 One Bermuda 219 
 
 Two Bermuda II 231 
 
 Three The Conqueror 247 
 
 Four Two Pictures 257 
 
 Five The Collector 264 
 
 Six The Penman 274 
 
 Seven Chanticleer 280 
 
 Eight The Circus 288 
 
 Nine Nocturne 299 
 
 Ten Yearnings 310 
 
CONTENTS xi 
 
 FAttB 
 
 jEuEVEN Platonics 322 
 
 Twelve False Youth 328 
 
 Thirteen Ghosts 335 
 
 Fourteen The Age of Safety 342 
 
 Fifteen Best 347 
 
 LAGNIAPPE 
 
 One Philosophy in Little: 
 
 The Literary Motive 355 
 
 Truths and Truisms 361 
 
 The Woman 366 
 
 Two The Grain of Wheat 370 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 THE CALL OF THE CITY 
 
 I 
 
 I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city, 
 Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name! 
 
 — Wait Whitimcan. 
 
 HE THAT has once felt the spell of Manna- 
 hatta will, if the fates permit, return to her 
 again and still again. In other and lesser cities, 
 on the waste of ocean, in rural solitudes or desert 
 places, the call of the mighty Mother will reach 
 him, and perforce he will gird up his loins and 
 obey. 
 
 This may be put forth as a more or less poetical 
 statement of a fact both simple and psychological. 
 He that has drunk will drink, says the French 
 proverb; and he that has known Mannahatta 
 — literally drunk her, for she is herself a mighty 
 intoxication, — will always go back athirst for the 
 cordials she alone can supply. 
 
 And so it was that, along about the middle of 
 the past May, I began to feel in my blood a sum- 
 mons which I have come to know quite well — ^the 
 
 [15] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 call of Mannahatta. I was not sorry, for the 
 Connecticut winter, then barely ended, had been 
 the Idngest and coldest in my memory. The mere 
 effort to keep physically alive had impoverished 
 the spiritual man. Also I had grown weary of 
 the Connecticut face, not over-attractive in either 
 man or woman in these parts; and there were 
 alarming symptoms that I was taking on the 
 Connecticut mind. It was May, as I have said, 
 and we were still wearing overcoats and sleeping 
 under heavy blankets. The newspapers were 
 recalling a certain Connecticut year when the 
 summer had been lost from the calendar (this 
 no doubt a just visitation upon the pleasure- 
 hating puritans). My thoughts would not flow; 
 my ink-pot derided me; I tasted the cruel despair 
 of the man who begins to fail in his natural voca- 
 tion. Something had to be done, and quickly too! 
 I will arise, I said, and go to my mother Manna- 
 hatta, for she alone can heal me. 
 
 Thereupon I fled with a single grip, delighted 
 as a man should be who runs away from a hard 
 job to snatch a precarious holiday. Nor did I 
 pause until I had snugly ensconced myself in the 
 very heart of Mannahatta. . . . 
 [ 16 1 
 
THE CALL OF THE CITY 
 
 Balzac somewhere shrewdly observes the persist- 
 ence of the vital spark in the sick in the crowded 
 quarters of a great city where the strong current 
 of human life rises to the full. It is a good 
 thought and a cheering one. Life begets life and 
 the desire of living; human companionship is 
 almost the condition of existence. The hermits 
 who have lived long in their solitude are memo- 
 rable instances — ^because there have been so few 
 hermits. Secular age and health pass without 
 comment in the immense human hives where they 
 are too familiar to challenge remark. The com- 
 mon notion that people live longer in the country 
 than in the city, is wrong, like so many other 
 received ideas: the truth is, they die earlier and 
 faster in the country, and the earlier and the faster 
 in direct ratio to the lack of companionship. 
 Solitude is the best known aid to the madhouse 
 and the cemetery — even the solitude of open fields 
 and healthful skies. On the other hand, there are 
 in the densely populated ghettos of Vienna, of 
 London and of 'New York, surrounded by condi- 
 tions that would seem to make health impossible, 
 persons so old that time appears to have passed 
 them by. 
 
 [17] 
 
MAl^J^NAHATTA 
 
 Do you want to live and live long? — then be 
 where men and women are living, loving and prop- 
 agating life. Borrow from the universal vital 
 force. Draw on the common fund of health and 
 energy. Drink from the full-flowing stream of 
 life. Deep calls unto deep and heart unto heart! 
 With a million hearts beating around you, with a 
 million pulses challenging and inciting your own, 
 how can you fail to keep time to the great rhyth- 
 mic harmony? From all these you derive strength 
 and hope and encouragement ; every throb of every 
 one of them all is a summons to live — ^to live — 
 to live! 
 
 Now of this hear a proof. It seemed to me, as 
 in an evil dream, that I had long been sad and 
 dejected, brooding over unhappiness and poison- 
 ing my blood with the black viper-doubts that 
 strike into the very heart of life; believing my 
 heritage of length of days to be forfeited; shun- 
 ning the cheerful society of my fellows; keeping 
 alone with a swarm of morbid fears and fancies; 
 looking on life with the lost gaze of one who 
 divines everywhere an unseen but exultant and 
 implacable enemy. 
 
 Then, at last, I yielded to the bidding of a 
 [18] 
 
A HOLIDAY IN GOTHAM 
 
 kinder spirit. I threw off the nightmare and 
 mingled again with my kind. I went where men 
 and women were merry with feast and dance, with 
 wine and music and song. I looked for the joy 
 of the human face and did not look in vain. I 
 recovered in a moment my old birthright of hope 
 and happiness. My heart, so long drooping, rose 
 at the compelling summons of life about me: the 
 old desire to live and love sprung up anew in me 
 to hail the red flag in a woman's cheek and the 
 bright challenge of her eyes. I filled my glass 
 and at the bidding of Beauty and Joy devoted my 
 ancient sick fears to perdition. I was merry with 
 the rest, aye, merry with the maddest; and since 
 that hour ... I live . . . I live ... I live! 
 
 A HOLIDAY IN GOTHAM 
 
 THE PRESENT scribe has known New 
 York, " on and off," more or less intimately 
 during twenty-five years, but his very first intro- 
 duction occurred when he was a little boy of six 
 years — a good bit farther back. So he has fully 
 experienced the lure of the Great City mentioned 
 above, and this the more that in his youth he was 
 
 [19] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 a shade too curious perhaps ahout lures of every 
 species. 
 
 I may then claim, as the phrase goes, to know 
 my New York. I have been away from it years 
 at a time. I have also lived years within its gates ; 
 I have " commuted " to it from Jersey and points 
 above the Harlem river. The great changes which 
 the City has undergone in the past quarter-century 
 are quite familiar to me. I knew it before the 
 great Russian-Jewish immigration, when it was 
 almost an American city, instead of as now, in 
 many sections, a predominantly foreign one. I 
 knew Fifth Avenue before it was invaded by 
 trade, when its proud pavements were unpressed 
 by the present hordes of Yiddish-speaking toilers 
 — those wonderful people, creators of new wealth 
 and new problems, who will have much to say in 
 the future destiny of New York. I witnessed the 
 rise of the sky-scrapers, from the " World's " 
 gilded dome to the loftier turret of the Woolworth 
 Building, which give New York a certain 
 grandiose distinction among the great cities of 
 the world. I saw the first shovelful taken for 
 the first Subway, and I waited for the opening 
 of the Hudson Tunnel, which seems to have been 
 [ 20 ] 
 
A HOLIDAY IN GOTHAM 
 
 but the other day, while — such is the tremendous 
 march of the city's life — it is already spoken of 
 as a thing of ancient date. I saw the City fling 
 out long arms in order to bring to herself the 
 cities and towns that make her boroughs of Brook- 
 lyn and Queen's and the Bronx. Nay, in the 
 span of years mentioned I have seen her become 
 the first City in the world! 
 
 But hear now a truth. If one's lot is cast among 
 so many and so great marvels; if he is, moreover, 
 obliged to hug his own personal problems in the 
 midst of them, then is he apt to lose the due sense 
 of wonder. That was something my own case 
 when I dwelt within the gates of Gotham. Hence 
 my keen desire to see her as a visitor in holiday 
 mood. 
 
 And I was not disappointed. There is an elec- 
 tric, exhilarating something in the air, — an invi- 
 tation to be happy, as it were, — which no other 
 American city offers, and which Paris alone pos- 
 sesses in greater degree — that is, in perfection. 
 There is illusion about this, of course, for New 
 York behind her gay, smiling welcome is cruel, 
 more cruel than Paris, and also not less calculating 
 as regards the prices she exacts from the seekers of 
 
 [21] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 pleasure. But this is not a thought with which to 
 plague your holiday with our Lady of Manhattan. 
 Yes, you can be as happy as you please in New 
 York, dear reader, especially if you have the 
 wherewithal that pays the dues of happiness; 
 money indeed is very necessary, and New York 
 looks askance at him who has it not. But even 
 this is but a partial truth, for as Richard of the 
 Quest has wisely said, our Paradises are often 
 cheap — it is our Hells that cost us so dear. New 
 York spreads a feast for the eye and ear of him 
 who hath but little money in his scrip, and I felt 
 this as never before when on the afternoon of my 
 arrival (to make the most of my scant liberty) 
 I rolled up Fifth Avenue, gallantly perched on the 
 hurricane deck of a Green Bus. This is one of 
 the cheapest and best pleasures that the City has 
 to offer; he need not lack it who may command 
 the tenth part of a Broad Piece. You deposit 
 your dime in a box which the guard or conductor 
 presents to you; he is not allowed to put in the 
 fare himself. Such a precaution, you think, might 
 humiliate an honest man, and the farther you go 
 the more you are convinced that common honesty 
 is not much regarded, nor taken for granted, in 
 [22] 
 
A HOLIDAY IN GOTHAM 
 
 New York. Tipping is for once out of the 
 question, and the decent visitor may voyage 
 heart-free along the richest thoroughfare in the 
 world. 
 
 The day was one of splendid sunshine, and the 
 avenue presented the most brilliant and animated 
 spectacle that one could wish for, the roadway 
 being fairly a-swarm with the automobiles of the 
 rich, while the sidewalks were thronged with prom- 
 enaders, especially women in bright spring toilets 
 (we are now in the favoured region above Forty- 
 second street) . Majestic at the crossways stand the 
 giants of the New York police, giving rule and 
 order to the confluent and opposing tides of the 
 avenue. No trivial duty theirs; one has but to 
 think of what consequences would attend a single 
 minute of anarchy in the government of these two 
 great processions. No class of men have been 
 more savagely and wantonly abused than the New 
 York police, and it well may be that there is a 
 dark side to the shield. But I am not the less sure 
 that they have never had due credit for their ster- 
 ling virtues and the uncommon heroism which they 
 so often exhibit in serving law and order and hu- 
 man life. In all my experience of New York, I 
 
 [23] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 have never seen a policeman misconduct himself, 
 and I have never been rudely treated by one. This 
 will seem astonishing to people who get their im- 
 pressions of the New York police from a certain 
 kind of lurid fiction, or from newspapers with a 
 political axe to grind. In point of fact, nothing is 
 ever so bad in New York as the newspapers make 
 it out to be, which newspapers derive a profit from 
 defaming the city to the country-at-large. Most 
 of the crazy notions relative to New York, which 
 are especially cherished by strangers and foreign- 
 ers, are due to a lot of hack writers, scribblers of 
 patent inside stuff for country weeklies, who lack 
 ability to present a correct picture even of a New 
 York policeman. Certainly no great city has ever 
 suffered so much from libellers within its own 
 gates. 
 
 So thinking, I leaned over the rail of our green 
 chariot and gratefully saluted a crossing guardian. 
 Again luck was with me, for he courteously 
 returned the salute (something almost unheard 
 of in the newspaper legend). Then we turned 
 west and fared gaily on toward Riverside Drive 
 and the castled heights of those envied apartment 
 folk who pay rentals of from ten to twenty-five 
 [24] 
 
TRIAL BY NEWSPAPER 
 
 thousand a year. A domain of imposing fronts, 
 gorgeous courts and porter-guarded inaccessible- 
 ness; in fact, Apartmentaria seems to offer every- 
 thing that wealth could desire. And surely wealth 
 in New York was never more conscious of itself 
 than it is to-day. Happily there was no " barker " 
 on our coach to blare out, in an East Side accent, 
 the wigwams of the many-dollared ; I will here 
 observe a like reticence. 
 
 TRIAL BY NEWSPAPER 
 
 AS EVERYBODY knows, New York is— the 
 Woman! It is the most feminized of all 
 our cities; the one in which American woman- 
 worship is carried to the wildest extreme; the one 
 in which scarcely anj^thing is done without refer- 
 ence to the Eternal Feminine. Almost comic is 
 the universal preoccupation with sex, as reflected 
 in the newspapers, the magazines, the theatres, the 
 cafe life, everywhere. And (though I am the 
 first to announce it) the true symbol of New York 
 is the Powder Puff. This in spite of the fact 
 that she has so far refused the ballot to women. 
 But there is a difference to note: New York 
 
 [25] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 loves women for their beauty and the pleasure 
 they can give, not for their intellectual qualities. 
 The first typical New York woman you see on 
 Fifth Avenue tells the story : — her dress, her man- 
 ner, her allurCj the very atmosphere she creates 
 about herself, all declare the human orchid of 
 intense sex-cultivation. The 'New York woman 
 is notoriously the most sex-conscious in America, 
 and she cares nothing for the ballot. She wants 
 to rule men in the way of the ancient sovereignty 
 of her sex, and she is anathema to the man-hating 
 suffragette. 
 
 When you see a perfect specimen of this type, 
 you will readily admit that she is worth all the 
 trouble she occasionally makes and all the money 
 that men lavish upon her. She is the woman whom 
 one is tempted to personify as New York. 
 
 This woman, proud, beautiful, sex-conscious, 
 miraculously expensive, is the spoiled darling of 
 Gotham, but, of course, there is not a majority 
 of her kind. Even in Manhattan one sees many 
 a woman who could not be anybody's darling, and 
 such women, it is unkindly said, are the chief hope 
 of the suffrage cause. 
 
 New York is so thoroughly feminized in the way 
 [26] 
 
TRIAL BY NEWSPAPER 
 
 I have suggested, that it is next to impossible 
 to convict a woman of a capital crime. The 
 singular process known as Trial by Newspaper, 
 here carried to a point of perfection, can 
 almost always be relied upon to get the woman 
 off. 
 
 While I was in the City a woman was acquitted 
 of the charge of murdering her two infant chil- 
 dren, the fruit of an illicit passion. The fact that 
 she gave them poison which caused their death 
 was not disputed. On her behalf, there was medi- 
 cal testimony of the usual wabbling, inconclusive 
 sort, to prove that she was deranged when the 
 crime was committed. In further mitigation, it 
 was pleaded that she took the poison herself in a 
 sufficient quantity to kill; but in spite of obvious 
 juggling and collusion on the part of certain wit- 
 nesses, this was not established. Nevertheless, the 
 woman went free, amid a great trumpeting of the 
 newspapers and with every sign of the public 
 approval. Nay, even the District Attorney who 
 had prosecuted her, though fully convinced of her 
 guilt, hastened to offer his congratulations. Fem- 
 inism had secured the acquittal of this woman, who 
 in England or in Canada would have been sum- 
 
 [27] 
 
1 MANISTAHATTA 
 
 marily convicted and, if not hanged, sent to prison 
 for life. 
 
 The singular issue of this case vindicates the 
 importance of Trial by Newspaper. During many 
 months before this woman was brought to the bar, 
 her case was constantly agitated, featured and 
 discussed in the newspapers. It was precisely 
 the kind of stuff they love to handle, with love, 
 seduction, crime, and all manner of sexual sugges- 
 tiveness, as the chief ingredients, and an erring 
 woman as the heroine. All the emotional female 
 journalists — the Sob Squad as they are called — 
 were put to work on the story. Their fictive 
 tears drooled incessantly through the evening and 
 morning editions; the vast army of people who 
 read only the newspapers, and read these until 
 they can see only yellow, were thoroughly satu- 
 rated. What jury picked from such a public could 
 do otherwise than this jury did? The District 
 Attorney never had a chance, and as he felt lonely 
 and neglected during the pubhc congratulations 
 on his failure to convict, I don't blame him for his 
 words of sympathy. A verdict is a verdict, and 
 even District Attorneys cannot afford to be in- 
 different to Trial by Newspaper. 
 [28] 
 
OUR "BRAND OF CAIN" 
 
 Singularly enough, about the time this woman 
 was acquitted of murdering her children and was 
 sent forth to freedom with gracious and honouring 
 words from the press, another woman, widely 
 known for her ability and courage, was sent to 
 prison for the crime of advocating birth-control. 
 Such is thy consistency, O Manhattan! 
 
 OUR " BRAND OF CAIN " 
 
 CRIMINAL LAW, as exhibited in the New 
 York courts, seems mostly a noisy, foolish, 
 futile farce, with wrangling, jawing lawyers who 
 have taken their wit from the vaudeville, their 
 manners from the Tenderloin, and whose learning 
 or courtesy is never ostentatiously in evidence. 
 These strenuous persons play " rough-house " 
 with each other and, as far as they dare, with 
 the court, for the amusement of the spectators 
 and the profit of the newspapers, which report 
 the salient vulgarities of their wordy warfare. 
 
 The object of the able counsel on each side is 
 by any and all hazards to keep out of evidence the 
 least hint of truth that would injure their case. 
 
 Every one, not a fool, present in the court, is 
 
 [29] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 fully aware that the Truth is near and cries out 
 for a hearing. But the lawyers nearly always 
 muzzle it in time, or if it break away from them 
 and run shrieking to the learned judge, he is sure 
 to apply the garrotte. No doubt this is all strictly 
 according to the rules of procedure, but to a plain 
 mind, unversed in the tortuous ways of the law, 
 the whole thing looks like an organized conspiracy 
 to keep the facts out of court and make a mock 
 of justice. ' 
 
 Naturally, Justice fares ill in her encounter with 
 these active, resourceful lawyers who have no use 
 for her presence — she is punched, mauled, cross- 
 countered, upper-cut, dragged by the hair and 
 subjected to all manner of abuse, while the learned 
 judge gropes among his authorities. 
 
 It is not wonderful that Justice should be 
 defeated in such a place and under such condi- 
 tions — the wonder is that she ever gets a show 
 for her life, as she does now and then, when 
 nobody is looking on or particularly inter- 
 ested. . . . 
 
 In England it seldom takes longer than a week 
 to try a murderer. In New York it takes all the 
 way from one to three years, according to the 
 [30] 
 
OUR " BRAND OF CAIN " 
 
 means of the accused and the abihty of the law- 
 yers. Murderers without friends or money are 
 shuffled off with less ceremony, but even in such 
 cases there is often delay unknown to the English 
 courts. 
 
 Murder trials in England are conducted with 
 stern impressiveness. There is no sensationalism, 
 in the American style. The accused, whatever his 
 or her station, is treated with the impartial rigour 
 meted out to all under the hand of the law. He 
 or she can not have other meals than the prison 
 fare. He or she is not allowed to receive flowers 
 either from friends or the morbidly inclined. The 
 hundred and one circumstances which in this coun- 
 try serve to heroize the shedder of blood and for 
 the time being to solicit the fearful admiration of 
 a large section of the public, are totally wanting 
 in the conduct of an English trial. Most impor- 
 tant of all, the newspapers do not " spread " upon 
 it, elaborating every morbid detail, working the 
 prurient or sexual interest to the farthest limit, 
 making a cult of homicide to serve their own sen- 
 sational ends. That is the method of our Yellow 
 Press which, as has been alleged of the New 
 York police at their worst, creates more crime than 
 
 [31] 
 
MANI^AHATTA 
 
 it detects or reports. By comparison, the English 
 newspapers are deadly dull in their treatment of 
 murder trials — no " scare headings " six inches 
 deep in lurid type, no pictures, snap-shots from 
 every possible angle; no stories in the advanced 
 journalistic style, one part fact to three parts fake; 
 no dramatization of dirt — nothing of all that inde- 
 cent exhibit which debauches the public of New 
 York and helps to make a travesty of justice. 
 
 Is this generally the reason that human life is 
 far safer from crimes of violence in London than 
 in New York? — that fewer murders are com- 
 mitted in all England during a year than in the 
 city of Chicago in the same space of time? — 
 waiving entirely the blood-drenched statistics of 
 the Southwest, with the auto-da-fes of the 
 lynching belt? 
 
 Not long ago the English press were printing 
 homilies on the " brand of Cain in the great 
 Republic." Can we deny the brand? and how 
 comes the smirch, if not by the corruption and 
 degradation of the law? 
 
 I am not an upholder of capital punishment. 
 I believe that the state should not take human 
 life; that neither the state nor the individual has 
 [32] 
 
OUR " BRAND OF CAIN " 
 
 the right to slay. But the first duty of the state 
 is to preserve its members. England does this 
 better than our own country, and she has far less 
 blood on her hands. If she were to abolish the 
 death penalty to-morrow, her hands would be 
 cleansed of blood, and life under her laws would be 
 as fully secured as now, since these laws would 
 be carried out to the letter. 
 
 The fact that in this free country no law carries 
 a guaranty of enforcement, withholds many people 
 from demanding the abolition of the death penalty. 
 As things are and as they will long be, it would 
 be a harder job to shut up a murderer for life 
 than to send him to the gallows or the electric 
 chair. One of our own judges has said that " the 
 American people do not greatly object to the shed- 
 ding of blood — except by process of law!" 
 
 England goes on grimly killing her murderers, 
 but she does kill them, and that keeps the crop 
 within bounds. In this country we coddle and 
 foster them by every possible means — chiefly by 
 defeating or corrupting the law. Hence the crop 
 is so large that in some centres of American cul- 
 ture, murderers crowd honest men into the gutter 
 — and no apology asked or given! 
 
 [33] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 Perhaps when we get tired of making over- 
 much money and planting our kind of civilization 
 in the benighted Orient, we may give a little seri- 
 ous attention to this matter. 
 
 Meantime, Liberty — God bless her! — would be 
 fairer without that red smirch on her throat, and 
 Justice would appear more seemly on her august 
 tribunal but for her trick of stooping to the 
 vaudeville lawyers and sometimes even courting 
 the evil favour of the Yellow Press. 
 
 WHEN DICKENS first visited this country, 
 something over sixty years ago, the feud 
 spirit was at its height in the South, the Granger- 
 fords and the Shepherdsons were busily potting or 
 carving one another all over that section, and the 
 duello was being invoked for the settlement of 
 even minor points of honour. Of all this blood- 
 letting the great novelist recorded his impressions 
 in the " American Notes," subsequently published, 
 which raised a howl of rage against him from the 
 press of this country, especially in the centres of 
 " chivalry." 
 
 A score of years later Dickens came over again 
 and made a highly profitable lecture tour of the 
 [34] 
 
OUR " BRAND OF CAIN " 
 
 States. Whether it was owing to the warmth of 
 his reception or that he found an abatement of 
 our pleasant homicidal ways, it is certain that he 
 made a handsome and almost candid apology for 
 " Chuzzlewit " and the " Notes." The latter, it 
 may be remarked, is still the better reading of 
 the two. 
 
 A generation has passed since Dickens's last 
 visit and, though we have mended our manners 
 considerably in the South and elsewhere, it must 
 be admitted that, as somebody in " Huckleberry 
 Finn " says, there is still a " right smart chance 
 of funerals " among us. The feuds have all de- 
 clined, largely owing to the interested parties 
 being mostly killed off; but as a compensation, 
 there are far more lynchings than in Dickens's 
 day. Also the " unwritten law " tragedy is much 
 more common both South and North. Indeed, 
 with the approval of a large section of the press, 
 this is now become the National Specialty, 
 
 Dickens had some very cutting things to say 
 about the New York press of ante-Civil War days, 
 but what would his satirical genius have done with 
 the recently evolved and perfected Trial by News- 
 paper? What would he have thought of a great 
 
 [35] 
 
MAISTNAHATTA 
 
 public melted to maudlin compassion by the arts 
 of a prostitute, aided and abetted by a shameless 
 press? A journalist of the highest mark himself, 
 how would he have regarded the degradation of 
 journalism by a set of professional male and 
 female panders, expert sensationalists, artists in 
 pruriency, corrupters of youth and age? How 
 would he have treated the brazen assurance of the 
 quacks calling themselves alienists, who for enor- 
 mous fees are ready to give any sort of testi- 
 mony needed in order to bring off a murderer? 
 What sort of rebuke would he have addressed to 
 the harpy lawyers defending and fleecing their 
 client — ^to the stupid or complaisant judges suf- 
 fering the farce to drag endlessly on — to the shame 
 and horror and disgrace of it all? 
 
 Do you doubt that were Dickens living to-day 
 he would write something on all this, which would 
 instantly make waste-paper of " Chuzzlewit " and 
 the "Notes"? 
 
 [36] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY, 
 
 THE SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 An Elizabethan Performance 
 
 DURING MY visit to town the Shakespeare 
 Tercentenary was in full swing, but it 
 seemed to me that the celebration was a painfully 
 worked-up affair, lacking heart and spontaneous 
 feeling. Writers who knew nothing about Shake- 
 speare — according to Frank Harris, an excellent 
 authority — were rushing into print with more or 
 less valuable contributions. Actors, not specially 
 identified with the Shakespearian drama, were giv- 
 ing interviews in which they protested their pas- 
 sionate attachment to the Bard and their regret 
 for the indifference of the public who have turned 
 their back on the classic tradition. Modest per- 
 sons, incapable of self-advertisement, were declar- 
 ing that Shakespeare was their only reading, and 
 ladies of " Society " were graciously appearing in 
 masques and tableaux designed to honour the im- 
 mortal Man of Avon. There was almost the same 
 apparent furore of enthusiasm which (according 
 to " Mr. Dooley ") once moved the New York 
 
 [37] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 public to wish to put a fur coat on the Goddess 
 of Liberty in the bay and call her Kipling. Had 
 it been proposed to metamorphose the Statue into 
 a likeness to the Chandos or Droeshout portrait, 
 the public would, I am sure, have been absolutely 
 dehghted. But even at that it wouldn't have 
 proved much for New York's love and under- 
 standing of Shakespeare. 
 
 I went to the Century Theatre to see the 
 " Tempest," for which production was chiefly 
 responsible Mr. John Corbin (who insisted upon 
 spelling the Bard's name as Shahspere). It was 
 notable for an attempt to reproduce the stage and 
 dramatic accessories of Shakespeare's time, and the 
 full text of the play was used without, so far as I 
 could judge, any material omission or expurgation. 
 The experiment was interesting and even praise- 
 worthy, but I doubt if it would " go " under less 
 favouring circumstances or without a special audi- 
 ence. In spite of the painstaking character of the 
 production and the average excellence of the cast, 
 there were leaden interludes which even the fre- 
 quent flashes of golden poetry did not serve to 
 relieve. Prospero, wonderful as he is in the 
 library, was at times dreadfully prolix and boring, 
 [38] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 while no small part of his magic business seemed 
 laughably puerile. This may have been the fault 
 of the actor, who certainly failed to realize the 
 mystical role of Prospero, and whose manner of 
 reading the lines stripped them of all poetry; but 
 I doubt if any mime, however gifted, could have 
 made the part entirely acceptable. Time's rasure 
 has told strongly against the " Tempest " as an 
 acting play, though it will always be read with 
 pleasure for the poetry which only Shakespeare 
 could have written. The " rightful Duke of 
 Milan " cannot, I think, be otherwise than wrong- 
 fully put on the boards, and with a complaisance 
 from the auditors which may rarely be counted 
 upon. Then it is never to be forgotten that the 
 language of Shakespeare is not our language — 
 more's the pity ; and so it does not " carry " in 
 the theatre, where quick apprehension is the chief 
 desideratum. It was palpable at this performance 
 that a great many of the lines were lost upon the 
 audience. Even Prosperous wonderful speech 
 beginning — 
 
 Our revels now are ended, these our actors, 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, — 
 
 [39] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 passed, as the actors say, " without a hand," 
 Also the strained look on many faces betokened 
 imperfect understanding; and I felt that 
 the Cohan drama was nowise threatened in its 
 popularity. 
 
 Again, it was demonstrated that the present- 
 day public cannot abide Shakespeare (same man 
 as Mr. Corbin's friend Shakspere) without expur- 
 gation. Honest William's manner of calling a 
 spade a spade, without euphemism, will not go 
 down with us. It is not that we are more moral, 
 perhaps, than the Elizabethans; but, of a truth, we 
 are more fastidious, and we shudder at words with 
 the muck of nature attached to them. In this play 
 the bawdy oaths of the seamen and the coarse 
 fooleries of StepJiano and Trinculo were very 
 palpably a severe trial to the audience, and even 
 the splendid work of Walter Hampden fell short 
 of making Caliban a fit person to introduce to the 
 Young Girl. Rather did this crude piece of 
 nature, half faun, half beast, keep the audience 
 in a constant moral trepidation. Indeed, when 
 the unlovely son of Sycoracc voiced his regret at 
 having failed to ravish Miranda, and deplored his 
 lost hope of peopling the isle with Calibans, there 
 [40] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 was a tensity of mute protest among the audience 
 which it was quite impossible to mistake. 
 
 And mind you, the audience as a whole was such 
 an one as could not readily be assembled for a 
 Shakespearian play; cultured, appreciative and 
 disposed to condone the Bard's occasional gross- 
 ness for the sake of his magical poetry. 
 
 And yet, when all is said, I am not sure but 
 that Ariel (exquisitely realized by Fania Marinoff ) 
 carried away all faults of the production. Cer- 
 tainly she at times persuaded us of the true 
 wizardry of Prospero^ especially when that long- 
 tongued old person was absent from the scene. 
 Delicate Ariel! thou wert the very thought of 
 Shakespeare, his most darling creation, his familiar 
 spirit. As we listened to thy prattling lyric speech, 
 so strangely mingled of earth and faeryland, our 
 souls were veritably touched by the spell of that 
 wondrous genius who " was not for a day but for 
 all time"! 
 
 So you see, I end on a note of praise. And, 
 indeed, I am very glad that I saw this really, 
 truly Elizabethan representation of " The Tem- 
 pest " by William Shakespeare (or Shakspere), 
 for which I make my best compliments to Mr. 
 
 [41] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 John Corbin, the talented producer. The chance 
 was one, I am convinced, that will not soon occur 
 again. 
 
 Going back to my hotel after the play, Caliban's 
 speech to Trinculo — " Thou art a god and bearest 
 celestial liquor " — kept ringing in my head. And 
 I reflected how the Bard always gives his deepest 
 word to the fool in his plays ; not, we may be sure, 
 without a profound or even divine significance. 
 For Shakespeare himself was a god and bore a 
 liquor celestial; that he sometimes tipsified himself 
 with it, hke StephanOj is true enough and only 
 goes to prove that even the gods have their 
 penalties. 
 
 Sir Herbert Tree's " Shylock " 
 
 THIS IS the Jew 
 That Shakespeare drew," 
 
 rhymed Pope after seeing Quin in the character 
 of Shylock. What a famous character it is, en- 
 twined with what memories of histrionic renown; 
 the glory of the English stage, from Betterton to 
 Kean! And what a play, exhibiting the great 
 [42] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 Poet's mastery of passion, with a weaving through- 
 out of golden fancy! Is't not in itself an estate 
 rich as a kingly reversion, and would not we, like 
 the lady Olivia, rather lose half our dowry than see 
 mischance come to it? . . . 
 
 This is all very well, but certain Americanized 
 Hebrews have no sort of use for the Jew that 
 Shakespeare drew, declaring the same to be a libel 
 on their kind. Much of the poetry thereof is as 
 hateful to them as was the screaming of the wry- 
 necked fife to Shylock himself, though so pleasing 
 to young Jessica. They will not stand for the Jew 
 of Venice, and they have made protest against the 
 study of the play in the public schools of Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 That there is a strong touch of exaggeration in 
 Shylock need not be disputed. Shakespeare wrote 
 at a time when mediaeval notions about the Jews 
 still prevailed universally. Shyloch's demand for 
 the literal satisfaction of his bond — the flesh from 
 over Antonio's heart — is doubtless in strict keeping 
 with the popular sixteenth or seventeenth century 
 conception of the Jew. People in the England 
 of Shakespeare's time had no more love for the 
 Chosen Race, and as little regard for their feel- 
 
 [43] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 ings, as present-day Russians who still accuse them 
 of ritual murder and other abominations. 
 
 It is regrettable, of course, that Shakespeare 
 had such narrow views and brutal prejudices, but 
 it need not be pointed out to our Jewish friends 
 that literature was greatly the gainer thereby. A 
 milder conception of Shyloch would have given us 
 a weaker play, the strength of the piece depending 
 upon the exaggerated ferocity of the Jew. But 
 what images this over-imagined truculence and 
 malignity of Shyloch lent to his creator! What 
 tragic truth in this personification of a hated and 
 proscribed race that yet was feared as well as 
 hated, and knew how on occasion to collect its 
 revenge! Shyloch seems as great as Holy Writ 
 (which is also charged with certain defects and 
 exaggerations). The creation of this character 
 remains one of the lofty monuments of human 
 genius. Those misguided persons who condemn 
 it or insult at it put themselves in a hopelessly 
 absurd position, like that of an ant, say, defecating 
 against one of the pyramids! 
 
 For great literature is above all racial grudges 
 and susceptibilities, and anything savouring of an 
 attack upon it, in the interest of a clan or a 
 [44] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 prejudice, challenges resentment on every hand. 
 I remember that Heine, himself a Jew, was a 
 great admirer of this play and made a wonderful 
 study of it. He very evidently did not regard 
 Shylock as a libel on his ancient race, conceived 
 in mere sordid Jew-hatred, but rather esteemed 
 him as one of the great achievements of Shake- 
 speare. I recommend those Washington Hebrew- 
 Americans to read Heine's remarks on Shylock 
 in his book entitled " The Women of Shake- 
 speare." It may induce them to withdraw from 
 their present position, which is apt to bring odium 
 upon the Jewish people. 
 
 By the way, why don't these ultra-sensitive Jews 
 protest Fagin in Dickens's "Oliver Twist"? It 
 seems to me they might do so with much stronger 
 reason. Yet we have just seen, under Jewish man- 
 agement, too, a great revival of the play made 
 from Dickens's story, in which the terrible Fagin 
 was the chief character. Compared to Dickens's 
 red Jew steeped in all manner of crime, Shake- 
 peare's Shylock is fit company for the Rothschilds 
 and the Zionists. 
 
 It is not generally known that Dickens sketched 
 his Riah, the benevolent Jew in " Our Mutual 
 
 [45] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 Friend," as a sort of reparation and amende for 
 Fagin. The character is one of his weakest, and 
 may serve as a warning against the literary 
 apology. ... 
 
 Having seen Mr. Corbin's Shdkspere, I decided 
 I would plunge on the Tercentenary and take in 
 Sir Herbert Tree's Shakespeare. This worshipful 
 Knight of the drama was formerly known as 
 Herbert Beerbohm Tree, but in the process of 
 ennoblement he dropped the middle name, or per- 
 haps sunk it in the Atlantic on his voyage to us. 
 The matter is not important anyway, though I 
 have no doubt that Sir Herbert's title had much 
 to do with filling his houses. There be many ISTew 
 Yorkers who would rather see a real live British 
 Knight than Shakespeare himself in the flesh, were 
 the alternative possible. This was acutely under- 
 stood and fully taken advantage of by the man- 
 agement. 
 
 I saw this titled and eminent actor in only one 
 play, the " Merchant of Venice," and it may not 
 be fair to judge him from a single performance. 
 I can at least begin by complimenting him: — he 
 is a master of stage-craft, an excellent producer. 
 [46] - 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 Thank goodness, he did not attempt to show us 
 the " Merchant " as it was presented in Shake- 
 speare's time, but gave it with all the scenic and 
 mechanical accessories of the modern stage. I was 
 very glad thereat, for to be quite frank, I can 
 see that a steady course of imitation Globe Theatre 
 might pall on the most enthusiastic Shakespearian. 
 
 So we had a superb, realistic setting for this 
 famous play, which I think helped out not a little, 
 even with Shakespeare as the author. There was 
 the very Rialto itself (what scene more cele- 
 brated?) where Shylock was wont to be rated for 
 his usances by Antonio, and where he whispered to 
 Tubal his dream of revenge. There were the flash- 
 ing waterways of Venice, with real gondolas glid- 
 ing through them, bearing happy lovers along the 
 moonlight-silvered paths. Here was the Ghetto, 
 and there Shylock' s " sober house," just as they 
 must have been in that reality which Shakespeare 
 transferred to immortal romance. And for a 
 proof, see Jessica, the daughter of Leah, looking 
 from her window upon the carnival fooleries, 
 despite her father's injunction; the while she is 
 intent for the signal of young Lorenzo. 
 
 Yes, I know it must all have happened as 
 
 [47] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 Shakespeare tells it : — Jessica at her window, plot- 
 ting to betray her father, convinces me; and her 
 treachery, though it seem to be but lightly 
 touched, is the deepest note in the play. 
 
 And here I will hazard an observation that may 
 challenge protest. I believe that even good Chris- 
 tians have scant sympathy with the false daughter 
 of Shyloch, whose light-hearted treason is so 
 strongly contrasted with her father's iron character 
 and inflexible purpose. Shakespeare has endowed 
 the Jew with so much genius that, in spite of preju- 
 dice that is of our very blood, he wins a large 
 measure of our sympathy. We almost wish that 
 Jessica were not of his house (one cannot imagine 
 a Jew looking at her without a clutching of the 
 throat). Belmont bridals are very well, but this 
 Jew has suffered much and he interests us more 
 than a parcel of fortune-hunters and bad debtors. 
 Nay, we are not so sure that this honest Antonio 
 (who will take a man's money yet spit upon him!) 
 is either hero or martyr, with his bosom theatri- 
 cally bared to give Shylock his pound of flesh. 
 The crushing award of Portia (a poor enough 
 quibble, by the way), the taunts of the Venetians 
 baiting the Jew in his wild grief and rage — a 
 [48] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 veritable piece of the ancient Israel — leave us 
 strangely cold. We are all-absorbed in that tragic 
 figure, and we recognize that Shylock is the true 
 hero of the scene. 
 
 Did Shakespeare intend it to be so? Not if we 
 must accept the traditional interpretation of his 
 play, which faithfully reflects the crude prejudices 
 of his time. I think Shakespeare, with his won- 
 drous illusive genius, made this play of seeming 
 purpose to please the mob, while he entrusted the 
 secret of his real feelings to Shylock who, though 
 defeated, still remains the one great figure in the 
 piece. This is, at any rate, the paradox of the 
 " Merchant of Venice," and I think the Jews are 
 very foolish who protest this play, which is actually 
 a superb compliment to the Chosen People. But 
 I don't blame any of them for wanting to wring 
 the neck of that slippery little Jessica. 
 
 Mr. Tree's acting was strong and intelligent, 
 but it seemed to me to have few moments of real 
 greatness. His Shylock was less commanding in 
 his rage and ruthless purpose than pathetic in 
 his weakness and defeat. No doubt, this falling 
 off was mainly due to a voice whose lack of reso- 
 nance and colour terribly handicaps this actor for 
 
 [49] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 the great roles of Shakespeare. But, like the late 
 Henry Irving, he indemnifies us with his skill as 
 a producer and his mastery of stage-craft. His 
 visit should have a good effect on theatrical con- 
 ditions in this country, but I doubt if it will do 
 much to revive the Shakespearian drama. The 
 raw truth is that listening to the same seems too 
 much like work to the " tired business man," and, 
 as I have hinted above, the language is often 
 obscure or positively unintelligible to a great 
 majority of the public. Besides, each generation 
 loves to see itself mirrored on the stage, and the 
 classic never has a chance with the contemporary, 
 whatever the disparity of merit. So it need not 
 hurt us overmuch to admit that New York prefers 
 " Potash and Perlmutter " or the Ziegfeld " Fol- 
 lies " to the best acted play of Shakespeare. After 
 all, I am not sure that the public is greatly at 
 fault. It will do no good to insist upon the tyr- 
 anny of the classics. In time Shakespeare must 
 pass from the stage where he has lorded it so lon^: 
 can we pretend that he is not already all but gone 
 in this country? Do you suppose that we shall 
 still be presenting his plays when the fourth Cen- 
 tenary comes round? Do you fancy that, with 
 [50] 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 the constant change and corruption of language, 
 New York will understand him any better in the 
 year Two thousand and sixteen? Nay, I conclude 
 in the words of a modest but estimable author : * 
 " Though it be certainly true that Shakespeare 
 was not for a day but for all time, yet is change 
 written upon all things, and the stage will one day 
 be closed to the mightiest of its monarchs. Never, 
 we may be sure, the Book in which he rules the 
 hearts and the imaginations of men." 
 
 A Shakespearian Exhibit 
 
 ALSO I gave myself the pleasure of looking 
 over the Exhibition of Shakespeariana at 
 the New York Public Library which, by the way, 
 is the finest classic structure in the City : — a splen- 
 did testimony to the truth that the world has not 
 been able to advance a step beyond "the beauty 
 that was Greece." 
 
 Here were shown early prints of Shakespeare's 
 plays and poems, the famous First Folio (valued 
 at thousands of dollars) spurious works attributed 
 to him, books that he had read and used as 
 
 * See "At the Sign of the Van," page 2T2. 
 
 [51] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 " sources," books containing allusions to him, etc., 
 etc. Of the last mentioned, none interested me so 
 much as Greene's " Groatsworth of Wit," pub- 
 lished in 1592, a stupid thing which has been im- 
 mortalized by its attack upon Shakespeare. He 
 was only twenty-eight when the envious Greene 
 likened him to *' an upstart Crow beautified with 
 om* feathers ... in his own conceit the only 
 Shake-scene in the countrie." This was maybe the 
 very book, the identical page which exposed the 
 taunt to Shakespeare's eye, and no doubt caused 
 that eye to flash and the poet's cheek to pale. 
 Glory and Envy are here strangely met again 
 
 after the lapse of three centuries. 
 
 I was most interested in the books printed dur- 
 ing Shakespeare's lifetime, texts of his Plays and 
 Poems which he himself saw and handled. How 
 carelessly they were thrown upon the world, those 
 offspring of his mighty genius! His Poems were 
 thought more of than his Plays, it is said, and 
 his concern for the former proves that he himself 
 shared this preference. Among those who missed 
 the greatness of William Shakespeare was the man 
 himself! This was, no doubt, because of his pre- 
 ternatural facility. He seems to have produced 
 [521 
 
SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY 
 
 his wonderful works without agony or exhaustion; 
 and his fellow-players testify that they received 
 his papers without a blot in them. 
 
 It is hard enough to believe, for Shakespeare's 
 supreme greatness is in his passion, and the chil- 
 dren of passion should bear the marks of their 
 paternity. However this may be, I will remark 
 that the total effect of this exhibit was to raise 
 an overwhelming sense of the identity of the Man 
 and the Poet. I was never a Baconian, in faith, 
 sweet William having possessed me from my 
 fifteenth year; but the perverse folly of those 
 who would rob the great Poet of his due, in the 
 presence of these testimonies, struck me as a thing 
 outrageous beyond parallel. As I say, I myself 
 never doubted Shakespeare, for I learned him 
 young when the heart has more wisdom than the 
 head. Yes, I came under that mighty spell in 
 boyhood, and I have always regarded it as the best 
 part of my education and the most fruitful adven- 
 ture of my mental life. 
 
 The portraits of the Poet shown in this collec- 
 tion call for a special word. One would like to 
 believe that the so-called Griffin Portrait of Shake- 
 speare is an authentic likeness. Although but re- 
 
 [53] 
 
MANNAHATTA 
 
 cently discovered, or at least made public, it is said 
 to have been for two hundred years in the posses- 
 sion of the Griffin family in Northamptonshire. It 
 is further alleged that the Bard's paternal great- 
 grandmother was a Griffin. I do not know 
 whether the experts will allow this claim, and I 
 must say the legend strikes me as more romantic 
 than probable. The point, as I have said, is one 
 for the antiquarians to decide. But I would be 
 glad to accept this Portrait as the true present- 
 ment of Shakespeare. It seems to be an idealized 
 composite of the Chandos and Droeshout pictures, 
 painted by an artist of genius. It is beautiful, 
 fresh, living — alas, too much so to compel the 
 fullest faith. There is a certain quite indescrib- 
 able royal dignity in the eyes — one feels that 
 Shakespeare must have looked so. Those eyes 
 seemed to follow me with their proud yet gracious 
 smile; and when at length I withdrew from the 
 room I did not turn my back upon them. 
 
 Does not one so retire from the presence of a 
 King? 
 
 [54] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 SPAGHETTI 
 
 Dis earns ipsis, quippe ter et quater 
 Anno revisens aequor Atlanticum 
 Impune; me pascunt olivae. 
 Me cichorea levesque malvae. 
 
 — Horace, Lib. 1-31. 
 
 Dear to the very gods themselves 
 
 {Since never vainly do I troth 'em) 
 And three or four times o' the year 
 
 Levanting down to Gotham; 
 Me the tart olive nourisheth. 
 
 With other such confetti. 
 And one thing Flaccus quite forgot, 
 
 Italia s pride — spaghetti! 
 
 1 CONFESS to a great partiality for it. 
 The place where you get it right, at least 
 to my taste, is a modest Italian table d'hote in 
 Twenty-seventh Street, just off Broadway. Here 
 it is served as the piece de resistance of a dinner 
 
 [57] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 that costs you one dollar, plus a two-bit piece. 
 Bigger and more showy places there be a-plenty, 
 where you pay a fancier price and the vermicular 
 cereal is dished up with more frills and fussiness; 
 but the essential spaghetti, — ^the thing in itself^ to 
 speak philosophically, — will not be so good. The 
 difference is one of savouriness and relish ; a cook's 
 secret which holds many faithful to the little 
 bodega in Twenty-seventh Street. 
 
 Here, too, the soup (which seems to contain all 
 the Horatian vegetables, and a few beside for good 
 measure) is of an extraordinary virtue; while as 
 for drink, you may command a sound Brolio or 
 Antinori. (I do not mention Italian sweet wines, 
 for I never could abide them.) Either of the 
 wines named, moderately dry and not overheating, 
 makes an excellent table beverage or vin ordinaire. 
 My own practice, which has classical warrant, is 
 to dilute the wine about one-half, and taken this 
 way I have never known any bad effects to result 
 from it. The Italians, by the way, are brought 
 up in the daily use of their native wines, and as 
 every one knows, they are an exceptionally temper- 
 ate people. In this country, however, they drink 
 more beer than wine. But though we may not 
 [58] 
 
SPAGHETTI 
 
 agree as to all this, the reader must grant me that 
 without wine there is no Italian dinner. One 
 might as well think to leave out the spaghetti! 
 
 In a word, you can dine excellently for a couple 
 of dollars, and if you are content with heer or 
 native vintages, the damage will be less. The 
 point is worth noting in view of the exaggerated 
 stuff put forth by newspaper writers who are bet- 
 ter acquainted with Childs's than with Sherry's or 
 Delmonico's. There is, of course, no end of dining 
 places where the prices are made especially for 
 snobs and free spenders, places that flatter the 
 fool's purse as well as his vanity; but such are not 
 our present concern. 
 
 During my fat years in and about Gotham (oh 
 yes, I had a few, reader) I sometimes stole a peep 
 into the Book of the great Brillat-Savarin and 
 learned a little of the hedonistic science of eating. 
 'Tis a sin I readily pardon myself since it had 
 the salutary effect of confirming my devotion to 
 the simple life, to which I always returned with the 
 heartier relish after a whirl with the Gadarenes. 
 y^ell, I have often fared more sumptuously but 
 never more wholesomely and en joy ably than at 
 the little caupona mentioned above, where I like 
 
 [59] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 to think the soup has a distinct Horatian flavour, 
 and the wine, one can easily make believe, is of 
 the true Falernian brand. Anyhow, if these be 
 vanities and illusions, they are not at least charged 
 to you in the bill; they cost nothing extra, and 
 they add unspeakably to the pleasures of associa- 
 tion. I am not sure that the great Brillat-Savarin 
 has mentioned it, but in the business of dining well 
 the mind and the imagination must first be ap- 
 pealed to, and in truth the stomach plays only a 
 subsidiary part: — ^when it gets control it eats the 
 man! 
 
 Nowadays, whatever occasion may call me to 
 "New York, I am pretty apt to reckon upon treat- 
 ing myself to a real Italian dinner, with the gen- 
 uine spaghetti made in Italy. Oh, of course, I 
 insist upon that! . 
 
 Now, what do you think? I had scribbled thus 
 far, and my mouth was deliciously watering at the 
 prospect of spaghetti, when a disquieting rumour 
 reached me. It seems that, owing to the War — 
 every annoyance nowadays is charged to the 
 War — ^this famous Italian spaghetti, like the 
 beer of Munich, is no longer procurable in this 
 country, and what we get, and have had for some 
 [60] 
 
NEWYORKITIS 
 
 time past, actually comes from Russia. Can this 
 be true? The idea of Russian spaghetti is not 
 inspiring, to say the least, but I swear I could not 
 detect any difference in fibre or flavour, on my 
 last visit to Town. Another illusion? But I am 
 not shaken for all that: — I still cry, Viva spa- 
 ghetti! 
 
 NEWYORKITIS 
 
 SOME YEARS ago a man of physic by the 
 name of Girdner made a frenzied bid for fame 
 by publishing the diagnosis of a disease which he 
 called Newyorhitis. The thing had been observed 
 before that and some of the symptoms described, 
 but Girdner was rightfully awarded caveat, as he 
 was the first to identify it as a distinct malady and 
 give it a name. 
 
 Like other great benefactors of humanity, 
 Girdner had small reward for his pains, and 
 after a three days' wonder he was forgotten. Not 
 long ago, I am told, he succumbed to Newyorhitis, 
 thus by a strange fatality falling prey to the 
 dread disease of which he had been the virtual 
 discoverer. 
 
 [61] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 Meanwhile, the terrible plague (for it is nothing 
 less) continues to extend its ravages and to add 
 to the appalling total of its victims. No other 
 result could indeed be looked for, seeing the lack 
 of intelligent therapeutics and the constantly 
 increasing population of the Great City. 
 
 Girdner is perhaps in his grave where, it may 
 be hoped, that after life's fitful Newyorkitis he 
 sleeps well. His book sleeps even more soundly, 
 and the warnings which he voiced a short decade 
 ago are unheeded and forgotten. I hate to rush 
 into the breach, dear friends, but somebody will 
 have to lead the forlorn hope. So here goes! 
 
 What, then, is NewyorMtis? It is, as its name 
 certifies, a special kind of disease to which New 
 Yorkers are liable. Many are its manifestations, 
 and a deranged sense of the relative importance 
 of things is one of the most familiar symptoms. 
 The afflicted person never suspects that anything 
 is wrong with him and often remarks, apropos of 
 nothing, that " little old New York has the rest 
 of the Cosmos beaten to a frazzle," whatever that 
 may mean. 
 
 Girdner erred, I believe, in ascribing Newyork- 
 itis largely to the varied and infernally torturing 
 [62] 
 
NEWYORKITIS 
 
 noises of the city. These have their effect, no 
 doubt, and the nerve-grinding horror of the sub- 
 ways, in particular, writes itself in certain forms 
 of the malady. But if Girdner were living to-day 
 he would have to admit that more potent and 
 malefic agents are to be traced to the Yellow 
 Press, the mad chase of the dollar, and above all, 
 the universal sex-lunacy. Different in kind as 
 are these engendering causes, they lead ultimately 
 to the same thing, and that is Newyorkitis. 
 
 The Yellow Journalist makes broad his phy- 
 lacteries and writes but one word upon them — 
 Sex! His fellow, the theatre manager, has noth- 
 ing else on his playbills but Sex! And while 
 there are many reasons for hunting the dollar in 
 New York, the dominant one is Sex! 
 
 Therefore, I think Dr. Girdner might have 
 made a stronger point as to the share which the 
 epidemic sex-obsession has in bringing on New- 
 yorkitis. As I remember, the learned man does 
 not mention this at all, a thing that seems to me 
 inexplicable. For to a lay mind the devouring 
 preoccupation with sex, to which the newspapers 
 cater so grossly and untiringly, would seem to 
 be responsible for the worst phases of the disease, 
 
 [63] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 such as paresis, erotomania, hireinitis, marital dis- 
 satisfaction, divorce, drunkenness, etc. All these 
 and many kindred things are the fruit of our 
 unashamed devotion to the great goddess Lubricity 
 as certainly as the fig tree beareth in her kind. 
 
 OLD MEN FOR LOVE 
 
 ¥ N NEW YORK it is the custom of Everyman 
 -^ and his Best Girl or his Wife or {s'il vous 
 plait) some one that may be nor wife nor maid, to 
 dine several times a week at some favoured restau- 
 rant or hotel. This gregarious feeding is a strong 
 point with the typical Gothamite, and it may go 
 far to explain that virtual abandonment of the 
 " home idea " which is a marked feature of life in 
 the Metropolis. Anyhow, it solicits us as a distinct 
 symptom of Newyorkitis to make a note right here 
 on a certain phase of the morals and manners of 
 the Big Town; which we proceed to do with our 
 customary circumspection. 
 
 Kipling has observed in a well-known poem 
 that — 
 
 Old men love while young men die. 
 [64] 
 
OLD MEN FOR LOVE 
 
 And he explains the reason why in an ingen- 
 ious fable. Whether the poet fabled truly 
 or not, — ^whether it is because young men 
 die, it is very certain that old men love. 
 And one is tempted to say that they seem to 
 have the preference in woman-worshipping 
 Gotham. 
 
 So at least you might infer from even a casual 
 review of the night life of the Town. At all the 
 swell cafes where the sexes meet for the pleasant 
 business of guzzling and gorging, the call is 
 obviously for oldish or elderly men and young 
 women. An unsophisticated looker-on would sup- 
 pose any but the true relationship between all these 
 grey and blonde or brunette heads so snugly tete- 
 a-tete imder the twinkling lusters, with that before 
 them which stimulates appetite and enjoyment in 
 persons of all ages. The seasoned New Yorker 
 looks on it as a matter of course, and seldom 
 ascribes a paternal or avuncular or even a marital 
 relation to the grey-haired gallant. Not if he 
 knows his New York. 
 
 Papas are not so flatteringly attentive, uncles 
 not so affectionately devoted, husbands not so 
 lover-like and languishing. Oh, no! and persons 
 
 [65] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 of ill-assorted ages in legal or family bonds do 
 not have such a good time together. 
 
 Then, you say, these old men and young women 
 
 are all ? Pshaw, let's not bother what they 
 
 are, except that they are — ^having a good time! 
 This is little old New York where people mind 
 their own business or had better. Voilal 
 
 Certainly these highly fed, well-groomed old- 
 sters seem to know the game, and if you watch 
 them a while you will wonder less at the strange 
 preference of their fair companions. Do not old 
 men beat young men at most games of patience 
 and stratagem and cunning? And is not love pre- 
 eminently such a game? Tut, tut! these fair 
 young things know quite well what they are 
 about. They are not so uncalculating as they 
 look, not by a good half. In truth there is a 
 shrewd purpose behind their own play. The old 
 lover is gentle and kind and indulgent; above all, 
 generous. There may be a trifle too much gold 
 in his teeth and too little hair on his head. That 
 falsetto crack in his laugh, too, jars on one, like 
 certain effects of light on his profile or the turkey- 
 gobbler movement in his stringy neck. But he has 
 the prestige and the experience of a hundred con- 
 [66] 
 
OLD MEN FOR LOVE 
 
 quests; and he never hurries you with the rough 
 impetuosity of youth ; and he's really splendid com- 
 pany, though his talk is a little boresome; and 
 though an old fool, of course, he's not nearly so 
 exacting as a young fool would be — and, in short, 
 he is IT. (Newyorkese for comme il faut.) 
 
 You remark that the young women seem proud 
 of their elderly cavaliers and carry themselves 
 with a more pronounced air of assurance than as 
 if they were companioned by younger men. Yes, 
 they seem palpably more sure of themselves — of 
 their charm and their power. Is this perhaps the 
 true underlying motive of their preference for 
 lovers or " friends " who might be their fathers — 
 even grandfathers are not out of the reckoning. 
 Woman's vanity may well be at the bottom of 
 this as of other anomalies. Age is (of course) 
 a potent inspirer of confidence. 
 
 So much for the psychology of those who go 
 down to fish and be fished for in cafes, where the 
 Belly-God and other divinities of the flesh are 
 frankly worshipped. But their affair is not a 
 complex matter — the problem really sounds pro- 
 founder depths of human nature than are to be 
 studied in this gay world of light and sensuality 
 
 [67] 
 
MAISTNAHATTA II 
 
 and pleasure. It is one that radically marks the 
 difference between the sexes. Since the morning 
 of time young women have freely given themselves 
 to old men; young men have rarely given them- 
 selves to old women. We revolt at the fact, as 
 we revolt at that other fact, equally shocking and 
 indisputable, that niodesty is much less native to 
 women than we pretend to believe by a useful 
 social convention. Still both facts remain to set 
 us hunting occasionally for reasons that shall 
 satisfy inquiring or unsophisticated youth. 
 
 Fogazzaro, the Italian novelist, in his book, 
 " The Saint," seeks to make out that certain old 
 men exert a mystical attraction upon young 
 women, and there are surely instances a-plenty in 
 both sacred and profane history to support his 
 theory. However, the mystical attraction with 
 which the world is generally familiar in such cases 
 usually takes the form of what is vulgarly called 
 the " mazuma." Lacking that, the old man has 
 the hardest kind of a game to play, and the in- 
 stances in which he wins out are too few to be 
 counted. But he commonly has the money, by 
 virtue of his age and wisdom; and ever since that 
 gay old trifler Jupiter appeared to a pleasing 
 [68] 
 
THE CRAZE FOR BEAUTY 
 
 young woman in a shower of gold, this form of 
 temptation has proven irresistible to the sex. So 
 long, then, as beauty deigns to dollars this appar- 
 ent perversion of nature will continue and the 
 poet's mournful refrain hold true — 
 
 " Old men love while young men die! "^ 
 
 THE CRAZE FOR BEAUTY 
 
 NEW YORK is gone daft on the subject of 
 female beauty. Many and strange are the 
 tokens of its madness. The present carmagnole 
 or craze for the tango, etc., may be noted as one 
 of the most virulent symptoms. Venus victrix 
 smiles at the ineffectual opposition of the preachers 
 and moralists. It was always thus, she says to 
 herself a little wearily. 
 
 Beauty is the engrossing theme of the popular 
 newspapers, whole pages being given up to it and 
 experts employed to develop its every erotic 
 phase. 
 
 Priestesses of the modern Aphrodite boldly 
 
 * In order to complete this picture of New York's night life the 
 foregoing brief chapter is borrowed from the Author's " At the 
 Sign of the Van." 
 
 [69] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 unveil the art and mystery of female attraction. 
 The flagging hopes of the plain woman are revived 
 from day to day by fresh hints and expedients. 
 Female vanity is kept worked up to a pitch of 
 exacerbation, which plays hob with the economies 
 of the male kind. All of which is very profitable 
 to the newspapers, the vendors of cosmetics and 
 the department stores. 
 
 Women are told that their chief end and duty 
 in life is to make themselves beautiful. A cele- 
 brated opera singer and divorcee advises them that 
 in order to preserve the shape they should (if 
 married) bear only one child and that at forty! 
 
 Actresses are induced by flattering cheques to 
 divulge their alleged " beauty secrets," and their 
 articles — at least those written for them-^are got- 
 ten up with remarkable abandon. It is clearly no 
 care of milady's if they cause pangs of desire in 
 any manly breast. If she was inclined to opulence 
 of flesh, we are told in text and picture how she 
 kept her curves within the beauty zone. If of a 
 tendency to meagreness, how she plumps herself 
 out to what is technically termed a " broiler." 
 
 We are permitted to see milady in the various 
 phases of the toilet, and in none is she chary of 
 [70] 
 
THE CRAZE FOR BEAUTY 
 
 exposure. An odour of rice-powder seems to rise 
 from the elaborate detail and depiction of her 
 charms. 
 
 Society ladies figure very prominently in this 
 vulgar exhibition for the corruption of the masses. 
 Beauty is not, alas! a strong point with the smart 
 dames of the Four Hundred, but the fact does not 
 seem to qualify their passion for displaying them- 
 selves en decoUetee. It is evident that they make 
 it very easy for the journalist to get their portrait. 
 The journalist rather more than reciprocates the 
 courtesy, for he is always pleased to make room 
 for milady's pet Pomeranian in the picture. 
 Woman and dog, no doubt, contribute vastly to 
 the simple pleasures of the multitude. 
 
 Every visiting foreigner is asked to give his 
 impressions of the American woman, her beauty, 
 style, etc. If his remarks fall short of the usual 
 exaggeration, the newspaper " edits " them into 
 acceptableness. If uncomplimentary — that is, 
 strictly veracious — ^they are usually suppressed. 
 
 But perhaps a plain man may be allowed to 
 ask, without offence, where is all the beauty that 
 the newspapers talk about? 
 
 Nothing is so common as the newspaper phrase, 
 
 [71] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 a beautiful woman : few things are more rare than 
 the actual sight of one. Perhaps in a normal life- 
 time one does not see a score of women really 
 deserving to be so called. Art is nothing like so 
 fortunate; the classic past afforded but one Venus 
 de Medici! 
 
 Where, oh where is all the beauty? . . . 
 
 I strolled for hours on Fifth Avenue and saw 
 little or nothing of this overflowing and superabun- 
 dant plenty of female pulchritude. It is true I 
 saw many women whose style of dress, or partial 
 undress, advertised the fact that they deemed 
 themselves beautiful; but that is a different 
 matter. 
 
 The old adage that a modest woman is known 
 by her dress, must be terribly out of date, for 
 modesty was the one thing not suggested by the 
 styles of costume referred to. What they did 
 suggest and literally throw in your face, was the 
 allurement of sex. That at least is indisputable 
 (I suppose) whatever one may think of the 
 alleged beauty so fulsomely harped upon in the 
 journals. 
 
 It is natural and proper that women should 
 dress in a way to move the admiration of men, 
 [72] 
 
THE CRAZE FOR BEAUTY 
 
 but not so as merely to emphasize the difference 
 of sex. This leads to mistakes which might prove 
 very embarrassing. 
 
 Heine tells of being in conversation with Balzac 
 on the street in Paris one day when a lady of the 
 most distinguished appearance passed by. 
 
 " She is a duchess at least," remarked the poet. 
 
 *' Not at all," said the great romancer; " she is 
 une femme entretenue" (a kept woman!) . . . 
 
 There were very few ladies on Fifth Avenue 
 that afternoon who would have reminded any one 
 of a duchess. 
 
 But there were many who made you think of 
 chorus girls, odalisques, Cyprians, files de joie, 
 by their allure and manner of dressing. Unques- 
 tionably, they were for the most part virtuous 
 women complying with the indecent fashions of 
 the hour. 
 
 But is it not curious how the eternal Phryne 
 always sets the modes for her virtuous sisters? 
 Ah! what would they not risk to win something 
 of her fabled charm and beauty? 
 
 The hazard at least is distressingly evident. . . . 
 
 [73] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 CHANGES IN BABYLON 
 
 HARK YE now to the tale of a laudator 
 temporis acti. Back in the 'Nineties, Four- 
 teenth Street ranked with the " high spots "of the 
 Town and was celebrated from Hoboken to the 
 Golden Gate. When I knew it in that not-so- 
 remote epoch, it seemed by night a roaring, corus- 
 cating artery of life and pleasure, especially young 
 life that balked at no risks and no ginger, how- 
 ever hot i' the mouth, and pleasure that scorned 
 to take thought of the morrow. Tammany Hall 
 was there, and there also were the crude liberties 
 deemed symbolical of the Tiger. From Second 
 Avenue to Seventh you had what the fine writers 
 call a microcosm of typical New York life. Visit- 
 ing youth, eager for their novitiate of pleasure, 
 plunged at once into Fourteenth Street, which 
 as eagerly licked them up and called for more. 
 Here was the Rialto, here were theatres and many 
 weird species of amusements, freak shows, concert 
 saloons and of a truth, drinking places galore. 
 Tony Pastor (with whom the proper glory of 
 vaudeville departed) had here his own theatre 
 [74] 
 
CHANGES IN BABYLON 
 
 and reigned without a rival, while the Fourteenth 
 Street Theatre flourished at the high tide of suc- 
 cess. Here was Theiss's (famous or infamous, 
 n import e, 'tis but a memory) profiting by the 
 exuberance of young life — Theiss's which many 
 a pensive oldster will recall for the baptism it 
 gave him. And perhaps there was not a single 
 Babylonish rite lacking in the rubric of pleasiu'e 
 nightly rehearsed in those few crowded blocks of 
 Fourteenth Street. 
 
 To-day all is for the most part changed. Four- 
 teenth Street is deconstellated and, so to speak, 
 taken from the map. It is practically dark at 
 night and quiet as the Street of Deacons in a 
 Vermont village; the tides of life and pleasure 
 have swept beyond it, leaving it stranded and 
 deserted. It still does a little show business in 
 the daytime, mainly with the Moving Pictures, 
 but an old frequenter of the 'Nineties would 
 scarcely recognize it for the glory it was in the 
 halcyon period here recalled. A little more time 
 and the gloom of the encroaching warehouse dis- 
 trict will effectually extinguish it. He that would 
 seek the image of what Fourteenth Street was in 
 the years of its glory must hie him northward to 
 
 [75] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 the Great White Way. Even so, much that was 
 characteristic is perished and gone forever. Man- 
 nahatta devours her children; brief are their 
 generation. 
 
 To an old-timer the eclipse of successive areas 
 of the Town, as business drives pleasure before it, 
 must be a melancholy sight: — is it not like seeing 
 a tomb built over your best and happiest years? 
 But such is the price we pay for the vaimted 
 progress of the City: where there is fabulous 
 wealth in the counters of Commerce some of us 
 can only see the abomination of desolation. Trade 
 puts forth her leaden mace and presto! all is 
 changed as by magic. Huge loft buildings cover 
 the site of cheerful theatres, darkness comes down 
 where once the twinkling cressets made the night 
 as bright as day. 
 
 And lo! even while we are mourning the deso- 
 lation of Fourteenth Street, the same bitter portion 
 has befallen Twenty -third in the onward march of 
 Trade. Another bright artery of the City's life 
 shut off and darkened. Gone are the theatres 
 and the tripping feet of pleasure; gone the lady 
 with the enigmatic smile advertising the Oldest 
 Profession (she is more apt to be of the race of 
 [76] 
 
CHANGES IN BABYLOlSr 
 
 Rahab than she was twenty years ago). What 
 havoc in our memories, in the ordered sequence 
 of things! Here stood yesterday the Hoffman 
 House, most celebrated of New York hotels, 
 clustered thick with legends of statesmen, politi- 
 cians, leaders of every sort, beauties and dandies. 
 Where is it to-day? Swallowed with the Albe- 
 marle (memorable to me for that I first met there 
 the famous " Mr. Dooley," then in his fulgent 
 meridian) ; a monster of stone and iron towers 
 above the familiar site, with not a wrinkle to show 
 where they went down! The transformation is 
 repeated on every hand. Places as famous and 
 familiar as not long ago was Martin's at Twenty- 
 sixth Street and Broadway, have vanished as 
 though they had never been. Vainly shall you 
 seek the Haymarket on Sixth Avenue (for socio- 
 logical or other reasons) — 'twas effaced by a 
 spasm of reform. Even the Tenderloin — a whole 
 district! — has gathered up its skirts and flown to 
 the Fifties. 
 
 It seems our cue to follow: — the modest reader 
 may rely upon the discretion of this personally 
 conducted tour. 
 
 [ 77 ] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 THE GREAT WHITE WAY 
 
 THE ROMANCERS of the daily press have 
 dubbed the stretch of Broadway from 
 Thirty-fourth to the Fifties the Great White Way, 
 in allusion to the quantity of electric illumination 
 in that section. Here or hereabouts are the princi- 
 pal theatres and many of the leading hotels, swell 
 cafes, night resorts, etc., and here the pulse of 
 temptation is supposed to beat a feverish tattoo. 
 It is a gaudy, garish region, but an unbeautiful, 
 spite of the romancing journalist; the electric 
 signs, with all their prodigal waste of light, are 
 hideous to the eye, and they insult the soul with 
 base advertisements. They leap the dome of 
 heaven in letters of fire to proclaim the virtues 
 of a Chewing Gum or a Breakfast Food, of a 
 St. Louis Beer or a Purgative Pill. They fla- 
 grantly typify and exploit a phase of the material 
 mediocrity of New York — ^the catchpenny spirit 
 which cheapens and degrades whatever it touches. 
 There are grand hotels — the grandest and surely 
 the most expensive in America, in this region, but 
 as a whole it is about as crazy and heterogeneous 
 [78] 
 
THE GREAT WHITE WAY 
 
 as one could imagine. It betrays a people in 
 whom there is no defined artistic sense; who may- 
 achieve something beautiful by accident or some- 
 thing monstrous by design. The lack of any rul- 
 ing principle of beauty — even of mere order and 
 regularity, of anything resembling a plan, — the 
 jumbled, higgledy-piggledy character of the build- 
 ings and their environments, especially above 
 Forty-second Street, — are a howling disgrace to a 
 city of metropolitan pretensions. If I were asked 
 to name a part of New York that should exhibit 
 in microcosm most of her defects and, above all, 
 the barbarism that cries out amid her marvellous 
 display of wealth, I would name the Great White 
 Way. 
 
 But if this region be grotesque by comparison 
 with the splendid symmetry, the ordered magnifi- 
 cence of Paris or Vienna, it is not the less humanly 
 interesting in its own fashion; and I cheerfully 
 devote to it a few pages. 
 
 Here is the most celebrated habitat of the free 
 spender in America and the pare aucc cerfs of 
 those who pursue delicately the lure of the flesh. 
 In other words, this is a hothouse wherein strange 
 fruits of pleasure are nursed to a perilous ma- 
 
 [79] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 turity, concerning which stranger tales are told 
 by men who do not seem the happier for the 
 telling; such tales as may not even be hinted at 
 in these discreet pages. In short, this is what the 
 newspapers call the " amusement section " (ele- 
 gant phrase!) of the Metropolis, and the amuse- 
 ments are varied to suit tastes the most perverse 
 and exacting. That is as much as it is good for 
 you to know, pudent reader! 
 
 Here is a large population that lives by pleas- 
 ure, its means and procurements, and especially 
 dedicate to what Kipling calls *' love o' women." 
 A hectic folk, cocottes, souteneurs^ gamblers, men- 
 about-town, rakes, wastrels, all mixed up in a 
 himiorous promiscuity. The grace of God is lack- 
 ing among them, but there is, by compensation, 
 a terrible zest of life. Here the " actor's face " 
 seems native, and the dialect of the theatre salutes 
 you on every hand; vaudevillians abound and the 
 sharp-faced emissaries of the Sons of Sem. Here 
 the young Ass pursues his peccadillo, often pluck- 
 ing therewith its penalty, and the Old Sinner fishes 
 with a troubled eye. If the whole truth of what 
 happens in this amusing district between midnight 
 and five o'clock of any morning could be told — 
 [80] 
 
THE GREAT WHITE WAY 
 
 well, I will only say that it would be very much 
 more interesting than the romances of the Yellow 
 Press. 
 
 And it was here I saw a sight that has remained 
 before my mind's eye above all the spectacles that 
 New York had to show me. I speak of the white 
 feet on Broadway in the vivid centre of the Great 
 White Way. Feet of young girls in white shoes, 
 with shortened skirts. Twinkling feet, gliding 
 feet. Here and there restlessly treading amid the 
 crowds. Going and returning. Stopping now and 
 then for a moment. Sometimes moving very 
 swiftly and again strolling with leisurely 
 pace. Twinkling white feet of young girls 
 on Broadway. This was the most wonderful 
 thing I saw during the night hours in New 
 York. 
 
 These girls were quite young — some of them 
 seemed mere children — and they were made up 
 to accentuate their youth — ^that most coveted 
 flower of the Great White Way. Most of them 
 were beautiful, yet one was troubled at the first 
 glance whether their beauty was of innocent, untar- 
 nished youth. Where were they going, those 
 white feet on Broadway, and what errand called 
 
 [81] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 them abroad that night? Were they hunting or 
 hunted, pursuing or pursued? God knows. 
 
 But this I noticed, that very seldom were two 
 of these girls together; they went their devious 
 way single and unpaired; they might meet and 
 greet each other, as they often did, but each would 
 turn and go her way alone. 
 
 Little white feet on Broadway, threading the 
 crowd so surely and fearlessly, walking amid 
 snares and traps which the imagination dare not 
 picture. Young faces passing suddenly that leave 
 a strange pang at one's heart. Why this sorrow 
 you cast upon us? Why this fear you leave with 
 us in passing? Why this impulse to follow and 
 save you from something we dare not name? 
 White feet like gulls in the great human sea. 
 Flying hither and thither. Now and again lost 
 in the confluent crowds, but always emerging. 
 Going and returning. Moving restlessly or stop- 
 ping but for a moment. Ever apparently aim- 
 less and ever dreadfully intent on something we 
 dare not name. As the hours passed you fluttered 
 away finally — whither? Even as the gulls, it was 
 impossible to track your flight; but one by one 
 you went and did not return. 
 [82] 
 
THE MORGAN LIBRARY 
 
 White feet on Broadway, do you trample any 
 mother's heart — do you walk the ways of shame 
 and death? Little white feet of young girls on 
 Broadway, what were you seeking that night? 
 . . . God knows! 
 
 THE MORGAN LIBRARY 
 
 IT IS generally allowed that the late J. Pierpont 
 Morgan was a man of marked genius in sev- 
 eral capacities; a giant among financiers, a busi- 
 ness builder and organizer without an equal, a 
 capitalist who combined imagination with the 
 greatest practical sagacity. His wealth and power 
 were the envy of all men and no doubt prevented 
 the public from forming a just estimate of his 
 character. Unquestionably, he dominated the pub- 
 lic mind beyond any other private citizen of the 
 Republic; there were times when, as during the 
 money panic several years ago, he quite dwarfed 
 even the President of the United States (who hap- 
 pened to be the egocentric Roosevelt) . 
 
 Even in Europe Mr. Morgan excited nearly as 
 much interest and was almost as grossly flattered 
 by press and public. He was Mr. Morgan of 
 
 [83] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 London quite as much as he was Mr. Morgan of 
 New York. His financial projects were received 
 with great favour and respect by the most con- 
 servative, and the highest nobles sought him as if 
 to avail themselves of that Midas-touch which 
 turned all things into gold. Mr. Morgan was not 
 too proudly democratic to do business with them, 
 and meantime he looked after an interest that was 
 even dearer to his heart. Needless to recount here 
 his wonderful campaigns as a collector by which 
 he enriched the Metropolitan Museum with the 
 costliest, most coveted art treasures of European 
 galleries. This was his amusement rather than his 
 work, but the genius of the man appeared no less 
 in his coups as a collector than in his financial 
 and industrial operations. He attracted to him- 
 self something of the greatness of the Medici; like 
 a prince he gave and like a prince he acquired in 
 the domain of Art. 
 
 I am not attempting here a eulogy of Mr. 
 Morgan, and I believe that we know little enough 
 about the real man: — ^the Morgan of the news- 
 papers was largely a mythical person created by 
 the dollar- worshipping journalist, for great as his 
 wealth was, we know that it was exaggerated in 
 [84] 
 
THE MORGAN LIBRARY 
 
 the newspaper estimates. But I grant his splen- 
 did gifts to the cause of Art in this country, and 
 I have a great admiration for the genius which 
 acquired and the munificence which bestowed 
 them. The question as to how his immense for- 
 tune was come by, or whether millionaires are as 
 a class desirable, has nothing to do with my present 
 subject. 
 
 Mr. Morgan, then, was a collector in the Grand 
 Style, and nothing that he did or left behind him 
 so strikingly attests his greatness in this aspect 
 as his own Library in East Thirty-sixth Street. 
 Here, in the very heart of the costliest section of 
 "New York, he raised a beautiful building — a clas- 
 sic marble structure — for the housing of such 
 literary treasures and rarities as he prized too 
 intimately to entrust to any public institution. He 
 who had given so much to the public would yet 
 keep something for himself; yet even in this pos- 
 session he was not jealously exclusive, for he threw 
 open the Library at times to scholars, authors, 
 students and others capable of valuing the priv- 
 ilege — a policy which is continued with equal lib- 
 erality by his son, the present J. P. Morgan. The 
 building, its ground site and its treasures are esti- 
 
 [85] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 mated at several millions of dollars; as a privately- 
 owned library, it is without an equal in the world. 
 As I have said, it is undoubtedly Mr. Morgan's 
 finest achievement in the Grand Style — ^the one 
 that most signally compliments his genius. 
 
 The privilege of visiting the Library and in- 
 specting some of its treasures — (it would require 
 many visits to examine the collection in detail) — 
 was accorded to me, and this I account the most 
 fortunate incident of my brief sojourn in New 
 York. 
 
 Mr. Morgan's chief pride was in his Library, 
 and here he passed his happiest hours, according 
 to Miss Belle Da Costa Greene, the charming and 
 very capable Librarian. While showing me the 
 things I most desired to see, she recalled personal 
 traits of Mr. Morgan which did not agree at all 
 with the image of the truculent financier projected 
 by the newspapers. Always at Christmas time 
 he made her read to him the " Christmas Carol " 
 from Dickens's original manuscript. It is written, 
 by the way, in a very small, crowded script, and 
 I reckon that Miss Greene fully earned her large 
 salary while she was so employed. 
 
 The original MSS. of famous English classics 
 [86] 
 
THE MORGAN LIBRARY 
 
 are the most interesting feature of the Morgan 
 Library. I allowed to myself that money was of 
 some use, after all, when I was permitted to hold 
 in my hands (not merely to look at them in a 
 glass case) the very pages on which were first 
 written poems that have possessed my heart from 
 early youth. As I turn these precious leaves, still 
 vital with inspiration though tarnished by time, I 
 think there has been no great literature made since 
 the typewriter — that arch-leveller and aid to medi- 
 ocrity — ^has come into use. Here, for example, 
 is the MS. of Tom Moore's " Lalla Rookh," traced 
 in the minute, delicate hand of the Irish poet. 
 How it recalls to me my first peep into that won- 
 drous arabesque of poetry and music! I close my 
 eyes and see the printed page before me as clearly 
 as I did, an enchanted boy. And there are the 
 sonorous opening lines of the " Veiled Prophet," 
 as I have never forgotten them: — ^verily, old 
 Mokanna, I would give somewhat to recover the 
 years since our first meeting. Eagerly I look to 
 see if they are the very same — 
 
 In that delightful province of the sun. 
 The first of Persian lands he shines upon, 
 
 [87] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 Where all the loveliest children of his beam. 
 Flowerets and fruits.^ blush over every stream^ 
 And fairest of all streams, the Murga roves 
 Among Merou's bright palaces and groves. 
 
 Yes, the lines are indeed the same, and the flow- 
 ing music, and perhaps the magic is still there for 
 young hearts and eyes ; but a chilling wind of time 
 seems to blow from the page upon the present 
 reader. Alas! life once dazzled even as this poem, 
 and life, too, has faded. I put down Mokanna with 
 a sigh, yet smiling at his awful wickedness which 
 once filled my young dreams with terror. (I have 
 since met unveiled Mokannas who were far more 
 formidable.) Dear, kind, tuneful Tommy Moore, 
 how could he think to create a terrible villain when 
 all his witchery was love, moonlight and music? 
 I turn a few more pages, and lo! I forgive him 
 his Mokanna for " The Banks of the Calm Ben- 
 demeer " — an Irish melody, very slightly oriental- 
 ized. Maybe it is not poetry at all, as some of 
 the later finicky critics protest; but it caught me 
 young, Messieurs, and your clever arguments do 
 not touch the heart. Even now my faithful mem- 
 ory revives no small part of the old charm and — 
 [88] 
 
THE MORGAN LIBRARY 
 
 I think, is the nightingale singing there yet? 
 Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendeemer? 
 
 I take up the original manuscript of the First 
 Canto of "Don Juan" by the wicked Lord 
 Byron, who was the adoration of my youth and 
 whom (unhke so many wiser critics of my time) 
 I have never abandoned. Do I love him so much 
 because I can always find my youth in his pages? 
 Perhaps ; first loves in literature are apt to endure. 
 And criticism is only relished by persons of middle 
 age who have lost the flair for poetry and romance. 
 Youth I am sure will never turn from the Childe. 
 
 And the spell of that strong spirit is freshly 
 revived for me by the sight of this page which his 
 own hand traced, under the full current of inspira- 
 tion. Heigh-ho! once upon a time I knew dozens 
 of these stanzas by heart, especially those dealing 
 with the love scrapes of Juan, and my naughty 
 schoolmates used to bribe me to recite them. I 
 had to read the book by stealth, my father regard- 
 ing Byron as the Devil himself! I have never 
 thought to forbid him to my own children, and 
 in point of fact, I can't see the " Satanism " with 
 which he has been charged. There be writers more 
 
 [89] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 dangerous than my Lord Byron, if I know any- 
 thing of literature. And I'm glad I read him 
 young, for no poetry has ever affected me with 
 stronger impressions than parts of the " Don," 
 Childe Harold, Mazeppa, the Siege of Corinth, 
 Parisina, and the Prisoner of Chillon. 
 
 Also I am glad that my Lord Byron lived before 
 the typewriter; the poet working and transcribing 
 with the pen is more apt to start miracles. 
 Byron writes as with a sword; his script, bold, 
 dashing, irregular, is entirely characteristic of his 
 genius. 
 
 I saw Byron's own copy of the first edition of 
 the early cantos of "Don Juan," published by 
 Galignani of Paris. The poet has made an auto- 
 graph note where Don Alfonso is described as 
 having surprised Juan with his wife. Ask Miss 
 Greene to show it you; it's really worth while. 
 
 Keats and Shelley are represented by manu- 
 script originals of their choicest poems, and there 
 is a lock of Keats's hair, brown and glossy as 
 when it was cut from his head. Upon first seeing 
 it, the late Richard Watson Gilder fainted and 
 Charles Hanson Towne threw off a sonnet on the 
 spot. It is perhaps the most expensive lock of 
 [90] 
 
IN NUBIBUS 
 
 hair in the world. Oh, it is useful to have money; 
 if you wish to collect such things. 
 
 I like to think of the great J. Pierpont Morgan 
 recreating himself among these literary treasures, 
 and having the " Christmas Carol " read to him 
 from the author's manuscript. It's a picture that 
 inclines one to believe, after all, in the essential 
 humanness of our millionaires — a thing that is 
 popularly scouted. But then, Mr. Morgan was 
 a man of genius! . 
 
 IN NUBIBUS 
 
 GENTLE READER, if you are thinking 
 perchance that we have sometimes dived low 
 in the preceding pages, seeking life at its rankest 
 and fullest, I propose to soar high with you as a 
 fitting climax to this truthful narrative. Take a 
 long breath, for you will need your best wind. 
 Now then! . . . 
 
 Up — up — up amid the clouds and the keen 
 sunshine, eight hundred feet above the solid ground 
 of Manhattan; higher than the builders of Babel 
 climbed in their impious project to outwit the 
 watchful Yahveh. 
 
 [91] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 Steady, my reader! — we have shot up sixty 
 stories, and are now standing on the topmost tur- 
 ret of the Woolworth Building, the greatest of 
 the stone giants of New York and, I dare say, 
 taken all-in-all, the most wonderful structure 
 dedicate to business uses in the world. 
 
 In the foregoing pages I have sought to avoid 
 the subject of money and especially millions of 
 money, which is mouthed to disgust by the news- 
 papers and New York guide-books, etc. But here 
 I am content to mark an exception. For high as 
 we have ascended, we can't get above this fact — 
 that the Woolworth was builded of the nickels 
 and dimes of the plain American people! It is 
 of these nickels and dimes poured forth from 
 thousands of scanty purses that I think rather 
 than of the celebrated Five-Million-Dollar check 
 which Mr. Woolworth is said to have given in 
 part payment for his building. Dear man, he 
 must have had many a white night while raising 
 his Jacob's Ladder to heaven with the small coins 
 of the poor. But his achievement more than repaid 
 him, we may well believe; it exemplifies the 
 romance of commerce which we owe now and then 
 to exceptional men. Certainly the Woolworth 
 [92] 
 
IN NUBIBUS 
 
 ranks with the half-dozen most wonderful sights 
 of New York. It is not simply an immense stone 
 cylinder raised on a framework of steel, as many 
 of these great buildings are: it has beauty and 
 harmony of parts in an uncommon degree, and 
 an individuahty of style which literally puts it in 
 a class by itself. In a word, the architecture of 
 the Woolworth exhibits genius instead of daring 
 of the freak order, which latter we are too much 
 used to expect. I know of nothing in New York 
 to compare with the effect the rich and yet 
 grandly simple fa9ade produces. As splendid 
 as a battleship, I would say — if I may be allowed 
 the simile. (This merely as a parenthesis while 
 the reader is getting his second wind.) 
 
 Looking from our lofty turret, we seem to be 
 in the car of a balloon, so great is the height, while 
 the mighty Metropolis at our feet is dwindled to 
 a checker-board. 
 
 Far below us a golden ball sparkles — it is the 
 dome of the " World " Building, not so many years 
 ago reputed the chief wonder of this section of 
 Manhattan. Soaring many stories higher, but still 
 falling far short of our supreme isolation, is the 
 Titan that men name the Singer Building; and 
 
 [93] 
 
MAISTNAHATTA II 
 
 more remote we mark the graceful campanile of 
 the Metropolitan, outstripped by us a sheer hun- 
 dred feet. All other so-called sky-scrapers, tre- 
 mendous and towering, regarded from an ordinary 
 standpoint, have dropped out of the race ad 
 nubes. The Woolworth is first and the rest — 
 nowhere ! 
 
 Here be altitudes, my masters. From this 
 wind-crannying eyrie how comically shrunken and 
 diminished appear many of the Great City's mar- 
 vels! Old Jacob of the Silver Ladder, you are 
 spoiling a lot of poetry for us. Down there in 
 the harbour, sadly shorn of majesty from our pride 
 o' place, rises (should I not rather say, sinks?) 
 Liberty with her torch. Certes, she appears to be 
 going down, from past conceptions, for she is full 
 five hundred feet below us; yet, pedestal and all, 
 she reaches the respectable stature of three hun- 
 dred feet! 
 
 Everything seems reduced on the same scale — 
 we are Brobdingnagians looking down upon 
 Lilliput. The far-famed Brooklyn Bridge? — tut, 
 tut, a mere hand's breadth, and the East River — 
 a puny creek. Mighty ships ride at anchor in the 
 Bay, but they appear as cock-boats from this 
 [94] 
 
IN NUBIBUS 
 
 height — we are looking through the wrong end 
 of the glass for wonderment. 
 
 Lower Manhattan seems paved with children's 
 playing blocks — these are the houses and ordinary 
 structures. We look straight down on Park Place 
 and Broadway: — automobiles flit about, ant-size, 
 and our fellow-humans are too small to be taken 
 into account. It is the megalomania of the gods, 
 for nothing below seems equal to ourselves or even 
 worthy of our notice. 
 
 No sounds reach us from the turmoil of traffic, 
 the roar of the human diapason in the streets far 
 beneath — yet is it the noisiest quarter of the Great 
 City; not a wave mounts to us from the leaping 
 human tempest where Stentor could scarce make 
 himself audible. We have won to the silence of 
 the greater heights. 
 
 Even so the gods must look down from Olym- 
 pus, despising the ant-like beings on the earth, who 
 think to reach them with their vain prayers and 
 to propitiate them with foolish adoration: from 
 their supreme height, hearing not a whisper of the 
 earthly tumult and untouched, save to laughter 
 and contempt, by all the vicissitudes of the human 
 spectacle. . . . 
 
 [95] 
 
MANNAHATTA II 
 
 Guy de Maupassant tells us that he left Paris 
 once for a long journey because he had commenced 
 to fear the Eiffel Tower would fall upon him. 
 Contrariwise, I felt that the Woolworth was quite 
 solid and safe when regretfully, at the end of my 
 seven days, I bade farewell to Mannahatta. Par- 
 don! — Au revoir, of course. 
 
 [96] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 ONE 
 
 BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 T "1 7RITING TO his beloved sister, Laure, 
 ▼ ▼ in the midst of his first obscure literary- 
 efforts, Balzac said: " I have none of the flowers 
 of life, and yet I am in the season when they 
 bloom! What is the good of fortune and joys 
 when youth is past? Of what use the actor's gar- 
 ments if one does not play the role? The old man 
 is one who has dined and looks at others eating. 
 I am young and my plate is empty, and I am 
 hungry, Laure! Will ever my two only, immense 
 desires — to be famous and to be loved — ^be sat- 
 isfied?" 
 
 They were, in a fashion memorable enough — 
 and this was the life- tragedy of Honore de Balzac. 
 
 It is said that there have been nearly as many 
 books, essays, monographs written upon the great 
 French novelist as upon Shakespeare, and there 
 
 [99] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 is yet no let-up to this torrent of literature called 
 forth by one of the greatest of its masters. The 
 fact is eloquent of the supremacy of Balzac, seeing 
 that Shakespeare had over two hundred years the 
 start of him and that he worked in what is 
 regarded as a higher domain of letters. 
 
 Scarcely less interesting is the fact that the 
 greater part of the literature which in several 
 tongues has swelled the Balzac " legend/' deals 
 mainly with the man's life and personality. It 
 is much to say, but the remark may be ventured, 
 that the " Human Comedy " is in some danger 
 of being eclipsed in point of interest by the author 
 thereof. Sixty-six years after his death in a 
 tragic despair that he was not suffered to com- 
 plete his giant task, Balzac has entered upon a 
 harvest of fame of which even he never dreamed. 
 " Glory," he once wrote, " is the sun of the dead; " 
 — that sun is now fully risen upon the builder of 
 the " Human Comedy." 
 
 BALZAC'S STUDIES of women in his novels, 
 especially the greater ones, throw a vivid 
 light upon his artistic daring and originality. 
 Whatever faults of overdrawing might be charged 
 [100] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 to them, they must be recognized for what they 
 were on their first appearance, — a new departure 
 in fiction and the work of a master mind. In 
 Balzac's gallery of women the daughters of Lilith 
 abound more than the saints; we have nothing 
 in English fiction to compare with them — as in 
 truth, we have no writer (I do not say novelist, 
 he was more than that) who has approached 
 Balzac's achievement. In view, therefore, of the 
 Frenchman's attitude toward the women of his 
 books, the question of his personal relations with 
 the enigmatic sex becomes of mordant interest. 
 
 Thanks to the searchlight scrutiny to which the 
 life and memorials of Balzac have been subjected 
 in recent years, we have learned more than his con- 
 temporaries knew or suspected. 
 
 For one thing, we have discredited the legend 
 of personal chastity and continence which he was at 
 so great pains to set up concerning Honore de Bal- 
 zac! He wished the world to believe that because 
 of this virtue, very uncommon among Frenchmen, 
 he was able to perform and to continue his im- 
 mense labours. Chastity, he declared, was the se- 
 cret reservoir of creative power, the source of those 
 divinations which stamp the man of genius; it 
 
 [101] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 even implied certain occult faculties, as he sought 
 to show in " Cousin Pons." In conversation with 
 his friends, as in his writings, the theme was a 
 favourite one with our hero, and Gautier (who was 
 not personally inclined toward the theory) tells 
 us that a half -hour meeting with the Beloved once 
 a year was the utmost indulgence Balzac would 
 allow to a literary artist. He would not hear of 
 instances of famous writers noted for their incon- 
 tinence : — they had simply cheated themselves, was 
 his position. Alas! like many a moralist, it doth 
 not appear that his practice squared with his pre- 
 cept; though admitting all that is brought forward 
 concerning his " amours," it would be unfair to 
 charge him with great libertinism. To this re- 
 proach his amazing and unexampled literary pro- 
 duction remains a sufficient answer. So good a 
 judge of such matters as the famous George Sand 
 seems to have taken him at his word, for she writes : 
 " Moderate in every other respect, his life exhibited 
 the purest morals, since he always dreaded licen- 
 tiousness as the enemy of talent. He pursued 
 chastity on principle, and his relations with the 
 fair sex were those merely of curiosity." 
 
 This is contradicted by Balzac's sister, Laure, 
 [ 102 ] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 who, with all her love for him, would not consent 
 to any false touches in his portrait. "It is an 
 error," she says, " to speak of his extreme modera- 
 tion. He does not deserve this praise. Outside 
 of his work, which was first and foremost, he loved 
 and tasted all the pleasures of this world." 
 
 By the way, our hero was not physically 
 attracted by George Sand, though he admired her 
 talents in a qualified degree and esteemed her as 
 un hon camarade. We find him explaining to 
 Madame Hanska that she had no ground to be 
 jealous of the author of " Indiana," and for once 
 he was probably telling the whole truth. George 
 Sand, in complimenting his virtue, perhaps took 
 the woman's view that what was not for her was 
 not for another. 
 
 The truth seems to be that Balzac was about as 
 moral as the average Frenchman of his time, and 
 though not a deliberate seeker of bonnes fortunes, 
 his heroism fell short of putting aside those which 
 came along, so to speak, in a proper way. Espe- 
 cially he was not averse to forming very intimate 
 relations with ladies of quality. Aristocracy was 
 indeed a lifelong bait to the little great man, and 
 one can fancy him in the shades almost deploring 
 
 [ 103 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 his immense renown because people will drop the 
 " de " from his name — a nobiliary particle to which 
 he had no legitimate title. 
 
 His first (recorded) love affair, with a Madame 
 de Berny, helped to fix the aristocratic habit upon 
 him to which he was inclined by his tastes and 
 pretensions. He was then twenty-two and the 
 lady was double his age, being the mother of nine 
 children. Her husband was a man of noble lin- 
 eage, and her father, a talented musician, had been 
 in favour at the Court of Louis XVI. This affair 
 probably saved him from some of the typical in- 
 discretions of French youth, but for a contra, it 
 undoubtedly stained his imagination: — the ghost 
 of this maternal mistress rises in many of his 
 pages devoted to the unsparing analysis of illicit 
 passion. But it has a kinder and purer associa- 
 tion with the heroine of the " Lily of the Valley," 
 in writing the description of whose affecting death- 
 bed scene Balzac confesses that he was moved to 
 tears. 
 
 Madame de Berny's husband was living at the 
 time of this liaison, which terminated, without 
 rupture, through a failure of ardour on the young 
 man's side ; it appears not that Monsieur de Berny 
 [104] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 knew of the " romance." He was of the order of 
 blind rather than complaisant husbands, and his 
 wife is said to have taken a lover before Balzac. 
 The Eighteenth century easiness of morals, espe- 
 cially in correct society, was not yet exhausted. 
 
 The Dilecta (Beloved), as Balzac called the 
 mature lady of his affections, swayed him for a 
 time by appealing to and fostering his literary 
 ambition. She seems to have given him intelligent 
 coimsels for the most part, and to have " moth- 
 ered " him, as we say in our English idiom. She 
 improved his manners, which were boisterously 
 self-assertive and to the end somewhat vulgar, and 
 she unluckily confirmed him in those aristocratic 
 notions and royalist politics which, in the eyes of 
 a later generation, often go far toward spoiling 
 his work and making the writer absurd. Balzac 
 from the outset of his career leaned upon women, 
 gave them much and expected still more in return. 
 It is notable that all his favourite heroes follow 
 suit: — women and money are the rulers of their 
 destiny as of his own. 
 
 Madame de Berny, to repeat, had her share in 
 the conception and ordering of the " Comedy." 
 She aided him with her money in his first business 
 
 [105] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 venture, which proved a failure, and thus laid the 
 ply of that tendency of his to look to women for 
 help, which more or less marked his whole after 
 life. Finally, she was a good friend and a grate- 
 ful mistress, and with the usual fatahty that rules 
 such affairs, she introduced Balzac to her successor 
 in his affections — the Duchesse de Castries. 
 
 This was a high flight for a young man of 
 twenty-five, without social or family titles (though 
 he was now using the " de "), and who had as yet 
 given no convincing proofs of talent, not to say 
 genius. There is little room to doubt that the 
 Duchesse became his very dear friend, but the 
 story is mostly left to our imagination, as Balzac 
 was chivalrously discreet in his af aires de coeur. 
 The image of this noble dame is projected upon 
 many a creation of Balzac's. Their romance, how- 
 ever, is not given to us in its fulness, and it may 
 not have overpassed the Platonic stage. Our hero 
 could be discreet where the reputation of ladies 
 of rank was concerned. But the Platonic reserva- 
 tion can hardly be made in regard to Madame 
 Visconti (an Englishwoman, by the way) whom 
 the author drew upon for his hady Dudley in the 
 " Lily of the Valley." Balzac declared to the lady 
 [106] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 whom he finally married that his friendship with 
 the Visconti was a proper one. Posterity is in- 
 clined to believe that he perjured himself like a 
 gentleman. 
 
 OUR HERO had reached the ripe age of 
 thirty-two ere he miquestionably " arrived " 
 with the " Physiology of Marriage " and " The 
 Shagreen Skin " — books which, though not of his 
 very best, fully justified the public reception of 
 them. But even this first, long-awaited draught of 
 the cordials of success did not satisfy Balzac; some- 
 thing else was lacking, and he confides to his sister 
 that he despairs of ever being loved and under- 
 stood by the woman of his dreams, or of ever find- 
 ing her, save in his heart! 
 
 Like the old painter in his " Unknown Master- 
 piece," it was Balzac's fate to hunger vainly for 
 his ideal woman to the end, and in the final mo- 
 ment of expected realization to grasp at a shadow! 
 
 But there were to be consolations for him, and 
 perhaps the most enviable of these was his affair 
 with " Maria," which belongs to 1833, Balzac 
 being then in his thirty-fourth year. She was a 
 delightful girl of middle class station who, as our 
 
 [107] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 hero himself tells us, fell to him like a flower from 
 heaven, exacted neither correspondence nor 
 attentions, and made only the sweet condition: 
 " Love me a year and I will love you all my 
 life!" 
 
 Ah, Maria! — well had it heen for the great man 
 could he have contented himself with your unsel- 
 fish affection; but then we should lack the tragedy 
 of Honore de Balzac. 
 
 It was fortunate for literature that Balzac met 
 this charming girl just at the first full flowering 
 of his genius, as in all but one respect she served 
 as a model for Eugenie Grandet, the most popular 
 and beloved of his female characters. The few 
 lines of dedication prefixed to this masterpiece are 
 inscribed "To Maria"; lovely and sincere is the 
 tribute : 
 
 " Your portrait is the fairest ornament of this 
 book, and here it is fitting that your name should 
 be set, like the branch of box taken from some 
 unknown garden to lie for a while in the holy 
 water, and afterwards set by pious hands above 
 the threshold, where the green spray, ever renewed, 
 is a sacred talisman to ward off all evil from the 
 house." 
 [108] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 This genuine, if illicit, romance ran its brief 
 course, and Maria had her wish; also — an incident 
 which romantic persons will not like so well — she 
 bore our hero a child. Then we hear no more of 
 her in the great man's life-story. But the thought 
 of her gentle love, her kind, unselfish tenderness 
 remains to sweeten the story of that checkered 
 life in which there was not to fall another such 
 "flower from heaven." Ah, Maria! . . . 
 
 The conventional marriage in France is always 
 a business arrangement, and it may be that the 
 *' accidents " of love are less ceremoniously 
 regarded there than such things are among 
 English-speaking races. At any rate, Balzac is 
 allowed to have begotten four natural children 
 i( including Maria's daughter) as a result of his 
 casual love passages. Their history is lost in the 
 obscurity that usually envelops such unfortunates, 
 and no explosions of the paternal genius have 
 occurred to betray their identity to the French 
 people. 
 
 Balzac had in Ms make-up no little of the 
 dandy* — it was one of his superficial qualities 
 
 *Dickens, who presents some strong points of likeness to Balzac, 
 both in his character and work, was also given to a loud style of 
 dress and much jewelry. Henley calls lum the "Almighty Swell." 
 
 [109] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 which men like Oscar Wilde made a hoast of 
 imitating. There were periods when he seemed 
 anxious to shine as a man of fashion (the dandy- 
 ism of Byron was still a living tradition) and, 
 despite his rather ungallant figure — he was in 
 stature only five feet two inches, with a mighty 
 head and the torso of Hercules — aimed at a fop- 
 pish distinction of dress. We hear of his tailor, 
 his jeweller and his goldsmith being lavishly levied 
 upon to " exploit " this phase of the great man. 
 Madame Delphine Gay wrote a book about his 
 famous jewel-headed cane, which figures even 
 more memorably in Danton's comic statue of our 
 hero. In his first flush of prosperity he set up a 
 coach with a gigantic Jehu and (in the English 
 fashion then reigning) a tiny groom whom he 
 called " Millet-seed." He loved to " derive " him- 
 self from noble ancestors and he made a dead set 
 at the company of the well-born. His duchesses 
 and countesses seemed as necessary to his existence 
 as to his art, in which he constantly invoked them. 
 In sum, I fear it must be allowed that our hero 
 was a great deal of a snob, though he was not 
 offensive in the English or Thackerayan degree, 
 and this phase of character was not always preju- 
 [110] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 dicial to his literary work. In certain of his crea- 
 tions his penchant for the " nobility " is splendidly 
 justified. 
 
 This trait appeared even in the artist at work, 
 but here it gives us only pleasure when we regard 
 the sum and quality of his achievement; even as 
 his boisterous egotism is similarly justified. He 
 planned his living quarters with the same minute 
 care that marks his description of the habitations 
 of people in the " Comedy." Greatest care of all 
 was shown in providing for his study — a real 
 sanctum dedicate to the holy toil of creation. 
 Perfect quietude was the first requisite — ^he seems 
 to have dreaded noise as much as Carlyle. At 
 his desk he wore a white Dominican gown with 
 hood, adapting the material thereof for winter 
 and summer. His feet were shod with embroid- 
 ered slippers, and his waist was girt with a rich 
 Venetian-gold chain ("All the elegance of life is 
 about the waist," he writes somewhere), to which 
 were suspended a pair of scissors, a paper-knife 
 and a gold pen-knife, all beautifully carved. His 
 living and working quarters — and this refers to 
 his several homes — were always furnished in char- 
 acteristic taste and usually at a cost that goes far 
 
 [111] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 to explain his constant financial embarrassments. 
 His regular habit was to go to bed at six o'clock 
 in the evening and rise at midnight to his work; 
 but whatever his working hours, he wrote by 
 candlelight, heavy curtains always excluding the 
 daylight from his study. When absorbed in the 
 writing of a book, his isolation was more than 
 monastic; he read no letters and received no 
 callers, sometimes lengthening the creative effort 
 during a stretch of eighteen hours. But the great 
 toiler's claustration was not absolute even at such 
 times, though he wished that the world might 
 so believe: not infrequently it was broken by the 
 visits of the Beloved. A secret door and staircase 
 admitted her at the novelist's house in the Rue 
 Cassini. Thus Balzac both lived and wrote his 
 romances — a perilous duality of existence which 
 few writers have attempted with success. In the 
 case of Balzac it was to have a tragic conclusion 
 that is without a rival in the creations of his art. 
 
 ENTER NOW L'Etrangere (The Stranger), 
 the woman who was to dominate the rest of 
 Balzac's life, that is to say, the greater part of 
 his literary career. She was the Countess Evelina 
 [112] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 Hanska, wife of a Polish nobleman living in the 
 Ukraine. First attracted to Balzac by his studies 
 of women, she sought to know him through a 
 correspondence in which she for a time veiled her 
 identity. The story of their relations culmuiating 
 sixteen years afterward in marriage, is known to 
 all readers of the novelist's Letters. He wrote to 
 her almost daily for many years, pouring forth 
 all his plans, struggles, hopes, ambitions with much 
 of the fiery ardour which he gave to his creative 
 work. She had borne four children to the hus- 
 band who was twenty-five years her senior, but of 
 these only one, a daughter, survived. Indifference 
 toward her noble consort was a prime motive in 
 drawing her to Balzac, and very early in their 
 correspondence she permitted the latter to divine 
 her real feelings. On the lovers first meeting in 
 Switzerland, the Count showed himself as incon- 
 venient as the husband is apt to be in such affairs. 
 "Alas!" wrote Balzac to his sister — "he did not 
 quit us during five days for a single second. He 
 went from his wife's skirts to my waistcoat. And 
 Neufchatel is a small town where a woman, an 
 illustrious foreigner, cannot take a step without 
 being seen. Constraint doesn't suit me ! " 
 
 [113] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFEREISTCES 
 
 He was transported with his new affinity and 
 believed that he had found at last the woman of 
 his dreams. " I am happy, very happy," he con- 
 fesses to his dear Laure, the fond sister whose 
 love condoned all his errors. " She is twenty- 
 seven, has most beautiful black hair, the smooth 
 and deliciously fine skin of brunettes, a lovely little 
 hand, and is naive and imprudent to the point 
 of embracing me before every one. I say 
 nothing about her great wealth. What is it in 
 comparison with beauty? I am intoxicated with 
 love!" 
 
 Such was the beginning of this celebrated 
 romance, auspicious enough in spite of its illicit 
 conditions, and bearing no hint of the tragic con- 
 clusion. But the close student of Balzac will be 
 halted at once by this first reference to Madame 
 Hanska's wealth. The reticence of the woman, 
 and the loss or destruction of all her letters to 
 Balzac (which she appears to have decreed her- 
 self), leave the story perplexed beyond hope of 
 a final and authentic explanation. But there can 
 be little doubt that the question of money, which 
 constantly occupied the actual and imaginative 
 existence of the novelist, furnishes the clue to the 
 [ 114 ] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 catastrophe. The famous pair who had loved each 
 other so long and so ardently, in spite of moral 
 and legal hindrances, were not to find happiness 
 in marriage. They had mutually deceived each 
 other. Madame Hanska was less rich than she 
 had allowed Balzac to believe and reckon upon; 
 on the other hand, his debts were far heavier than 
 he had confessed to her. Balzac was always in- 
 capable of strictly envisaging his financial position, 
 as he habitually mistook the riches of his mind for 
 available assets. Moreover, the flower of their 
 youth was behind them and of their love as well, 
 for the marriage of the church had nothing to 
 give these lovers. They who have eaten their cake 
 may not have it. 
 
 But they had loved well, and it is the romantic 
 side of their story that we are concerned with. In 
 spite of the husband's jealous vigilance they were 
 able to correspond and even to meet at infrequent 
 intervals; when the good man went off the job, 
 some half-dozen years after their first meeting, 
 there was no more restraint than the lady's social 
 position demanded. Balzac now passed frequent 
 holidays with her, and she visited him in Paris; 
 one visit being attended by an accident * that 
 
 [115] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 leaves no question of the extreme intimacy of 
 their relations. It is true, however, that they 
 had undergone a long Platonic probation, and to 
 this Balzac alludes in a letter urging Madame 
 Hanska to fix the date of their marriage. 
 Writing to her on his birthday, he adds 
 a prayer himiorously addressed to his patron 
 saint : 
 
 " O great Saint Honore, thou to whom is dedi- 
 cated a street in Paris at once so beautiful and so 
 ugly . . . ordain that I may be no more a bache- 
 lor, by the decree of the mayor or the Consul of 
 France; for thou knowest that I have been spir- 
 itually married for nigh on eleven years. These 
 last fifteen years I have lived a martyr's life. God 
 sent me an angel in 1838. May this angel never 
 quit me again till death! I have lived by my 
 writing. Let me live a little by love! Take care 
 of her rather than of me, for I would fain give her 
 all, even to my portion in heaven. And especially, 
 let us soon be happy. Ave^ Eva! " 
 
 This was in 1843, and he had to wait seven 
 years longer. All his biographers agree that the 
 
 * There is little doubt that Madame Hanska was prematurely- 
 confined at Balzac's house in Passy, a suburb of Paris, August, 
 1845. 
 
 [116] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 difficile J, indeed somewhat perverse, coquetry of 
 Madame Hanska on the marriage question, and 
 the wearisome probation to which she subjected 
 him, were potent factors in wrecking Balzac's 
 health and causing his untimely death. 
 
 Beware the woman who tastes a malign pleasure 
 in making you wait and stints the generosity of 
 love; she is apt to be your fate and your undoing! 
 
 T)ALZAC has confessed that he could do 
 -*--' nothing without the inspiration of female at- 
 tachment: — to his famous dictum on chastity 
 he added the permission to write love letters as 
 forming an author's style! It is almost incredible 
 how much he gave of himself in this way, while 
 keeping up a rate of literary production that 
 averaged four books for every year of his work- 
 ing life. He sought the sympathy of women as 
 an aid to his work — as the spring which released 
 the creative faculties and fructified his dreams. 
 To Madame Hanska he avows — and we need not 
 regard this as unmixed flattery: " The desire to 
 see you makes me invent things that do not ordi- 
 narily come into my head. It's not only cour- 
 age you give me to support the difficulties 
 
 [117] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 of life; you give me also talent — at any rate, 
 facility." 
 
 His Eve was often jealous, owing to rumours 
 that occasionally reached her from Paris, and she 
 failed to attach due weight to his vaunted dogma 
 of chastity, which he exploits in his letters, even 
 to the prejudice of such a contemporary as Victor 
 Hugo.* But she probably did not expect him to 
 be a St. Anthony, from the conditions of his life 
 and temperament, and she had brains enough to 
 discern the value of the man who wrote such won- 
 derful letters for her amusement. And then 
 Balzac knew how to appease her wrath, if not to 
 quiet her suspicions. He had the Frenchman's 
 knack of humbling himself before the woman he 
 desired to please, without any real self -derogation ; 
 and he could flatter his proud mistress in such 
 lyrical terms as these: 
 
 "Adieu, loved friend, to whom I belong like the 
 sound to the bell, the dog to his master, the artist 
 to his ideal, prayer to God, pleasure to cause, 
 colour to the painter, life to the sun. Love me, 
 
 *"Much of his (Hugo's) force, value and quality he has lost 
 by the life he leads, having overdone his devotion to Venus." 
 Balzac to Madame Hanska. 
 
 [118] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 for I need your affection, so vivifying, so agree- 
 able, so celestial, so ideally good, of such sweet 
 dominance, and so constantly vibrating! " 
 
 Balzac vras united to his Eve in March, 1850. 
 His health was now broken by his enormous liter- 
 ary labours, and the lady had been won tardily to 
 give her consent; it is difficult not to believe that 
 she foresaw the dissensions at hand. The bride- 
 groom, however, was almost wild with delight, 
 and he fancied that he had never known happi- 
 ness before. " I have had no flowery spring," he 
 wrote to his friend, Madame Carraud, " but I 
 shall have the most brilliant of summers, the mild- 
 est of autumns." 
 
 Toward the end of May the wedded pair ar- 
 rived in Paris (the marriage had taken place on 
 the bride's estate in Poland), and at evening drove 
 to the fine mansion which Balzac had purchased 
 and fitted up with splendid furniture, rare and 
 costly works of art, etc. The house was dark, to 
 their surprise and annoyance, and they had great 
 trouble forcing an entrance with the aid of some 
 strangers. A more painful shock awaited them : — 
 the valet left in charge had gone mad, and was 
 
 [119] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 discovered spilling the wine and wrecking the fur- 
 niture. A portentous home-coming! 
 
 Ill in body and sick at heart, for he was already- 
 estranged from his wife, Balzac took to his bed 
 of the malady which ended his life in August of 
 that year (1850). The story of his pleading with 
 the doctor for one year's grace of life in order that 
 he might put the finishing touches to his literary 
 testament — ^then for six months — six weeks — six 
 days, and even six hours, may not be literally 
 exact, but it persists as characteristic of the im- 
 daunted artist. The Countess remained in her 
 apartments while he was dying alone, suffering 
 terribly and much disfigured by dropsy; Victor 
 Hugo, who called at the house and found the great 
 man in his agony, has so witnessed. One is divided 
 between pity for the giant stricken down in the 
 midst of his creative labours and sorrow for the 
 grim ending of the romance which had filled his 
 heart during so many years. It seems such a trag- 
 edy as only he could have depicted. 
 
 The noble widow paid off Balzac's debts to the 
 last centime and settled a comfortable annuity 
 upon his mother. She vouchsafed no explanation 
 of the estrangement and nothing on her part was 
 [120] 
 
BALZAC THE LOVER 
 
 ever divulged. One is inclined to admire her 
 proud silence, but to this hour the world blames 
 her, mainly on the ground that after Balzac's 
 death she took a lover in the artist, Jean Gigoux, 
 who painted a well-known portrait of her. One 
 studies the picture long, seeking to trace in the 
 proud and noble beauty a clue to the soul of the 
 woman who broke the heart of Balzac. 
 
 O Eve! O woman! — ^must thy destiny be al- 
 ♦ ways to betray? . . . 
 
 Balzac's widow survived him thirty years, dy- 
 ing in 1882. It must be set down to her credit 
 that she wished to convert their fine house, the 
 Hotel de Beau j on, into a permanent memorial of 
 the author, and began some necessary alterations 
 with this end in view. On her death, however, 
 the property was purchased by the Baroness Salo- 
 mon de Rothschild, who demolished the house in 
 order to incorporate the ground site with her own 
 gardens. An ironic detail that will not fail to 
 impress the attentive reader of Balzac. Money 
 has the last word in his legend! 
 
 And voila, a story after the Master's own heart. 
 Is it not somewhere written in the " Comedy"? 
 
 [ 121 ] 
 
TWO 
 
 BALZAC THE AETIST 
 
 IN THE preceding paper critical questions 
 would have been improper and were, therefore, 
 avoided; but as we had much to say on Balzac's re- 
 lations with women as influencing and colouring 
 his art, I wish now to note his attitude toward his 
 creations generally. And this the more that I 
 believe an injustice is done him by the run of 
 English critics who maintain that he has over- 
 stressed the evil in human nature and thereby 
 flawed the integrity of his work. Even Mr. Saints- 
 bury, who has done so much for the English un- 
 derstanding of Balzac, is not without qualms and 
 doubts on this score ; for the Englishman is a mor- 
 alist before anything else, and yet he will not 
 hesitate to judge a Frenchman to whom art was 
 the supreme consideration! 
 
 I am of George Moore's opinion, that Balzac's 
 achievement as a whole is scarcely inferior to any 
 work of the human mind. I beheve that in the 
 [122 1 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 creation of veritable human types, in the mastery 
 of passion, synthetic grasp of life, and profound 
 divination of motive, with the ability to exhibit 
 these powers and faculties in a drama of com- 
 pelling interest and original invention, which offers 
 the unexpected turns of reality itself — Balzac has 
 no equal among the novelists of the world. 
 
 To consider only our own literature and the 
 giants thereof — Scott, Dickens and Thackeray — 
 the fame of the first-named is so greatly dimin- 
 ished and his books are so generally neglected to- 
 day that it seems needless to urge the comparison. 
 Whatever be the merits of Scott's works — and 
 no books were in their time more famous or more 
 praised — they seem to lack the principle of life 
 which keeps the world ever freshly interested in 
 Balzac. As for Dickens or Thackeray, these great 
 writers amuse us with their humour and satire, or 
 touch us with pathos, or delight us with sketches 
 of character, throughout their numerous produc- 
 tions. But will any competent critic pretend that 
 in the stern business of reproducing life in its po- 
 tential reality and passion in its hidden play — of 
 making men and women whose destinies thrill us 
 like those of people we have known, and even more, 
 
 [123] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 for such art transcends our actual experience while 
 borrowing its verity therefrom — will any good 
 critic assert that the achievement of Balzac in this 
 wise has been fairly matched by either Thackeray 
 or Dickens? We do not expect that Taine, a 
 Frenchman, would allow it, but even the thor- 
 oughly English Mr. Saintsbury forbears to make 
 this claim. In point of strict, uncomplimentary 
 fact, the work of the famous Englishmen named, 
 as compared with that of Balzac, might be ex- 
 pressed in one of Dickens's titles, " The Lazy Tour 
 of Two Idle Apprentices " ; and this is said by one 
 who is proud to call himself their lifelong lover 
 and admirer! Neither of these admirable writers 
 was dominated by the artistic idea in a degree at 
 all comparable with Balzac, nor has either of them 
 brought to the making of a novel anything like 
 the amount of brains which the Frenchman put 
 into his greater books. Please observe that I 
 mean brains — intellectual and creative force rather 
 than literary grace or merit of any sort palliative 
 of artistic shortcoming or inability to hit the mark. 
 Both Dickens and Thackeray are not seldom de- 
 lightful in their conceded failures. What charm- 
 ing digressions in the " Philip," yes, even in the 
 [124] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 more formidable "Virginians," and where is 
 Dickens more savourously himself than in parts 
 of " Little Dorrit " and " Our Mutual Friend," 
 both books that defy artistic classification? 
 
 The difference between the French master and 
 these great English writers is mainly an artistic 
 one. They have many fine qualities and literary 
 merits, but strictly speaking, they never have a 
 story — well, let us say, almost never. Dickens at 
 least was on the way to achieving it. Was it in- 
 dolence or incapacity or want of the artistic in- 
 stinct that caused their failure? I cannot say, 
 and the point may be indifferent to English 
 readers, since Thackeray's style and Dickens's 
 humour are readily accepted in lieu of a story. 
 It is otherwise with Balzac, to whom creation and 
 construction were all, who imposed a rule of ar- 
 tistic brevity upon himself, and thought out his 
 novel completely before sketching the first chap- 
 ter. Nearly always he has a good story and not 
 seldom a great one — the mechanism of plot, the 
 interplay of passion and all human motives merely 
 regarded. Yet Balzac is not weak or inferior in 
 other respects because of his cunning structure, his 
 deep-laid architectonics. Each story is informed 
 
 [125] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 with a vital thought and philosophy as necessary 
 to it as air to the lungs. It is doubtful if any 
 writer of fiction ever possessed the same capacity 
 for abstract thought, united with a like power to 
 reproduce the actual drama of life. 
 
 OSCAR WILDE remarked (after Baude- 
 laire) that even the servants in Balzac's 
 novels have genius, and it is true that his char- 
 acters generally are by this trait unmatched in 
 modern fiction; that is to say, their creator has 
 charged them with his own force and fire. But 
 while they possess this uncommon life, they are 
 not all of a piece, so to say, but cunningly dif- 
 ferentiated; no two of his rascals or honest folk, 
 though of similar type, are the same in essence. 
 Now as there are about two thousand living 
 people in the " Comedy," the simple fact just 
 stated estabhshes the immense creative power of 
 Balzac. 
 
 There is yet another way of coming at the ques- 
 tion of his supremacy, which idea (if the reader 
 please !) is original with the present humble critic. 
 When Balzac prepares a contest or an intrigue 
 among his people, he arms both sides with such 
 [126] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 resources of talent and courage, of resolution and 
 finesse, of check and countercheck, that the reader 
 is transported as before a living drama. Perhaps 
 the biggest novelist you can think of could take one 
 side of a Balzacian situation or duel of this kind, 
 but the effort would surely exhaust him. Alone 
 the Master can handle both ! Observe, I make the 
 point that there is very much more than literature 
 in the novels of Balzac. There have been some 
 infertile stylists who thought they could re-write 
 Balzac's books to their betterment, but literary 
 graces are of small value compared to the creative 
 content of the " Human Comedy.'* The man who 
 carried a world in his brain may be indulged now 
 and then in a slight lapse or obscurity — we 
 have had to pardon a great deal more even to 
 Shakespeare ! 
 
 For my part I find every species of literary 
 style and merit in Balzac, but the fiery fugue of 
 his invention, the constant marvel of his divining 
 genius always draws me from the form to the sub- 
 stance, even if I read him in French. To the giant 
 labouring at the furnace of creation, to the great 
 artist evoking and individualizing a vast multitude 
 of souls and finding for them appropriate des- 
 
 [127] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 tinies, the matter of literary form seemed less ex- 
 igent no doubt than it did and does to writers 
 whose " style " is all their capital. In art there 
 is room for a Balzac as well as a Bourget, but we 
 must not lose sight of the major values. Like 
 Arthur Symons, I can say that Balzac's style 
 seems always adequate to me — when the wonder 
 of his creative power gives me leave to think of 
 it. The question, however, is one of little or no 
 significance to the English reader who can obtain 
 our author in a good translation. 
 
 Something was said in the previous paper in 
 regard to the working habits of Balzac, and 
 especially as to the seclusion and quiet, the 
 almost cloistral freedom from interruption and 
 distraction with which he guarded his creative 
 ^ask. In this aspect no writer of whom we have 
 knowledge interests us so much, for the reason 
 that Balzac's labours were as heroic as his genius 
 was undoubted. Now in the country, now in 
 the heart of Paris he raised his Ivory Tower, 
 cutting himself off from society in order to see 
 it with the i^-ray of imagination. He worked as 
 if in a hallucination or creative trance, jealously 
 limiting his hours of sleep, desisting only from. 
 [128] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 complete exhaustion. At all times he seemed to 
 be persuaded of the actual existence of his char- 
 acters. To Jules Sandeau, speaking of his sister's 
 illness, he repHed with an apparent lack of feeling: 
 " Let us come back to reality — let us talk of 
 Eugenie Grandet/" 
 
 This is proof, not of his selfishness (as has been 
 asserted) but of his complete absorption in the 
 imaginative world. The clairvoyant always domi- 
 nated in Balzac, and herein I think is the supreme 
 attraction of his work. 
 
 There have been men of great literary or artistic 
 genius who were idle or reluctant or indifferent 
 workers; the world is in the habit of making apol- 
 ogy for them, feeling that they could have done 
 better had they tried. Balzac never asked this 
 kind of indulgence for himself and he would not 
 hear of it for others. His immense interest for 
 us lies in the fact that he was at once a great origi- 
 nal genius and an amazing, almost unrivalled, 
 worker. 
 
 Let us notice his own theories of work and in- 
 spiration; he has set them forth without reserve in 
 " Cousine Bette," and as an artistic credo there is 
 nothing to compare with them. This little manual 
 
 [ 129 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 of Balzac's artistic faith and practice is contained 
 within two or three pages — ^golden maxims to those 
 who are capable of receiving and profiting by 
 them. For the young artist and literary aspirant 
 I take these counsels of Balzac to be the most 
 valuable ever written; the words of a man for 
 whom genius had done much, but who regarded 
 the richest endowments of mind and spirit as 
 worthless without constant labour and application. 
 In truth, since his day, the world has had less 
 patience than formerly with the gifted idler or 
 faineant in art, and it now demands production 
 as the proof of genius. 
 
 To begin with. Courage is the word! accord- 
 ing to Balzac. I summarize: 
 
 " Intellectual work, labour in the upper regions 
 of mental effort, is one of the grandest achieve- 
 ments of man. That which deserves real glory 
 in Art — for by Art we must understand every 
 creation of the mind — is courage above all things, 
 a sort of courage of which the vulgar have no 
 conception. 
 
 " Perpetual work is the Law of Art, as it is the 
 law of life, for Art is idealized creation. Hence 
 great artists and poets wait neither for commis- 
 [ 130 ] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 sions nor purchasers. They are constantly creat- 
 ing — to-day, to-morrow, always. The result is the 
 habit of work, the unfailing apprehension of the 
 difficulties which keep them in close intercourse 
 with the Muse and her productive forces. Canova 
 lived in his studio, as Voltaire lived in his study; 
 so must Homer and Phidias have lived. 
 
 " To nurse, to dream, to conceive of fine works 
 is a delightful occupation — it is like smokmg en- 
 chanted cigarettes. The work then floats in all the 
 grace of infancy, in the wild joy of conception. 
 . . . But gestation, fruition, the laborious rear- 
 ing of the offspring, putting it to bed every night 
 full fed with milk, embracing it anew every morn- 
 ing with the inexhaustible affection of a mother's 
 heart, licking it clean, dressing it a hundred times 
 in the richest garb only to be instantly destroyed; 
 then never to be cast down at the convulsions of 
 this headlong life till the living masterpiece is 
 perfected which in sculpture speaks to every eye, 
 in literature to every intellect, in painting to every 
 memory, in music to every heart ! This is the task 
 of execution. 
 
 " The habit of creativeness, the indefatigable 
 love of motherhood which makes a mother — that 
 miracle of nature which Raphael so well under- 
 stood — the maternity of the brain, in short, so dif- 
 ficult to develop, is lost with prodigious ease. 
 
 [131] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 " Inspiration is the opportunity of genius. She 
 does not indeed dance on the razor's edge; she is 
 in the air and flies away with the swiftness of a 
 crow; she wears no scarf by which the poet can 
 clutch her; her hair is a flame; she vanishes like 
 the lovely rose and the white flamingo — the sports- 
 man's despair." 
 
 And hearken to this, O you writers and artists 
 of little courage, who content yourselves with an 
 elegant dilettanteism — you faint-hearted lovers 
 who fear to come to close grips with the Muse! 
 
 " If the artist does not throw himself into his 
 work as Curtius sprang into the gulf, as a soldier 
 leads a forlorn hope without a moment's thought, 
 and if when he is in the crater he does not dig on 
 as a miner does when the earth has fallen in on 
 him; if he contemplates the difficulties before him 
 instead of conquering them one by one, like the 
 lovers in fairy tales, who to win their princesses 
 overcome ever-new enchantments — ^the work re- 
 mains incomplete; it perishes in the studio where 
 creativeness becomes impossible, and the artist 
 looks on at the suicide of his own talent." 
 
 [132] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 THESE THEORIES are exemplified by 
 the sculptor Steinbock (" Cousine Bette "), 
 gifted, but without will or courage or persistence, 
 who talked admirably about art and in the eyes 
 of the world maintained his reputation as a great 
 artist by his powers of conversation and criticism. 
 Balzac calls such men " half -artists " and admits 
 that they even seem superior to the true artists, 
 who are taxed with conceit, selfishness, contempt 
 for the laws of society. But he adds, great men 
 are the slaves of their work. 
 
 In point of richness and fertility of ideas Balzac 
 has no peer among writers of fiction; he pours 
 them forth in all his books, and the stream rarely 
 shows a falling off, but seems always at the fulL 
 This inexhaustible fecundity of thought is, I think, 
 peculiar to him. True, it tempts him to many a 
 digression which in such a writer, say, as Walter 
 Scott, one would skip sans apology. But some of 
 Balzac's richest ore is to be found in his excur- 
 sions from the main theme. I need instance only 
 the famous chapter on the occult sciences in 
 " Cousin Pons," the episode of the brothers 
 
 [133] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 Ruggieri in " Catherine de' Medici," and the 
 matchless chronicle of Napoleon in the " Country 
 Doctor." . . . 
 
 Was there ever a man so enormously interested 
 in life — for whom no subject was too great or too 
 small? Religion, politics, government, law, medi- 
 cine, economics, mesmerism, astrology, second- 
 sight, alchemy, criminology — this is to name but 
 a few of the subjects he has touched, and memor- 
 ably touched, in his books. Some of his penetrat- 
 ing thoughts have since his time fructified in the 
 domain of occult science; the charlatanism of 
 which he was accused by certain critics, on account 
 of his interest in the " forbidden sciences " and his 
 partiality for treating of these in his books, is now 
 judged to have been a legitimate exercise of his 
 great powers. It is true that some of his " pet 
 notions " have been hardly dealt with since his 
 day, and as a social prophet he failed to reckon 
 sufficiently with forces that are now big with des- 
 tiny in his own France. Balzac was in truth far 
 from infallible — a genius constantly in eruption is 
 bound to throw off much scoriae for which the 
 world has no use. But that he is always pregnant, 
 suggestive, interesting, who will deny, or that his 
 [134] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 idiosyncrasy makes up for his worst blunders and 
 least attractive "manias"? 
 
 Of the debt which writers since his time have con- 
 tracted toward Balzac, it is needless to say much; 
 no worker in fiction has escaped his influence. He 
 is the founder of the modern novel as he remains 
 its greatest master ; later writers have modified his 
 methods, but all have learned from him and ap- 
 propriated without scruple. 
 
 George Moore remarks that Maupassant merely 
 cut him up into walking sticks! Daudet and 
 others have made such use of the " Comedy " as 
 their abilities or their hmitations permitted; many 
 a pretentious structure has been raised of materials 
 borrowed from the Balzacian pyramid. Among 
 English writers of high rank, Thackeray is his 
 greatest debtor, having indeed learned of the 
 French master some of the best lessons of his 
 art. Even Dickens's debt is large, and it is worth 
 noting that with more generosity than the author of 
 " Vanity Fair," he has acknowledged the suprem- 
 acy of Balzac. Coming down to our time, Robert 
 Louis Stevenson was an unwearied student of 
 Balzac and a cordial appreciator of his genius; 
 Mr. Saintsbury allows that this ingenious and ad- 
 
 [135] 
 
Jr'ORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 mired writer owed to Balzac some of his happiest 
 conceptions. In fine, the great work of the 
 Frenchman has been as a quarry to two genera- 
 tions of industrious artists — and artisans! 
 
 A SERIOUS charge against Balzac is that he 
 -^^^ has libelled human nature, representing its 
 evil possibilities by types of character that are ab- 
 horrent to the general conscience and not justifiable 
 by the canons of Art. In other words, it is held 
 that Balzac has no right to introduce us to 
 such people as Hulot and Bette, the Marnefes, 
 Philippe Bridau, Flore Brazier, et ah: their de- 
 pravity is overdrawn and, in any event, it is not fit 
 for our eyes or nostrils. This, of course, is rather 
 the English than the French position — (though it 
 is not without a strong voicing in France, where 
 the virtuous bourgeoisie know little more of our au- 
 thor than Eugenie Grandet and JJrsule Mirouet). 
 English sentiment requires a compromise in deal- 
 ing with such specimens of human baseness and 
 perversity, which was no part of Balzac's artistic 
 method. His practice may have limited his popu- 
 larity-^it will always limit his acceptance among 
 English readers — but it affirms his greatness as 
 [136] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 a master painter of life. His own words on this 
 point are memorable. When his sister remon- 
 strated with him in regard to his evil characters, 
 urging him to modify them or turn them to better 
 courses, he replied: " They can't change, my dear. 
 They are fathomers of abysses; but they will be 
 able to guide others. The wisest persons are not 
 always the best pilots. It's not my fault. I 
 haven't invented human nature. I observe it, in 
 past and present; and I try to depict it as it is. 
 Impostures in this kind persuade no one." 
 
 Again, if during the serial publication of a story 
 he were entreated to save some guilty one or black 
 sheep among his creations — the sentimental public 
 being much given to such appeals — he would ex- 
 claim : " Don't bother me. Truth above all. Those 
 people have no backbone. What happens to them 
 is inevitable. So much the worse for them ! " 
 
 This is somewhat different from the legend 
 which represents Dickens as letting the sentimen- 
 tal public decide the fate of his characters. 
 
 " Cousine Bette " is a noxious dose even for the 
 fanatic Balzacian, and in truth this book lacks 
 moral beauty to a point of being almost pathologi- 
 cal — on first reading it, I thought myself wander- 
 
 [137] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 ing through the streets of Hell! Nevertheless, the 
 art of the book is as great as it is terrible, and Mr. 
 Saintsbury is one English critic who concedes the 
 fact, ranking it with the greatest parts of the 
 " Comedy." No doubt it is his English patriotism 
 which inclines him to prefer Becky Sharp to Va- 
 lerie Marnefe, but we need not forget that the 
 latter " flower of evil " has even a more doughty 
 champion in Taine. Valerie is in truth one of the 
 most finished characters of Balzac; she may be less 
 " respectable," but she is fully as convincing as 
 Becky, though not, of course, equally acceptable 
 from an English point of view. Does Balzac 
 realize his wicked heroine more intensely, favoured 
 to this end, as he was, by the greater license ac- 
 corded him? I am not sure, but I fancy she 
 stays with us longer. Hulot always went back to 
 her (nobody ever left her, she naively said), and 
 so does the fit reader enamoured of the great 
 creations of art. 
 
 As for Bette herself, she is without a rival in 
 Balzac or elsewhere — the perfect culmination of 
 his studies in female wickedness, the Black Pearl 
 that he drew from his profound and laboured al- 
 chemy of souls. There are but few characters in 
 [138] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 fiction so vividly and terribly realized that we 
 never lose the fear which the mere sight of the 
 printed page where they have their life imparts; 
 and of these is the incomparable Bette. But in- 
 deed her quality is such that it cannot be sug- 
 gested in a few lines of description. I always go 
 back to the book in order to further probe her 
 secret, and after many readings I have not yet 
 found it. Like lagOj. she seems in her villainy 
 without adequate motive, but with this difference, 
 that we feel she is justified according to her ter- 
 rible inner code and the workings of her dark 
 nature. The chronicle of her goings and comings, 
 her plots and counterplots, her sleepless pursuit of 
 vengeance nourished by a savage virginity, is all of 
 the very stuff of Balzac's power. Her death amid 
 the sincere grief of the unsuspecting victims of her 
 fury and hatred — hating and seeking to injure 
 them to her latest breath — is a thing made credible 
 only by the force of the genius which depicts it. 
 She remains perhaps the chief enigma and the su- 
 preme triumph of Balzac's art. 
 
 Mr. Saintsbury perceives the full beauty of 
 Lisbeth (which is much for an Englishman), but 
 excellent critic as he is, I cannot follow him where 
 
 [139] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 he appears to doubt whether Balzac has made the 
 most of Hulofs vice, and even ventures to remark 
 that he was not happy in treating this " particular 
 deadly sin.'* I wonder where Mr. Saintsbury 
 would direct us for more competent treatment! 
 So much depends upon Hulot, the blind uncon- 
 scious tragedian of the piece, that if he be a failure 
 the work cannot be called great. But Mr. Saints- 
 bury ranks it with the author's very greatest work! 
 Something wrong here undoubtedly. 
 
 I GRANT that Hulot is " rather disgusting " 
 and a " wholly idiotic old fribble," especially 
 toward the end of his bad courses ; his creator so de- 
 picted him with deliberate intent. But take him for 
 all in all, from the time when he was still " hand- 
 some Hector," in his hearty, hbidinous middle age 
 — ^to the latest glimpse of him in his ever-pru- 
 rient senility, and I maintain that the Baron Hulot 
 d'Ervy ranks with the most successful figures of 
 the " Comedy," or if you please, of the literature of 
 fiction. He is drawn with a certainty of touch 
 which leaves no doubt of his reality. Where in 
 literature do we find such another picture of the 
 libertine sacrificing all that men hold dear and 
 [140] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 sacred to the vile master passion that consumes 
 him, body and soul? The picture of Hulot in his 
 final stage of depravity, when he had sunk to cre- 
 tinism and the last dregs of sensuality, indifferent 
 to the death of his wife whose virtues he acknowl- 
 edged and whom in his careless way he had loved 
 — is as great a thing as you shall find in Balzac, 
 repellent as it may be to English susceptibil- 
 ities. The moral, too, is fearfully convincing; 
 it makes you beheve in God, the Devil, and 
 Balzac ! 
 
 The writers who have accused Balzac of libelling 
 human nature in such characters as Hulot have 
 failed to make out their case. 
 
 To George Sand, who had protested against 
 certain characterizations in this book (and they 
 will always be objected to, since they are beyond 
 the pale of conventional treatment), the author 
 thus justified his method: 
 
 " You seek to paint man as he ought to be. I 
 take him as he is. Believe me, we are both right. 
 I am fond of exceptional beings. I am one my- 
 self. Moreover, I need them to give relief to my 
 common characters, and I never sacrifice them 
 without necessity." 
 
 [ 141 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 In this connection it is interesting to recall that 
 Balzac's " Pere Goriot," perhaps the most power- 
 ful novel of the Nineteenth century, was long at- 
 tacked as immoral. His books, or many of them, 
 are on the Catholic Index as taboo to the faithful, 
 though he was, by profession at least, attached to 
 Royalism and the Church; and though he wrote 
 " Jesus Christ in Flanders." Henley, liberal critic 
 and admirer of Balzac as he was, did not scruple to 
 accuse the author of a leaning toward Sadism, for 
 which he claimed to have found warrant in certain 
 parts of the " Comedy." After this one is relieved 
 to find that the noble Lamartine, who had full op- 
 portunity of knowing Balzac, pronounced him a 
 good man — one indeed whose conscience had a 
 peculiar repulsion from evil. 
 
 The risk incurred in attempting to deduce a 
 writer's moral bias or personal character from his 
 literary creations has not seldom been pointed out, 
 but it will always attract a certain type of critic. 
 
 It sometimes happens upon the disclosure of a 
 crime or scandal peculiarly shocking — like a plague 
 spot suddenly uncovered in the community — ^that 
 people will exclaim against it as incredible, as if 
 to compliment human nature or indemnify the 
 [142] 
 
BALZAC THE ARTIST 
 
 cause of morality in general. They do not wish 
 to admit the possibility of such deeds, the existence 
 of such malefactors; as judging the admission it- 
 self to be a criminal offence. This seems to fairly 
 represent the attitude of certain — mostly English 
 — critics on the question before us. They refuse 
 to allow that the human character can be as bad 
 as Balzac depicts it, and even if so, it ought not to 
 be described at all ! In a word, there is no validity 
 in the critical objection to Balzac's treatment of 
 evil in his novels (whatever religious casuistry 
 might make of it) . The question, as we have seen, 
 did not trouble our author. In his own phrase, 
 he did not invent human nature or the evil thereof 
 — he observed it and described it as a necessary 
 element of his great task — the history of a com- 
 plete society. We may allow that Balzac's divina- 
 tory genius urged him to sound the uttermost 
 depths of human wickedness — the farthest reaches 
 of the lawless will. But one should be as gifted 
 as the author of the " Human Comedy " himself to 
 determine the question whether it sometimes led 
 him astray or falsified his picture of life. 
 
 To conclude: The world created by Balzac in 
 his " Human Comedy " has places to suit tastes the 
 
 [143] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 most diverse, and one can move on until he finds 
 a scene to his liking. I know not if it be true, as 
 some English critics contend, that Balzac has por- 
 trayed the evil that is in human nature more con- 
 vincingly than the good; at any rate, the question 
 cannot be allowed to impeach his art. Frenchmen 
 like Taine make no difficulty of accepting the 
 *' Comedy " on this score. 
 
 In my view, there is within the wide compass of 
 this world of Balzac's creation many a haunted 
 spot, many a wondrous enthralling region where 
 the light of genius dwells in such heart-troubling 
 power and beauty as may be found only in the 
 work of a very few writers, and these the great 
 masters of the literary art. 
 
 [144] 
 
THREE 
 
 THE rOETUNATE HOAX OF PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 SEVERAL YEARS ago there came out in a 
 well-known American magazine a little story 
 entitled " The Death of the Poet," which pleased 
 many with its fantastic humour and quaint ironic 
 pathos, and for sundry other reasons especially 
 delighted the relative few who deemed themselves 
 privileged to read between the lines. It was mani- 
 festly the fortunate, if somewhat perverse, conceit 
 of a poet railing at a destiny which, with all its 
 gifts, had failed to satisfy him. Moreover, the prose 
 envelope of this delicate fantasy was wrought in 
 a graceful and finished style, rarely met with in 
 the current of contemporary literature; and this, 
 with the novelty of the theme, procured it more 
 than a cursory notice from our select reading 
 public. 
 
 The story purported to set forth a last and ex- 
 traordinary scene in the life of Pagan Wasteneys, 
 an Enghsh poet of aesthetic and paradoxical tend- 
 
 [ 145 ] 
 
PORTKAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 encies. Feeling that he has not long to live, 
 though still under forty, and finding himself so 
 bored with life that he can look forward to the 
 end without regret, the poet, unlike Oscar Wilde, 
 heroically resolves not to " die beyond his means." 
 Accordingly, he lashes himself up to a fury of lit- 
 erary production and thereby is enabled to satisfy 
 the claims of his creditors before dying. A num- 
 erous company, they are summoned to his bedside 
 to receive that which, presumably, they had often 
 vainly sought at his hands. All are paid off in 
 new-minted gold sovereigns, beautiful as the poet's 
 own rhymes which, alas, the world had not been 
 always willing to accept as legal tender. A man 
 of law, the poet's trusted friend, attends to the 
 audit, while Mr. Wasteneys from his couch looks 
 on, languidly elate. Each tradesman is given 
 something over and above the amount legally due 
 him — perhaps as a gentle rebuke for past impor- 
 tunities. Then the awed creditors withdraw and 
 the poet has a last interview with his wife and 
 two young daughters, in which he bears himself 
 with remarkable sangfroid — no tears being shed 
 save those of fantasy. Finally, the poet orders 
 that his books be brought in — a rather staggering 
 [146] 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 total of them — and laid at the foot of his bed. 
 He passes his long white hands over them lovingly, 
 and requests his faithful friend, the man of law, to 
 read to him certain of the poems. This is done to 
 the satisfaction of everybody (the reader of the 
 tale included) ; after which the poet saluting his 
 books (fifty- three in number) as his real children, 
 calmly composes himself to die. Thus ends the 
 little story. 
 
 T APOLOGIZE to Mr. Pagan Wasteneys— 
 ■*• pardon! — I should say Mr. Richard Le Gal- 
 lienne — for taking these crude liberties with his 
 charming invention (the curious reader will find 
 it, with much else of like appetizing quality, in 
 the volume entitled "Dinners with the Sphinx"). 
 My only excuse is that I had not fallen had he 
 not proved himself so cunning a tempter. And 
 while praising the art of his clever hoax, with its 
 undercurrent of serious irony, I congratulate him 
 at the same time that the obituary was premature. 
 For had Pagan Wasteneys, alias Richard Le Gal- 
 lienne, passed out along about 1905, I suspect he 
 would not fill so large and commanding a niche 
 in the Temple of Fame as seems now assured to 
 
 [147] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 him. Surely it is better that a poet should live 
 on to give his best to the world than that a parcel 
 of miserable debts should be paid at such a costly 
 sacrifice. This, I take it, is the meaning of Mr. 
 Le Gallienne's apologue of the poet and his credi- 
 tors. A fable, too, that was not without its justi- 
 fying truth, for in spite of all the cruel and stupid 
 comedy that has gathered about the subject — ^the 
 horse-collar wit of generations of dullards — poets 
 are rather more apt than plumbers to suffer and 
 die of their debts! 
 
 Happily for literature, the poet in this instance 
 did not die, and so we have his latest gift to the 
 world, " The Lonely Dancer," — a book which dis- 
 closes higher powers than any previous work of 
 his and ranks him with a very small group of the 
 first poets of the age. Yet to those who have 
 long known and loved Le Gallienne's art, this 
 book will seem to mark no abrupt transition from 
 cleverness to mastery, but merely a deepening of 
 the note and a perfecting of the music which 
 announce the full maturity of the artist. And 
 they will justly point you that in his " Hafiz," 
 which takes us back over a decade, Richard 
 achieved a work, lacking indeed the reclame of 
 [148] 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 Fitzgerald's " Omar," but surpassing it in poetic 
 craftsmanship, in tender and versatile fancy, — 
 above all, in such a blending and marrying of his 
 own inspiration with that of his Oriental proto- 
 type, as has yielded a masterpiece of EngHsh verse, 
 not merely or substantively what is called a poet's 
 translation. These friendly advocates of our poet 
 will cite you the great love lyric beginning, 
 
 " The days of distance and the nights apart T 
 
 as worthy to be added to the imperishable litany 
 of passion ; and indeed it is not easy to deny them. 
 The poetical talent of Mr. Le Gallienne was 
 early manifested, and in truth his precocity was 
 such as to raise a fear that he would not go the 
 distance. Charming as his juvenilia were, there 
 was that in the young poet's work which might 
 well have given his literary sponsors even greater 
 concern. I allude to its extreme facility, which 
 in turn was conditioned at times by a superficial 
 prettiness and sentimentalism. Emerson says that 
 the poet must bleed, but in those young days, 
 Richard shed no blood save that of the rose of 
 pleasure. On this account chiefly, a severe criti- 
 
 [149] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFEREIS^CES 
 
 cism long denied virility to Le Gallienne's verse, 
 and (according to the fixed custom of critics) in 
 order to prove its case, did him a considerable 
 injustice. There never was a time since he first 
 appeared with his " Book-Bills of Narcissus," 
 when Richard could not, if he so elected, write 
 like a true poet. 
 
 But it might not well be gainsaid even by those 
 who cherished his talent, that in his curled youth, 
 like Hylas on his errand to the fountain, Richard 
 played and loitered too much by the way. Youth 
 is a sweet thing, to be sure, but even a poet must 
 not overstay his time in certain phases of juve- 
 nility. I suspect, too, that Richard's light-o'-loves, 
 of which he has had rather more than a fair allow- 
 ance, have not served him well with the stern war- 
 dens of literature, and perhaps have taken from 
 him more than they gave. It is very interesting, 
 but highly perilous, to both live and write your 
 romances: which rightly or wrongly, has been im- 
 puted to our poet. A too great preoccupation 
 with mere Girl, and a certain rather effeminate 
 cult of beauty, have in the past told against a full 
 acceptance of Mr. Le Gallienne. 
 
 But there is, fortunately, little trace of the faults 
 [150] 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 just alluded to in the latest book we owe to the 
 fertile genius of this poet. His merits, as I have 
 said, appear in a heightened valuation, compelling 
 a new appraisal of the man and his work. Evi- 
 dently Richard is of those hardy perennials who 
 go on to more than justify the tender promise of 
 their first flowering. This book gives us a wiser 
 and maturer Richard — sadder, too, doubtless, but 
 the more lovable for that, quaintly as he some- 
 times copies the accent of Ecclesiastes. But he 
 has achieved true pathos at last, and with it the 
 full estate of the poet. I find his latest work 
 redolent throughout of the sap and savour of the 
 English poetical genius that was yesterday vocal 
 in Keats and Shelley, and to-day " warbles its 
 wood-notes wild " through Richard Le Gallienne. 
 
 IT IS not to be questioned that the reading pub- 
 lic in general have an aversion to poetry, 
 mainly because, though the most difficult form of 
 writing, it is yet the most commonly attempted by 
 fools. Palliate the fact as we may, there is the tes- 
 timony of the bookstalls to confirm it, and not less 
 significant is the attitude of publishers, who are no- 
 toriously reluctant to bring out verse, unless at the 
 
 [151] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 author's proper expense — and mark you, Cerberus 
 is not always to be so baited. That the public 
 knows what it wants and that it does not want 
 poetry (save in exceptional cases) is a broad sail- 
 ing regulation in the publishing trade. It prob- 
 ably harks back to the resolution of the famous 
 English house of John Murray, in the third quar- 
 ter of the last century, to publish no more poetry. 
 The fact is that the English reading world had 
 been long overdone with feeble and abortive imi- 
 tations of Byron, Moore, Scott and a few other 
 pre- Victorians, which caused a public revulsion 
 that has lasted unto our day. The world would 
 never turn from good poetry, but the sickness pro- 
 duced by bad poetry is of a kind hard to over- 
 come. 
 
 Here, then, is one very practical reason why it 
 is so difficult to be a poet nowadays: whatever be 
 the value of the gift he brings, he is only too apt 
 to find the gates barred against him. That a poet 
 should expect to live by his verse seems to us as 
 hazardous an adventure and as comic a notion as it 
 was in Grub Street days. I do not think the mir- 
 acle has been performed in our time, though a fat 
 purse may be occasionally lifted on the shady 
 [ 152 ] 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 slopes of Parnassus. To live by poetry is in truth 
 a dreadful trade, like gathering samphire on Dover 
 cMff; and hence, no doubt, the many volumes of 
 Mr. Le Gallienne's prose. 
 
 For all that, mind you, poetry will continue to 
 be written so long as Love and Beauty rule the 
 hearts of men: and the poet with the true stuff 
 in him will never fail to charm away those frown- 
 ing gates with the challenge of his song. 
 
 I need not descant upon the peculiar merits and 
 qualities of Mr. Le Gallienne's work, rated as it is 
 in literary estimation, but I should be unhappy if 
 my readers did not enjoy to the full with me the 
 poem, " To a Bird at Dawn," in Mr. Le Galli- 
 enne's latest volume. To my mind, it is the highest 
 and purest lyric cry that has been heard for many 
 years in English poetry, and may well send us 
 questing back to Keats or Shelley for a like strain 
 of artistic excellence and austere beauty. This 
 poem authenticates the sacer vates in Mr. Le 
 Gallienne as no previous song of his has been 
 able to do, and raises him to an unchallengeable 
 primacy among the living English choir. 
 
 [153] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 I WANT to say a word on the " style " of Mr. 
 Le Gallienne's poetry, as distinguished from 
 its content. People commonly think of style as 
 applied to prose, and all poetry, perhaps with more 
 or less reason, looks the same to them. But our 
 poet's style is the first to be noted of his distinc- 
 tions, marking his work most clearly and unmistak- 
 ably as of the best English tradition. It has the 
 seal of intellect and race. In a word, it is a pure 
 and genuine poetic style, for the like of which you 
 will search long among contemporary makers of 
 verse. One effect of this exquisite distinction lies 
 in the fact that you can never fancy Mr. Le Gal- 
 lienne's poetry being disarticulated as prose — a 
 thing which, absurdly enough, is often suggested 
 in reading even the more pretentious verse of our 
 time. Form and thought are indivisible in the 
 work of this poet — a significant proof of his 
 superiority. 
 
 The poem referred to is a quite flawless speci- 
 men of Mr. Le Gallienne's poetic style. There 
 are many pieces in the same delightful volume that 
 come little short of it in point of true inspiration 
 and distinction of form. This article is already 
 [154] 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 exceeding bounds, but I cannot forbear quoting, 
 as illustrative of the views here expressed of Mr. 
 Le Gallienne's poetry, the following extract from 
 that most unusual nature poem which he has called 
 "Alma Venus": 
 
 Beyond the. heaving glitter of the floe. 
 The free blue water sparkles to the sky, 
 Losing itself in brightness; to and fro 
 Long bands of mist trail luminously by. 
 And, as behind a screen, on the seas rim 
 Hid softnesses of sunshine come and go. 
 And shadowy coasts in sudden glory swim! — 
 O land made out of distance and desire! — 
 With ports of mystic pearl and crests of fire. 
 
 Thence, somewhere in the spaces of the sea. 
 Travelled this halcyon breath presaging Spring; 
 Over the water even now secretly 
 She maketh ready in her hands to bring 
 Blossom and blade and wing; 
 And soon the wave shall ripple with her feet. 
 And her wild hair be blown about the skies. 
 And with her bosom all the world grow sweet. 
 And blue with the sea-blue of her deep eyes, 
 The meadow, like another sea, shall flower, 
 And all the earth be song and singing shower; 
 
 [ 155 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 While watching^ in some hollow of the grass 
 By the sea's edge, I may behold her stand. 
 With rosy feet, upon the yellow sand. 
 Pause in a dream, and to the woodland pass. 
 
 This also, from the " Country Gods "^ — ^which 
 is, besides, remarkable for sounding a deep and 
 virile note that has seldom, if ever, been credited 
 to our poet, is nobly to the same purpose. It will 
 remind the classically founded reader of more 
 than one poem of Horace's, but there is no con- 
 scious imitation and the chief point of resemblance 
 is that it enforces, with scarcely less poetic charm, 
 a kindred philosophy. True poets, you see, are 
 always contemporaries; — that is an advantage of 
 being immortal! 
 
 I dwell with all things great and fair: 
 The green earth and the lustral air. 
 The sacred spaces of the sea. 
 Day in, day out, companion me. 
 Pure-faced, pure-thoughted folk are mine 
 With whom to sit and laugh and dine; 
 In every sunlit room is heard 
 Love singing, like an April bird. 
 And everywhere the moonlit eyes 
 Of beauty guard our paradise; 
 
 [ 156 ] 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 While, at the ending of the day. 
 To the kind country gods we pray. 
 And dues of our fair living pay. 
 
 Ah! then how good my life I know. 
 How good it is each day to go 
 Where the great voices call, and where 
 The eternal rhythms flow and flow. 
 In that august companionship. 
 The subtle poisoned words that drip. 
 With guileless guile, from friendly lip. 
 The lie that flits from ear to ear 
 Ye shall not speak, ye shall not hear; 
 Nor shall you fear your heart to say. 
 Lest he who listens shall betray. 
 The man who hearkens all day long 
 To the sea's cosmic-thoughted song 
 Comes with purged ears to lesser speech. 
 And something of the skyey reach 
 Greatens the gaze that feeds on space; 
 The starlight writes upon his face 
 That bathes in starlight, and the morn 
 Chrisoms with dew, when day is born. 
 The eyes that drink the holy light 
 Welling from the deep springs of night. 
 
 [157] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 I HAVE said that Mr. Le Gallienne has at 
 length achieved true pathos, which to a singer 
 of his joyous and hedonistic impulse naturally 
 came a little late in the day's account. There are 
 not a few tokens throughout this book that our 
 poet has served his novitiate of sorrow, but noth- 
 ing more unaffectedly touching than the following 
 simple verses without a title. 
 
 Who was it swept against my door just now. 
 With rustling robes like Autumns — was it thou? 
 Ahj would it were thy gown against my door — 
 Only thy gown once more. 
 
 Sometimes the snow, sometimes the fluttering 
 
 breath 
 Of April, as toward May she wandereth. 
 Make me a moment think that it is thou — 
 But yet it is not thou! 
 
 I now put this tantalizing book out of hand so 
 that I may not be tempted to quote at further 
 length — there is especially " Flos Aevorum," itself 
 a perfect flower of art and poesy ; and " The 
 Mystic Friends," wherein the voices of Wind and 
 Rain and Sea are rendered in a noble diapason; 
 and not a few others that challenge me to pay 
 [158 1 
 
PAGAN WASTENEYS 
 
 with grateful words something of the debt I owe 
 them. 
 
 For this poet is a bringer of gifts — poeta f evens 
 dona — and especially he brings happiness, that sov- 
 ereign gift without which all his charming were in 
 vain. These poems are tremulous with a summons 
 of joy that opens all hearts, and yet plangent with 
 that sweet pain of sorrow " remembering happier 
 things," which is equally a necessity of our 
 strangely compounded clay. I can hardly think 
 of a living poet who is better able to serve us 
 in this dual wise than Richard Le Gallienne. 
 
 Therefore, I conclude as I began, — and now I 
 trust with the reader's pleased concurrence, — 
 that Poetry has reason to be glad she was not 
 bidden to the actual funeral of Mr. Pagan Waste- 
 neys, or following the Horatian image, called 
 upon to moisten the ashes of her friend the poet 
 with an indebted tear. Be it many a year ere the 
 cypress shall mingle in her garland for him whose 
 just praise is now voiced by the silver trumpets 
 of fame! 
 
 [159] 
 
FOUR 
 
 THE MAID AGAIN 
 
 MARK TWAIN, who loved Joan of Arc and 
 found in her wonderful career the inspira- 
 tion of his most artistic book, perhaps his master- 
 piece, writing to me a half-dozen years ago, said: 
 
 " I was hoping that they (the Church) would 
 not canonize her. We do not raise monuments 
 to Adam: he is a monument himself." 
 
 In point of strict fact, Joan has not been canon- 
 ized: she has been beatified — which is canonically 
 a different thing, though the difference will not 
 seem important to those of other faiths. The 
 Maid, then, is honoured with the appellation of 
 Blessed, but she is not called a Saint, which would 
 entitle her to receive, in her character of heavenly 
 intercessor, the prayers of the faithful. 
 
 Catholics, therefore, must not pray to her as 
 they do or may to other recognized Saints. In 
 France, especially since the war began that has 
 [160] 
 
THE MAID AGAIN 
 
 so tried the patience and courage of the people, 
 they have shown a disposition to ignore this theo- 
 logic distinction and to prefer Joan beyond all the 
 Saints of the calendar. And truly one might not 
 blame the poor people in this dark hour for think- 
 ing above all of cette bonne Jeanne d'Arc who was 
 of their common blood and who showed right gal- 
 lantly that she knew how to help them. Hence 
 in one diocese the Bishop ordered her effigy to be 
 removed from the churches, as the people insisted 
 upon praying to it, although the head was without 
 the nimbus or circle of rays which indicates the 
 plenary degree of saintship. This action of the 
 holy man was roundly criticised (Joan never was 
 lucky with Bishops!) and indeed, viewing all the 
 circumstances, it may well have left him liable to 
 the charge of lese-patriotisme, 
 
 A clever French writer, M. Jean de Bonnefon, 
 has composed a double Invocation to the Maid 
 with a view, as he professes, to satisfying both 
 Catholics and non-believers and rallying all parties 
 under her standard. I translate the laic Prayer 
 or " eloge " which appeared not long ago in the 
 " Mercure de France." 
 
 [161] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 GLORY TO Joan of Arc! daughter of the 
 people, truly and proudly a heretic, betrayed 
 by her King, sold by the nobles, martyred by the 
 priests. 
 
 Glory to Joan of Arc! condemned at Rouen by 
 the whole Roman Church, by the Cardinal of 
 Winchester and by the Bishop of Beauvais, by 
 the Vicar of the Inquisition representing the Holy 
 See, by the official theologians of the Faculty of 
 Paris, by the priests and monks of every order. 
 
 Glory to Joan of Arc ! whose King had her trial 
 revised eighteen years after the murder at Rouen, 
 not to rehabilitate the fame of her who had saved 
 France, but only to prove that he, the King, had 
 not employed a creature of the Devil. 
 
 Glory to Joan of Arc ! terrible to the enemies 
 of France, rebellious to the theologians of Rome, 
 inspirer of the new patriotism, adversary of 
 religious intolerance. 
 
 Glory to Joan of Arc! forgotten so long as 
 lasted the power of Kings whose throne she had 
 saved: glorified by the French people as soon as 
 they had learned liberty from the Revolution. 
 
 Joan triumphant belongs to France; Joan the 
 [162] 
 
THE MAID AGAIN 
 
 martyr belongs to the Revolution and to free 
 thought. 
 
 Joan, the first and most beautiful example of 
 heroic womanhood, is also the finest example of 
 what human ferocity can do, in lies, in calumnies 
 and in tortures. 
 
 Joan created in the Fifteenth century two laic 
 novelties: the cult of the fatherland as against the 
 international cult of religion; the right to liberty 
 of conscience, affirmed before her judges and 
 executioners. 
 
 Joan of Arc believed in God and despised the 
 Church. Proofs : 
 
 To the women who asked her to touch some 
 objects in order to bless them, she replied: " Touch 
 them yourselves; that will be just as good." 
 
 In the time of Joan of Arc there were three 
 Popes at once. Armagnac asked the Virgin War- 
 rior to point out the true one. " I will tell you," 
 she said, laughing, " as soon as the English give 
 me time to breathe." 
 
 Before the assembly of Poitiers Joan made fun 
 of a Dominican who asked her in a terrified tone, 
 " What language do your Voices speak! " 
 
 " A better language than yours." 
 
 [163] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 " Remember," said a learned Doctor, " that you 
 are before the theologians who have studied all 
 books." 
 
 " God has a book," answered Joan, " where no 
 priest has ever read." 
 
 Never spoke Joan in the name of the Pope, in 
 the name of the Church. She admitted no human 
 intermediary between her and heaven. 
 
 At Rouen she said to the Bishops: "There is 
 more in the books of God than in yours ! " 
 
 " Are you willing to submit yourself to the 
 Pope?" cried the inquisitor. 
 
 " Take me before him and I will make answer 
 to him," replied the proud daughter of the people. 
 
 Conclusion: 
 
 The Church dared not beatify Joan as a martyr, 
 for she was the Martyr of the One Church! 
 
 The first sentence of Rouen said: " Joan of Arc 
 is cut off from the Church like an infected member 
 and delivered to the secular arm." 
 
 Glory to Joan of Arc! the first free believer of 
 the beautiful country of France, saved from 
 calumny and hate by the people. The head of 
 Joan of Arc needs no gilded nimbus: her true 
 altar, laic and French, is the Catholic death-fire of 
 [164] 
 
THE MAID AGAIN 
 
 Rouen whose fierce flame illumines the immor- 
 tality of her superb forehead! 
 
 The orthodox Prayer by the same hand, though 
 not so long, is apparently as fervent and sincere, 
 while it states the position of the Church without 
 weakness or undue apology. (Unlike the torturing 
 of Galileo which remains in some doubt, the trial 
 and punishment of Joan, public, extraordinary, 
 minutely attested, cannot be palliated or quibbled 
 away.) I have not left myself room for this 
 " eloge " in its entirety, but I give the better and 
 greater part of it. This Invocation is less mili- 
 tant and striking than the previous one, and nat- 
 urally so; but as I have said, the writer seems to 
 deal fairly as between the two altars, and it cannot 
 be urged that he brings more incense to the one 
 than to the other. Copying his impartiality, I 
 offer the following version: 
 
 Joan of Arc had received a mission — to deliver 
 France from the yoke of the stranger. 
 
 She was the sword and the buckler of God 
 committed to the service of France. 
 
 France can be saved by her memory as she was 
 saved by her heroic deeds. 
 
 [165] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 Without divine intervention it is impossible to 
 explain how a seventeen-year-old child, an inno- 
 cent daughter of the fields, knowing only the 
 catechism, familiar only with the labours of a small 
 farm, could become the leader of an army, drag- 
 ging Victory behind her! 
 
 Joan is the single human figure who unites at 
 the same time, in a sublime ideal, the warrior and 
 the saint, the heroine and the martyr, the invinci- 
 ble archangel with the sword and the innocent 
 virgin adorned only with her virtue. 
 
 She offers the most illustrious example of what 
 human weakness is capable when it becomes the 
 docile instrument of Divine Omnipotence. She 
 was always careful, at the summit of glory as in 
 the depths of her dungeon, to perform with a 
 scrupulous fidelity the duties of the most fervent 
 piety. 
 
 To condemn the Church for having tortured 
 Joan of Arc is, with bad faith, to confound the 
 errors of some men of the Church, who pass, with 
 the role of the Church, which remains. It is the 
 Church which has rehabilitated Joan of Arc, which 
 has created her popularity. It is the Pope of 
 Rome who has desired to confer upon her the 
 [166] 
 
THE MAID AGAIN 
 
 greatest honour within his power — that of the 
 altars. 
 
 During her trial she ceased not to appeal to the 
 Pope, and she demanded to be brought before the 
 Bishop of Rome in order that she might justify 
 herself. 
 
 On the death-pile, as the fire mounted, she 
 begged Martin Ladvenu to hold the cross high- 
 raised, so that she might see the Sign of God 
 until the last second above the flames. 
 
 The Church in beatifying Joan of Arc has torn 
 aside the veils which error had cast upon a holy 
 figure. 
 
 THESE TWO invocations seem to me to rep- 
 resent something more than a literary tour 
 de force or a proof of French versatility: there is 
 in truth a deeper lesson behind them. Joan of Arc 
 remains one of the few dominant figures of history 
 — in certain respects of character and conduct she 
 approaches the Nazarene himself ! Her story par- 
 allels His in the obscurity of her birth and early 
 life, and in the supreme points of the Mission, the 
 Betrayal and the Sacrifice. Also she resembles 
 the Great Martyr in her eternal destiny ; like Him 
 
 [167] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 she has been as a sword flung into the world. She 
 is still under trial, in spite of the tardy Beatifica- 
 tion — a partial surrender of the Church whose 
 ministers charged themselves with her death. 
 Alone among the victims of mediaeval darkness, 
 cruelty and intolerance, she has been able to com- 
 pel from the distance of five centuries this meas- 
 ure of justice and vindication. But it is not 
 enough! — still her quarrel proceeds, — her white 
 banner flutters in the van of the eternal conflict — 
 and not yet has she lost her old wondrous power 
 to summon the brave and the chivalrous to her 
 defence. Strip every vestige of the supernatural 
 from her legend* — and still she remains a marvel 
 and an enigma to all time, as she is the choicest 
 glory of the fair land of France which she 
 redeemed at the price of her blood. In truth one 
 feels in such an hour as the present that the Maid 
 has come to personify France herself! — Beyond 
 that Glory has nothing to give. 
 
 * Voltaire found that it could not be degraded even by such 
 powers of satire and mockery as he possessed. And his " La 
 Pucelle " remains a witness to his everlasting disgrace. Anatole 
 France has fared no better in his laboured attempt to belittle, if 
 not actually to scandalize, the Maid. 
 
 [168] 
 
FIVE 
 
 OUE BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 IT IS a very ancient, and surely a gracious 
 belief, still held by the elect few, that poets do 
 not grow old of the spirit: their bodily part may 
 comply with the universal law of decay, but the 
 soul of the poet shares, by some decree of the stars, 
 in the eternal youth of his song. 
 
 This is only to say that the true poet is Divine, 
 god-like, participating in the immanent and im- 
 perishable Essence of life. Such at least was the 
 faith of the wise ancients — so much wiser than we 
 as to many high things. Be sure that when 
 Horace talked of turning into a bird and pre- 
 dicted his immortality, there was nobody to jeer 
 in Rome. 
 
 There is in our land to-day, growing old grace- 
 fully as to the body but ever younger of the spirit, 
 one whom I have heretofore called our best-loved 
 Poet.* I doubt if a single intelligent voice the 
 
 *Mr. Riley died in July, 1916, 
 
 [169] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 whole country over would deny him this merited 
 title and distinction. His mere name has grace to 
 summon an impulse of love and gratitude to the 
 lips of thousands, such as I believe no other 
 American poet has ever been able to command. 
 In his own home State of Indiana this feeling 
 rises to a sort of idolatry — and very proper it is! 
 Literature in our time has not been more sig- 
 nally honoured than when James Whitcomb Riley's 
 birthday was made a Holiday for the school-chil- 
 dren of Indiana. No poet has ever lived or war- 
 bled or wrote or sung to whom childhood owes 
 so much which maturity is so glad to pay! In 
 this province alone he has had no end of imitators, 
 but scarcely a single worthy rival. 
 
 No writer of our time has won to the hearts 
 of the plain people with anything like the success 
 of Riley. He had mastered the secret of Dickens, 
 who, by the way, was a lifelong source of inspira- 
 tion to him ; — he early found and always kept open 
 the way to the popular heart. His fresh and ver- 
 satile genius worked upon the old human themes, 
 yet ever new to each generation, with unflagging 
 charm, and sympathy, and inspiration. Fortu- 
 nately, he did not have that surfeit of academic 
 [170] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 culture which kills off the poet and produces the 
 pedant. Largely self-taught, like his master 
 Dickens, his best literary capital to begin was his 
 immense zest of life, and his touch with all com- 
 mon joys and sorrows. I am glad that he did not 
 bother to learn Latin, for had he done so he would 
 not have written " The Old Swimmin' Hole." He 
 left the plucking of rare and difficult laurels to 
 others, content for himself to write the Plain- song 
 of the American people, and especially of his own 
 " home folks " of Indiana. In so electing he 
 " builded better than he knew," or perhaps obeyed 
 a profound suggestion of his Destiny. 
 
 Life, far more than literature, was Riley's 
 material; the light he gives is of the very sun 
 of life, not a pale reflection caught from literary 
 mirrors. These half-dozen volumes of his are 
 bursting with joyous life and quaint humour and 
 native wit and many an untaught felicity, — aye, 
 and there are not lacking songs as high and pure, 
 lyrics of as consummate an art as may be placed to 
 the credit of any American poet. This is not to 
 apologize for Riley's work in dialect: — ^he is an 
 artist in that not less than in his more conventional 
 efforts. 
 
 [171] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 There is a kind of literary art, and a very per- 
 durable kind, which must first be parochial in 
 order to become universal. Its apparently artless 
 form and simple content commend it at first to 
 the unlearned and uncritical; it is warmed and 
 cherished in the hearts of the common people ere 
 it be given to or accepted by the polite literary 
 world. Of this order was the poetry of Robert 
 Burns, and to it belongs a great part of the work 
 of James Whitcomb Riley. However, it must be 
 allowed that, setting aside the question of dialect, 
 Riley is a better poet in regular English than his 
 famous brother of the thistle. Natural as was 
 his impulse to sing, and easy as seemed his tri- 
 umphs in dialect verse, the American strove all 
 his life for artistry. I believe he was a greater 
 and finer artist than is generally recognized, his 
 popular appeal having prejudiced him in the eyes 
 of the critical. 
 
 To praise a poet for his popularity is to dis- 
 praise him in the estimation of many critical- 
 minded persons. But there is an important dis- 
 tinction to observe. Some of Will Carleton's 
 homely dialect pieces have been circulated as 
 widely perhaps as similar work of Mr. Riley's. 
 [172] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 No competent judge of verse would, therefore, 
 class these writers on the same plane. Shake- 
 speare and Tupper in the same bookcase need not 
 produce a confusion of their merits. Anatole 
 France argues that there is no certain, fixed, 
 absolute criterion of literary excellence. Doubt- 
 less he is right, but the " fixed principle " which 
 he regards as wanting in the judgment of con- 
 temporary art, is seen to apply in the distant 
 result of time. With all the legends of neglected 
 genius, it is still to be shown that the world has 
 ever gone long wilfully blind to really great work. 
 It has a large hospitality, and often it seems to 
 favour unduly the mediocre and the ephemeral, for 
 these amuse it also; but from long experience, 
 it has a shrewd eye for the occasional masterpiece. 
 Mr. Riley need not lead us into this debatable 
 land; his fame is as undisputed as his work is 
 valuable and sincere. He has never pretended to 
 write above the heads and hearts of the plain 
 people; never aimed in his poetry to be, in a 
 literary sense, — 
 
 "^"^ too good 
 For human nature's daily food/^ 
 
 [173] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 There never was anything perverse about his 
 thought or his morals or his literary principles. 
 It never would occur to him to go outside the 
 decencies of life for a subject. His art from the 
 beginning was a flower that took its richest hues 
 from the life around him — the life of a simple, 
 plain, virtuous, God-fearing people. So his work 
 is clean, elemental, spontaneous; — withal motived 
 throughout by an endearing humanity which at 
 its deepest and best is, I would almost say, a new 
 note in literature — the special offering of James 
 Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 Take this little poem which everybody — at least 
 every woman — ^knows by heart. It is simple 
 almost to artlessness, and yet it fully reveals the 
 characteristic genius of our poet — ^his sympathy, 
 his lyric lightness of touch, — above all, his power 
 to speak to the heart. 
 
 There! little girl; don't cry! 
 
 They have broken your doll, I know; 
 And your tea-set blue. 
 And your play-house too, 
 Are things of the long ago; 
 
 But childish troubles will soon pass by. — ^ 
 There! little girl; don't cry! 
 [174] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 There! little girl; don't cry! 
 
 They have broken your slate, I know: 
 
 And the glad, wild ways 
 
 Of your school-girl days 
 Are things of the long ago; 
 
 But life and love will soon come by. — ^ 
 
 There! little girl; dont cry! 
 
 There! little girl; don't cry! 
 
 They have broken your heart, I know; 
 
 And the rainbow gleams 
 
 Of your youthful dreams 
 Are things of the long ago; 
 
 But Heaven holds all for which you sigh — ■■ 
 
 There! little girl; don't cry! 
 
 I beg to say, with all deference to the court, 
 that I would rather have written this tiny poem 
 — this Masterpiece! — than the bulk of that correct 
 but hfeless literature which is honoured by critics 
 and neglected by the common sort of humanity. 
 It would, I am sure, give me a longer, better title 
 to remembrance. Like the child's rattle found in 
 a tomb of the great Pyramid, it may carry to some 
 remote age an articulate echo of our hterature. 
 
 [175] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 GOOD WINE needs no bush, and the 
 critic is dispensed from praising Mr. 
 Riley's poetry in detail: — from Mr. Howells, 
 the great man of letters, to the humblest citizen 
 of Boone, Indiana, there is no break in the 
 chorus of assent. The tribute is one to person- 
 ality as well as literary power — to our best loved 
 Poet! Mr. Riley's poems are, literally, household 
 words throughout the land, and to him more than 
 to any other living poet is granted the right to 
 speak to our most sacred affections. Finally, he 
 fulfills the test of a great reputation backed by 
 equal performance. 
 
 He is a poet of original impulse and inspira- 
 tion ; you cannot " derive " him from any set of 
 literary forbears. Indeed, although he is a con- 
 summate artist, it would be hard to prove a 
 literary motive against him. He is, in short, one 
 of those fortunate artists who make literature 
 unconsciously and, so to say, without thinking 
 about it. The curse of the self-conscious pen, the 
 smirk of the literary egotist from which very 
 few American writers have been free (Stevenson 
 [ 176 ] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 thought the best of us wrote like amateurs) is 
 totally absent from his work. 
 
 He has been content with the simple, sufficing 
 themes of life and he has never sought the ab- 
 normal, the repulsive, the unclean. There are no 
 " sugared sonnets " of his dedicate to covert or 
 esoteric vice. He brings us no fleurs de mal; his 
 inspiration is not of the brothel, the clinic or the 
 charnel-house. This is not to say that he has 
 been afraid of life — few poets indeed have had so 
 keen an eye for its dramatic contrasts, the mingled 
 arabesque of good and evil, the astounding al- 
 ternations in the smallest scene of human reality 
 open to the artist's eye. But his art, like the 
 sun's ray, is purifying, and the divine pity of a 
 true poet transfigures his most painful subjects. 
 
 His songs of boyhood and youth, with their 
 simple joys, their perfect faith and no less perfect 
 illusion, are his best; indeed I think no poet that 
 might be named has made this province so entirely 
 his own or left such enduring trophies there. Has 
 there ever been vouchsafed through the art of the 
 poet such a vision of happy boyhood as Mr. Riley 
 has given us in "Out to Old Aunt Mary's"? 
 Where is the man who could read it through with- 
 
 [ 177 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 out tears? The poem is too long to quote here in 
 full, and it should not be cited piecemeal; but I 
 plead against myself for these few verses that will 
 surely make you want to do your heart a service 
 by looking it up and re-reading it in the cherished 
 volume. 
 
 Wasn't it pleasant^ O brother mine. 
 
 In those old days of the lost sunshine 
 
 Of youth — when the Saturday's chores were 
 
 through. 
 And the ''Sunday's wood'' in the kitchen, too. 
 And we went visiting, ''me and you," 
 Out to Old Aunt Mary's? — 
 
 "Me and you" — And the morning fair. 
 With the dewdrops twinkling everywhere; 
 The scent of the cherry -hlossqms blown 
 After us, in the roadway lone. 
 Our capering shadows onward thrown — 
 Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 
 
 Why, I see her now in the open door 
 
 Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er 
 
 The clapboard roof! — And her face — ah, me! 
 
 Wasn't it good for a boy to see — 
 
 And wasn't it good for a boy to be 
 
 Out to Old Aunt Mary's? — 
 [178] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 The jelly — the jam and the marmalade. 
 And the cherry and quince '' -preserves " she made! 
 And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear. 
 With cinnamon in "em, and all things rare! — 
 And the more we ate was the more to spare. 
 Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 
 
 The honey, too, in its amber comb 
 One only finds in an old farm-home; 
 And the coffee, fragrant and sweet, and ho! 
 So hot that we gloried to drink it so. 
 With spangles of tears in our eyes, you know — • 
 Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 
 
 And the old spring-house, in the cool green gloom 
 Of the willow trees, — and the cooler room 
 Where the swinging shelves and the crocks were 
 
 kept. 
 Where the cream in a golden languor slept. 
 While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept — 
 Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 
 
 Is it not but just that he who has restored the 
 heart of youth to so many should be dispensed 
 by the kind gods from growing old of the spirit 
 himself? . . , 
 
 [179] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 ALTHOUGH a poet of joyous impulse, 
 Mr. Riley's ear is sensitive to the slightest 
 tremblings of the minor chord. No poet has 
 made songs more beautiful to express the pathos 
 of remembered youth and happiness — the dumb 
 regret for and hopeless striving to regain that 
 Paradisal hour of life, even in retrospect, which 
 occupy so many sad hearts. Mr. Riley touches 
 this chord with infinite tenderness and with a 
 power to soothe and console which proves him 
 priest as well as poet. And we see very plainly 
 that to be a good man is a necessary condition 
 to being a great poet. The Baudelaires and the 
 Verlaines have something to say for themselves, 
 it is true, but it is not given them to make such 
 verse as this: 
 
 We must get home — for we have been away 
 So long, it seems forever and a day! 
 And O so very homesick we have grown. 
 The laughter of the world is like a moan 
 In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain, — 
 We must get home — we must get home again! 
 
 We must get home! There only may we find 
 The little playmates that we left behind, — 
 [ 180 ] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 Some racing down the road; some by the brooks- 
 Some droning at their desks, with wistful look 
 Across the fields and orchards — farther still 
 Where laughs and weeps the old wheel at the mill. 
 
 We must get home; and, unremembering there 
 All gain of all ambition otherwhere. 
 Rest — from the feverish victory, and the crown 
 Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down. — 
 ■ Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain — 
 We must get home — we must get home again! 
 
 The difficulty of writing such verse without 
 lapsing into false sentiment is proven by the 
 utter failure of Mr. Riley's imitators (no poet 
 has ever had more) to produce anything like a 
 passable copy of this phase of his art. There 
 have been many — alas, too many attempts; but 
 no mimic has ever succeeded in getting a foot 
 within the sanctuary! 
 
 I HAVE pointed out, in a discussion of the 
 _ so-called " free poets," that we are in some 
 danger of being carried away from the primary 
 function of poetry. It seems the poets don't 
 want to sing any more; they want to do some- 
 
 [181] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 thing else, and there is a great wrangle and 
 controversy going on as to the nature and value 
 of this substitute form of entertainment. 
 
 Mr. Riley has never been troubled by any 
 doubts as to the leading function and business of 
 the poet: — he knows that it is to sing, and it is 
 as a singer pure and simple that he has won his 
 dearest laurels. His music is varied, ingenious, 
 sometimes a shade fantastic; but he never sings 
 merely for the tune; always the poetic thought 
 has precedence. Sometimes his passion for pure 
 music and melody — as instinctive as that of the 
 thrush or the bobolink — tempts him to a feat of 
 rhymed extravagance, a bit of roulade, or if you 
 please, a display of poetic fireworks; for which 
 I at least would not greatly quarrel with him. 
 There are moods when the mere beauty of a 
 poet's rhythmic words steals the soul with delight, 
 and the intellect also yields itself a willing captive 
 to the spell. No poet has a more sovereign 
 charm for the dolce far niente moods than Mr. 
 Riley: — such famous and famihar charming as 
 this, for example: 
 
 Beyond the purple, hazy trees 
 Of summer's utmost boundaries; 
 [182] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 Beyond the sands — beyond the seas-** 
 Beyond the range of eyes like these. 
 And only in the reach of the 
 Enraptured gaze of memory. 
 There lies a land, long lost to me, — 
 The land of Used-to-be! 
 
 A land where music ever girds 
 
 The air with belts of singing -birds. 
 
 And sows all sounds with such sweet words. 
 
 That even in the low of herds 
 A meaning lives so sweet to me. 
 Lost laughter ripples limpidly 
 From lips brimmed over with the glee 
 Of rare old Used-to-be. 
 
 Lost laughter, and the whistled tunes 
 Of boyhood's mouth of crescent runes. 
 That rounded, through long afternoons; 
 To serenading plenilunes — 
 When starlight fell so mistily 
 That, peering up from bended knee, 
 I dreamed 'twas bridal drapery 
 Snowed over Used-to-be! 
 
 This is mere " instrumentation," if you please, 
 the artist running his octaves in the sheer bravery 
 of his skill (with one eye on the admiring audi- 
 
 [183] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 ence!) — but who can deny the charm and delight 
 of it? . . . 
 
 TURN WE again to his graver moods, and 
 above all, to his mastery of simple pathos. 
 Mr. Riley's power as a magician enables him to 
 use the plainest words, the most obvious rhymes, 
 in the highest service of beauty. His poems are 
 taken from the heart of life and reflect a power 
 of observation, an eye for dramatic values, a 
 grasp of human nature that mark him off from 
 the run of lyrical poets. His work is intensely 
 vital, personal, realized: one is always held, chal- 
 lenged, fascinated by the story behind it. 
 One feels too that the poet has lived all of these 
 pieces; that they could not otherwise have been 
 created. 
 
 Mr. Riley as a born poet and a true craftsman 
 loves rhymes (and we love him for it), yet he 
 rarely, if ever, falls into Poe's vice of laboured 
 assonance and perverse rhyming. Yes, there's 
 " Leonainie," but that we know was done " on 
 purpose," a tour de force, and a wonderful take- 
 off it is of the Poesque manner. By the way, 
 his " Songs after Master- Singers " are dehghtful 
 [184] 
 
OUR BEST-LOVED POET 
 
 essays in this sort of writing: they are better 
 poetry in themselves and far more striking 
 " imitations " — reproductions rather — than Eu- 
 gene Field's exercises in kind. 
 
 Brilliant, various, versatile, prolific as he is, 
 Mr. Riley has never lost sight of the integrity of 
 his art; never permitted himself to be seduced 
 and carried away by the lure of mere cleverness. 
 All this says much for the restraint of the artist, 
 seeing that he has been far-and-away the most 
 popular American poet of our time and the most 
 solicited of publishers. 
 
 I am aware that certain critics deplore the lack 
 of " intellectual content " in much of Mr. Riley's 
 poetry, and they find fault with the simple itera- 
 tions and alliterations which bid so cunningly 
 for the ear. But who can deny its appeal to 
 the heart, or its power to evoke the earhest, 
 happiest emotions of hfe? And it is justified in 
 the only fashion that poetry need be justified — 
 it has been taken into the hearts of the people. 
 The high-brows may cavil as they please, and 
 the new school of " free poets " utterly protest 
 the music and the unfading garland. But the 
 fact remains that to be so accepted of the people 
 
 [185] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 is the grandest and proudest distinction that even 
 a great poet may aspire to. 
 
 Mr. Riley was born to be the adored laureate 
 of a close-knit, homogeneous people: — this we 
 see by the attitude of his native Indiana. Our 
 ever-changing citizenship forbids such a distinc- 
 tion in the largest sense; but it may at least be 
 said that in our day this crowning honour has 
 not fallen to any American poet in such measure 
 and with such depth of love and admiration as 
 have been accorded to James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 [186] 
 
SIX 
 
 ALMA LUPA 
 
 THE LATE Elbert Hubbard used to gibe and 
 poke fun at the colleges and the classics with 
 a careless freedom that argued no responsibility 
 toward either. Perhaps, from the utilitarian point 
 of view, he had a certain right to do so, and his 
 own case furnished him strong, if not entirely con- 
 vincing, arguments — for the man of positive talent 
 breaks all rules. 
 
 There was much force in his contention against 
 wasting time on dead languages, but of course one 
 must be sure that the languages so described are 
 really defunct. Latin and Greek certainly are not, 
 as a schoolboy may satisfy himself by glancing 
 into any good English dictionary. Elbert's argu- 
 ment, though clever and spirited, was far from 
 being a new one — the advantages and disadvan- 
 tages of classical training have been accurately 
 assessed these many years. It is quite true that 
 such culture would be wasted on ^^e majority of 
 
 [187] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 young Americans, who simply have no use for it. 
 Not that Elbert had so frittered away any part 
 of his youth: his Alma Mater having been (as he 
 liked to say) the University of Hard Knocks. 
 But the dispute has other phases than that which 
 challenged the keenly practical, yet sufficiently 
 idealistic, mind of Elbert Hubbard. For one 
 thing he quite overlooked our debt to the Renais- 
 sance: indeed like other able men, largely self- 
 taught, he did not realize how much he owed to 
 Latin and Greek. 
 
 Again, I will grant that Colonel IngersoU's defi- 
 nition of a college as a place where " pebbles are 
 polished and diamonds are dimmed," holds a par- 
 tial truth. (Like Hubbard, he was unduly preju- 
 diced by his dislike for the ministerial profession — 
 a rub of the classics wouldn't have hurt the literary 
 style of either man.) Furthermore, I am glad to 
 see a good deal of the " superstition " of the 
 classics done away with, and I think it no bad 
 thing that the world is fast losing its reverence 
 for the " donkey loaded with Latin." Many a 
 fool has got by to honour and preferment on no 
 better grounds. 
 
 And yet, while conceding so much, I must still 
 [188] 
 
ALMA LUPA 
 
 hold that for the scholar, artist or literary man, 
 the good old classics, even in very moderate infu- 
 sion, have a value beyond price. They stamp his 
 soul with the precise image of Liberty, the most 
 precious bequest from the ancient world. They 
 impress his mind with the Law of Beauty. They 
 instil into him reverence for what is noble — ^hatred 
 and contempt for what is mean and base. They 
 teach him restraint and economy of expression — 
 qualities rarely seen in a writer without classic 
 foundation. (I would rather that Bernard Shaw 
 had learned Latin than music — it would have saved 
 us some terrible loquacity.) In short, they teach 
 him his own language — no man lacking the Latin 
 discipline can be said to know English compe- 
 tently, that is, with the knowledge requisite to a 
 literary artist. (Again I waive the exceptions 
 which genius is always privileged to make.) What 
 is so much of modern literature but a palimpsest 
 over- writing (and be sure at the same time, under- 
 writing) of the thoughts of the classic past? 
 Wanting the clue to this ever fertile tradition, the 
 writer has missed something vital, yet intangible 
 and indefinable, which no amount of talent or skill 
 or energy can supply. 
 
 [189] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 And this something is the quintessence of style 
 and thought, the heirloom of classic culture passed 
 on to us by hundreds of generations. 
 
 What is it accosts you at once in the pages of 
 Robert Louis Stevenson, say the " Familiar 
 Studies " or the " Travels with a Donkey"? The 
 eccpression — for the story is always a matter of 
 secondary importance. Sickness did not permit 
 this writer to live the life of adventure that he 
 longed for in order to vitalize his creations: yet 
 he never fails to lure us with the grand adventure 
 of his style. It would be hard to find a less thrill- 
 ing tale than " An Inland Voyage," as regards 
 hair-raising experiences of the Count Fathom 
 order, and it would be still harder to match among 
 the great travellers and adventurers the beauty 
 of such a page as this: 
 
 "When Villon journeyed (perhaps by the same 
 pleasant valley) to his exile at Rousillon, I won- 
 der if he had not something of the same appear- 
 ance. Something of the same preoccupation he 
 had beyond a doubt, for he too must have tinkered 
 verses as he walked with more success than his 
 successor. And if he had anything like the same 
 inspiring weather, the same nights of uproar, men 
 [190] 
 
ALMA LUPA 
 
 in armour rolling and resounding down the stairs 
 of heaven, the rain hissing on the village streets, 
 the wild bull's-eye of the storm flashing all night 
 long into the bare innerchamber — ^the same sweet 
 return of day, the same unfathomable blue of 
 noon, the same high-coloured halcyon eves, and 
 above all, if he had anything like as good a com- 
 rade, anything like as keen a relish for what he 
 saw, and what he ate, and the rivers he bathed 
 in, and the rubbish that he wrote, I would ex- 
 change estates to-day with the poor exile, and 
 coimt myself a gainer. ..." 
 
 In pure literature the French have a great 
 superiority over the English. Why? Because 
 they derive so much from the classic tradition, 
 their language, the finest literary instrument in 
 the world, being founded almost entirely upon 
 Latin. And the Latin blood counts, too, of course. 
 How poor would modern literature be without 
 Balzac, Hugo, Dumas, Musset, St. Beuve, Guizot, 
 Lamartine, Taine, Renan, Flaubert, Daudet, 
 Maupassant, Anatole France! Matthew Arnold 
 indeed was of the opinion that as Latin has come 
 in a large sense to represent Greek, so in course of 
 time French will come to stand for Latin. But 
 
 [191] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 the spirit of culture will take care that in such 
 an evolution nothing shall be lost. . . . 
 
 A little of the She- Wolf's milk, then, if you 
 please! No true man of letters ever regretted his 
 nurture at that rugged but kindly breast: his head 
 and heart were surely the better for it. And it 
 is still a potent, perhaps indispensable, element 
 in the making of literature that endures. 
 
 [192] 
 
SEVEN 
 
 A NOTE ON LAFCADIO HEAEN 
 
 IS THERE any sort of reproach or bar sinister 
 in the fact of a Hterary man having Irish 
 blood in his veins, in his belonging much or little 
 to the most deeply spiritualized poetic race in the 
 vrorld? That vision of the invisible world which 
 is the delight and the despair of poets, to whom 
 has it been given in fuller measure than to the 
 Celt? Those preoccupations of the soul which 
 token an immortal destiny, those strivings to re- 
 gain an eternal inheritance which mark a people 
 of the spirit, what race do they indicate with a 
 clearer stigma? Is not the entire history of the 
 Celt a rejection of the things of this world for 
 the Shadow and the Dream? . . . 
 
 Yet one might think there was some reproach, 
 or inferiority, or even degradation implied in the 
 Irish name, judging from occasional hints dropped 
 by illiberal, or superficial, or perhaps merely 
 careless persons. For instance, Mr. F. Hadland 
 
 [193] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 Davis, an Englishman, writing about Lafcadio 
 Hearn in an American periodical, and writing ex- 
 ceedingly well in the main, has this to say on the 
 subject of his racial inheritance as accounting for 
 some of the characteristics of his literary genius: 
 
 "Can we in any way account for Hearn's deli- 
 cate, sensuous and ghostly style? I can suggest 
 two possible, but by no means exhaustive, reasons 
 — viz., his birth and the fact that he suffered from 
 myopia. This method of procedure rather savours 
 of chemical analysis, only in this particular case we 
 know the salt is called genius, and we work back, 
 on quite unscientiiSc lines, to try and find some 
 of the factors in producing it. Hearn's parentage 
 was interesting. He had Greek and Romany 
 blood in his veins. The Greek accounted for his 
 unquenchable love of the beautiful in everything 
 he saw, combined with an almost equal love of the 
 horrible; and the Romany for the fact that he 
 was one of the world's wanderers." 
 
 The suggestion of Hearn's myopia as a forma- 
 tive influence in his style, an idea that originated 
 with the eccentric Dr. Gould, I have treated else- 
 where. But is it not singular that a writer so 
 well informed as Mr. Davis — he claims to have 
 [194] 
 
A NOTE ON LAFCADIO HEARN 
 
 read all Hearn's books and nearly everything pub- 
 lished about him! — should ignore the fact, obvious 
 and indisputable, of Hearn's Irish blood? The 
 attempt on the part of Miss Bisland, his first 
 biographer, to trace his Irish forbears on the pater- 
 nal side back to 1693, when they were Dorsetshire 
 English, seems a rather foolish piece of pedigree 
 making. It certainly was unjustified by the facts. 
 There were mingled elements in Hearn's blood, 
 but he was more Irish than anything else. Those 
 who knew the living man never doubted it, and to 
 my mind at least, his genius yields the strongest 
 proofs of Celtic derivation. 
 
 This is not the first time Hearn's racial ante- 
 cedents have been made to bear an invidious note. 
 Mr. Davis seems to share an ugly, and I had be- 
 lieved, extinct prejudice with Miss Bisland, which 
 prejudice is the more to be regretted, since her 
 work in most other respects is deserving of liberal 
 praise; while her slightly romantic friendship with 
 Hearn gives her a claim of esteem upon all who 
 are interested in the writer and the man. Her 
 motives were, bien entendu, of the worthiest, to 
 throw something of a picturesque glow about a 
 life that in its earlier years sorely needed it — 
 
 [ 195 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 that held in truth overmuch darkness and suffer- 
 ing. But in writing as she did, about Hearn*s 
 early family and religious associations, with her 
 intense womanly sympathies touched to the quick 
 and her feelings more exercised than her judg- 
 ment, I suspect Miss Bisland did not render the 
 best possible service to his memory. 
 
 Hearn himself was partly to blame for the un- 
 disguised prejudice evinced by his biographer. He 
 had suffered much in his shy myopic youth; he 
 had been ill-understood and harshly treated, and 
 in some confused way he had lost home and 
 friends. All this was not clear to Hearn himself, 
 or at least he gave no clear account of it. I be- 
 lieve also that Hearn romanced about the sordid 
 circumstances of his youth, and that simply from 
 the quality of his imagination. There is little in 
 what he tells to put a sure finger on; rather, most 
 of it seems of a nightmare unreality. Hearn 
 began early to brood over and fashion that ap- 
 propriate legend of himself with which every artist 
 is more or less preoccupied. He indulged this 
 usually harmless passion to an extreme degree, 
 until he had at one time hallucinated himself into 
 the notion that he was the object of a systematic, 
 [ 196 ] 
 
A NOTE ON LAFCADIO HEARN 
 
 malignant persecution by priests of the religion in 
 which he had been brought up. But close readers 
 of his work, including his letters (like Mr. Davis, 
 I may claim to be one) know that in his later 
 years he softened considerably and opened his 
 mind to saner views. I believe even that he 
 learned to laugh at his pet Bugaboo of Jesuitic 
 persecution. 
 
 Finally, with his partial disillusionment regard- 
 ing Japan, notable in his last years, the pendulum 
 is seen swinging back for Hearn, and the imme- 
 morial claims of race and blood are felt to be 
 striving within him for reassertion. 
 
 In spite of home and wife and children, in spite 
 of Japanese name and all, nay, in spite of the 
 literary glory that Japan had yielded him, I 
 believe he was never less attached to the strange 
 land of his adoption than in the last year of his 
 life. Something of the change must be referred, 
 of course, to the loss of his place in the Imperial 
 University, and his personal experience of the 
 darker traits of Japanese character, traits which 
 are indeed common to East and West. But I 
 believe a deeper explanation is called for, if we 
 would truly estimate this final phase of Hearn's 
 
 [ 197] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 thought. A man can not add a cubit to his 
 stature by thinking, nor can he remake himself 
 as to his racial and spiritual inheritance. Lafcadio 
 Hearn remained Celtic in soul, spite of his many 
 years in Japan, spite of his immersion in the 
 myths and creeds of a strange people, spite even 
 of what he believed to be a sincere preference of 
 OBuddha to Christ. Oh, yes, the pendulum was 
 swinging back for Lafcadio Hearn! Man is unto 
 himself a mystery: by ways strange and un- 
 dreamed of, across the opposing currents of a 
 lifetime, the soul of a race wins back to its 
 own. ... 
 
 [198] 
 
EIGHT 
 
 THE KISS 
 
 I RISE to a point of order. There is altogether 
 too much kissing in the magazines and Sunday 
 newspaper supplements; also in the asbestos fav- 
 ourites of the Circulating Library. Two arts are 
 hereby joined in the indictment, for the literary 
 offence is no less culpable than the pictorial crime. 
 A kiss in one of the Hearst magazines, for ex- 
 ample, is almost equal to a statutory misdemean- 
 our, and it makes the guileless reader particeps 
 criminis. The artist always aims at the maximum 
 of expression and effect, for the popular maga- 
 zine is expected literally to kiss itself into public 
 favour. Each month its gay-tinted cover bears the 
 likeness of some pretty courtesan with rosy beak 
 pouted for the kiss. There is no mistaking the 
 Hearst girls among the many Cyprians of the 
 magazine trade : — they have a way about them that 
 is distinctly their own and that only the connois- 
 seurs of love fully appreciate. 
 
 [ 199 ] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 A sort of orgy of osculation rages throughout 
 the world of current fiction and magazinedom, and 
 the kiss is being passed around as an exceedingly 
 good thing. A popular novelist like Mr. Cham- 
 bers is generally rated by his kiss — I mean his 
 manner of describing and realizing for the reader 
 that species of caress between two persons of op- 
 posite sex. Upon this he (or she) lavishes all the 
 resources of his word-painting and all his power of 
 suggestion. Likewise the popular artist is es- 
 teemed for his skill in depicting the kiss, in sur- 
 rounding it with all those yum-yum attributes 
 which are better felt than described; at the sanie 
 time avoiding any license too gross which might 
 give puritanism the alarm. It is a subtle and deli- 
 cate art, and no wonder that those who excel at 
 it command astonishing emoluments. Women are 
 very partial to it, as the kiss is the symbol of their 
 power and charm; and the popular magazine is, 
 above all things, concerned with milady's approval. 
 So even the discreet Mr. Bok makes much of the 
 kiss, both in text and illustration; but it is of the 
 special " Ladies' Home Journal " brand, if you 
 please, sterilized and, as it were, too good to be 
 true ; not in the least like the frank aphrodisiac of 
 [200] 
 
THE KISS 
 
 the monthly " Hearsts." Mr. Bok's kissing girls 
 never make you feel that you have seen 
 them under the "white lights," or that they are 
 out to sell anything — except the " Ladies' Home 
 Journal." 
 
 The word kiss, you will observe, is of the class 
 of vocables called onomatopoeic — words that mimic 
 the sound of the thing signified; and in a sense, 
 onomatopoeic must be the art that renders it. 
 ^ Magazine fiction offers us all sorts and varieties 
 of kisses, — passionate, burning, lingering, languor- 
 ous, Lesbian (the kind that makes you thrill all 
 along the keel and gives the uttermost sensation 
 of goneness) ; kisses soulful, ecstatic, exalted, 
 kisses pleading and importunate, kisses that mad- 
 den and intoxicate, kisses that do everything but 
 deny. There are kisses that lead to nothing worse 
 than matrimony and a eugenic family, and there 
 be kisses that conduct to paresis and the padded 
 cell. Have a care then in making your choice, for 
 many's the man whose undoing is determined by 
 a kiss. For indeed the kiss is the woman, and the 
 woman is your fate! 
 
 Persons of curious competency in this province 
 tell us that the kiss between lovers yields a minor 
 
 [201] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 satisfaction of desire: it is a pledge, a promise, an 
 I O U of the inexorable Eros, a prelude to pos- 
 session: — the kissed mouth will have the rest, says 
 Balzac. 
 
 Maupassant observes that the kiss is only a pref- 
 ace to the Book of Love, but a charming preface, 
 more delicious than the volume itself; a preface 
 that one can re-read constantly with ever unsated 
 pleasure, while one is not always able to re-read 
 — ^the book! 
 
 The same instructed artist describes the kiss as 
 the most perfect, the most divine sensation given to 
 human beings, — ^the last, the supreme limit of hap- 
 piness. It is in the kiss, in the kiss alone, that 
 we believe we can sometimes feel that impossible 
 union of souls of which we dream — perhaps only 
 the hallucination of fainting hearts. The kiss 
 alone gives this profound, immaterial sensation of 
 two beings that are as one. All the violent delir- 
 ium of complete possession is not worth that trem- 
 bling approach of the lips, that first touch moist 
 and sweet, and then that kiss silent, motionless, 
 rapturous, and long, so long! to both. 
 
 Byron's description is better known to English 
 readers : — 
 [ 202 ] 
 
THE KISS 
 
 A long J long Mss, a hiss of youth and love 
 
 And heauty, all concentrating like rays 
 
 Into one focus kindled from above; 
 
 Such kisses as belong to early days. 
 
 When heart and soul and sense in concert move. 
 
 When the mind's lava and the pulse a blaze. 
 
 Certain rigid moralists hold that the woman 
 who gives her lips to a man without lawful war- 
 rant abandons herself as effectively as if she gave 
 all. . . . 
 
 This is perhaps going too far, but undoubtedly 
 the kiss is a rare good thing, and we are pass- 
 ing it aroimd joyously — at least in the maga- 
 zines. . . . 
 
 The kiss is woman's supreme weapon, her most 
 potent and subtle means of seduction; not Cassar, 
 not Attila, nor Napoleon might prevail against it. 
 For verily the kiss has conquered nations, torn 
 up treaties, laid kingdoms desolate, founded or 
 destroyed religions, suppressed dynasties and 
 changed the order of royal states. 
 
 It is also, as we have seen, important to the 
 prosperity of magazines, the fame of authors and 
 the reputation of artists. 
 
 Oddly enough, the kiss, as we practise it in the 
 
 [203] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 West, is a stumbling block and an offence to some 
 Eastern peoples, who are thereby moved to look 
 askance at our morality. One hates to admit the 
 fact, but those remote pagans, Buddhists or what 
 not, unblessed with the " Ladies' Home Journal " 
 or the Hearst magazines (those disseminators of 
 culture, sweetness and light) seem to have a 
 more correct moral feeling than ourselves in this 
 regard. 
 
 " Let the reader reflect for a moment," says 
 Lafcadio Hearn,* " how large a place the subject 
 of kisses and caresses and embraces occupies in our 
 poetry and in our prose fiction; and then let him 
 consider the fact that in Japanese literature these 
 have no existence whatever. Such actions, except 
 in the case of infants, are held to be highly im- 
 modest." Elsewhere he points out that the Jap- 
 anese regard the kiss as peculiarly sexual in its 
 nature, and that they refrain from it, except in the 
 most private circumstances, as from an indecency. 
 Even at social functions of a free character where 
 geisha are in attendance and sake is drunk without 
 restraint, a Japanese guest is never known to kiss 
 or embrace these girls, dedicate to pleasure as they 
 
 * See chapter on the " Eternal Feminine " in " Out of the East." 
 [ 204 ] 
 
THE KISS 
 
 are: this infraction of good form is reserved to 
 foreigners. . . . 
 
 But " East is East and West is West and "— 
 I refuse to go farther with Mr. Kipling. In our 
 half of the world sex is deemed the salt of litera- 
 ture as of hfe, in spite of a conventional hypocrisy 
 which would pretend to " wave " it, in Podsnap- 
 pian fashion, out of existence. 
 
 So it is that, by a shrewd compromise with our 
 inherited puritanism, we have perfumed and 
 prettified sex in the persons of Gibson girls and 
 " Bambi " heroines, and are enabled to pass around 
 the kiss as a good thing. 
 
 Vive le haiser! 
 
 [205] 
 
NINE 
 
 THE " FREE " POETS 
 
 OH, WHAT is the matter with the young 
 " free " poets? Why are they so pale, as if 
 they drank cumin, or were exhausted hy love? 
 They boast of their freedom, yet are they not 
 happy. Oh, what's the matter with the young 
 poets, and especially, why don't they write some 
 poetry? Sacred Apollo! can this be the matter 
 with the young poets? 
 
 Again I ask, what's the matter with the young 
 poets? It is proper that they should be in revolt 
 against something — nay, anything; but by the holy 
 Nine, not against poetry itself! Why do they 
 write so much prose — they with their loudly pro- 
 fessed hatred of journalism and their contempt for 
 the perishable word? Why don't they use up their 
 hot young blood in making love and poetry? Did 
 not Musset show them how when he poetically 
 mounted on his funeral pyre with Dejanire? 
 Have they never heard of Catullus, Villon, Kon- 
 [206] 
 
THE " FREE " POETS 
 
 sard, Shelley, and Keats? Let them write their 
 golden poems now and postpone their smart pros- 
 ing to middle age — it will be on them unawares! 
 Hearken, ye rebellious but impotent young 
 poets, to one that was also young in his day and 
 especially a Poet !— Hark ye to Catullus, and note 
 how fresh that silver voice throbbing with love and 
 youth and desire rings out from the tomb of 
 centuries. 
 
 VivamuSj mea Leshiaj atque amemus! 
 
 Soles occidere et redire possunt: 
 Nobis, cum semel occidit brevis luce, 
 Nox est perpetua una dormienda. 
 
 There is no translating the solemn music of the 
 Latin, but I venture to English the lines rudely, 
 that no reader may have a quarrel with me. 
 
 Let us live, my Lesbia, and let u^ love. 
 The suns set, yet do they ever return; 
 For us, when once our brief light flickers out. 
 Comes the night endless of perpetual sleep. 
 
 Da mi basia mille — " Give me a thousand 
 kisses ! " he cries, and so his hfe flutters out in 
 a flame of passion at thirty-three. But those lines 
 
 [207] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 to Lesbia, with their melody more magical than 
 that of Memnon's statue, " which at sunrise 
 played," will outlast the Pyramids. Nay, not the 
 less will endure his exquisite lament for his lady's 
 sparrow, which — 
 
 Nee sese. a gremio illius movehat, 
 
 Sed circumsiliens modo hue modo illuc. 
 
 Ad solam dominam usque pipilabat. 
 
 (Nor wandered far from her bosom, but hopping 
 about now here, now there, still kept piping to his 
 one dear mistress.) 
 
 Ah, that little sparrow-pet of the darling Lesbia, 
 still chirping — pipilans — though Rome itself has 
 been swept away since the song began! 
 
 List ye now to the prattling waters of Horace's 
 perennial fountain — and tell me that poetry as 
 good can be made without music. No, no! the 
 gods still possess their secret. 
 
 O fons Bandusiae splendidior vitro 
 
 Fies nohilium tu quoque fontium. 
 Me dicente cavis impositam ilicem 
 
 Saoois, unde, loquaces 
 
 Lymphae desiliunt tuae. 
 [208] 
 
THE " FREE " POETS 
 
 Do you hear the immortal prattling of that 
 fountain of living water, and can you in your con- 
 ceit imagine any other formula of art and poesy 
 that would have brought its music down to 
 us? . . . 
 
 I scarce dare offer this poor paraphrase of my 
 own to the unclassically tuned reader. 
 
 O fountain of Bandusia^ 
 
 Than crystal een more clear, 
 
 • •*••• 
 
 Thou shalt he deemed most noble. 
 
 Since I have sung thee here. 
 And the oak thy dear companion 
 
 From hollow rocks upspringing. 
 Whence thy waters downward leap 
 
 With a prattling and a singing. 
 
 Or lend an ear while charmingly he coaxes 
 Phyllis to make one at un petit souper a deuoo at 
 the Sabine Farm, for which he tells her there has 
 been provided a cask of nine-year Alban: — plenty 
 to drink, i' faith! " Come now, last of my loves," 
 he entreats (I know not how candidly) — "for 
 after this I shall never glow for another 
 woman." — 
 
 [209] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 Age. jam, meorum 
 Finis amorum 
 
 (Non enim posthac alia caleho 
 Femina)y condisce modos, amanda 
 Voce quos reddas: minuentur atraa 
 
 Carmine curae.. 
 
 Learn with me the sweet measures (he pleads) 
 which you shall then intone in your most lovely 
 voice. Black cares shall flee away before our 
 song. . . . 
 
 And a late brother of these two children of the 
 She-Wolf, the scarcely less divine Musset, how 
 sings he this immortal pain and rapture of the 
 poet? . . . 
 
 Poete, prends ton luthj le vin de la jeunesse 
 Fermente cette nuit dans les veines de Dieu, 
 Mon sein est inquiet; la volupte Voppresse, 
 Et les vents alteres m'ont mis la levre en feu. 
 
 Which I may paraphrase: 
 
 Poet, seize thy lute — to-night the holy wine 
 
 Of youth ferments in the veins of God: 
 My breast is ill at ease., desire a burden grows. 
 And the. parching winds heat me as a sod. 
 
 Or this verse which Hugo flings to you with the 
 grand gesture whose secret he possessed: — 
 [210] 
 
THE " FREE " POETS 
 
 Quel dieUj quel moissonneur de Veternel ete 
 
 Avait, en s'en allant, negligement jete 
 
 Cette faucille d'or dans le champ des etoiles. 
 
 What god, what harvester of the eternal year 
 Departing, left his golden sickle here 
 Flung careless in the wide and starry field. 
 
 Truly I suspect the old recipe is still the best — 
 just to be young, and to love, and to make poetry 
 that is music. The " free " poets are, of course, 
 free to do otherwise, and good luck to them! — 
 but who would not rather take a chance in the 
 fellowship of Horace, Catullus and Musset? 
 
 I LIKE your talent, Ezra Pound,* but I should 
 prefer your genius — if you would give me of it. 
 This clever letter to me, these sparkling critiques, 
 those delightful tilts with London's stodgy literati, 
 I relish them all to admiration; but you that are 
 young and a poet should be at other work. What 
 prose will hold the years at bay like " Adonais " 
 or the " Lamia " ? . . . 
 
 I say as much to you, Richard Aldington: * the 
 
 * The most talented and productive, and not the least militant of 
 the " free " poets or imagistes. Mr. Pound is an American and 
 not especially proud of the fact; he lives abroad and his literary 
 inspiration is wholly exotic. Mr. Aldington is an Englishman. 
 
 [211] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 cleverer your critical writing the better would be 
 your poetry — if you would only write it! You are 
 paying in copper whilst the Muses offer you gold. 
 Reserve your economy for the autumn years. In 
 other words, do your poetry now and your jour- 
 nalizing later. He that speaks to you is no Osier, 
 yet indifferent honest : youth and poetry are plants 
 on a single stem! 
 
 Does anybody care a straw about Shelley's 
 opinions on poetry or poetics? Could any man of 
 taste endure to read through the controversy be- 
 tween Byron and one Bowles? Go to, then! 
 Furthermore, your war upon the ruling canon and 
 aesthetic of poetry (though I like well enough the 
 bravery of it) is merely a futile and barren thing. 
 Here is a plain answer to all your malapert mani- 
 festoes : 
 
 The way to discountenance bad poetry is 
 to write good poetry. 
 
 Manibus date lilia plenis! . . . Give lilies with 
 full hands. 
 
 Have you done this or are you doing it, oh, 
 scornful young poets ? I would like to pay you the 
 compliment, but really I have not seen much of 
 [ 212 ] 
 
THE " FREE " POETS 
 
 your work, and of this scarcely anything which I 
 would call poetry. Oh, but this is maddening! 
 — can we call a man a poet who does not write 
 poetry? Yet until you do this you but spit in the 
 teeth of the wind. . . . 
 
 Again, whilst there is much to praise in your 
 effort to free English verse of the cliche and the 
 conventional, there is also something to blame, 
 since you go too far. Stock phrases, expletives, 
 silly personifications, shop-worn tropes, affecta- 
 tions of every sort, can be cleared away without 
 injury to the basic form and principle of English 
 poetry. But melody and metre cannot be dis- 
 pensed with, for they are of the very soul of 
 poetry. 
 
 A prime reason for loving verse is that it is 
 rememherablej and it could not be so without 
 metre or measure. But I agree that prosody 
 should be a help, not a hindrance: I would give 
 the Muses wings, not shackles. 
 
 The thing that we recognize as beautiful and 
 that we can put away in our memory as an endur- 
 ing possession, that is the special, transcendent gift 
 of poetry. The poet who cannot give us this 
 . . . well, there are the quarries! 
 
 [213] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 I have read many alleged poems by the new 
 school of "free poets" (as they are self -called), 
 but only a few that were tolerable, and hardly a 
 single one that I could have stored in my memory 
 as an enduring possession. 
 
 There is always something suspicious when peo- 
 ple want to play without observing the rules of 
 the game. 
 
 In this case the something wrong seems to be 
 a lack of positive talent or, I would even say, 
 vocation. The " free " poets, so far as I know 
 them, want to be free to write poetry without 
 proving either their right or their ability to do so. 
 (Exceptions made in favour of Messrs. Pound, 
 Aldington and one or two others.) 
 
 I have examined hundreds of their little silhou- 
 ettes or word patterns, and my conclusion is that 
 the best of these seem child's play compared to the 
 work of filling a Spenserian stanza with the true 
 content of poetry. Such a stanza as this, for 
 example : 
 
 The sky is changed! — and such a change! O nighty 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
 strong, 
 
 [214] 
 
THE " FREE " POETS 
 
 Yet lovely in your strength as in the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman. Far along. 
 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among. 
 Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone 
 cloud. 
 
 But emry mountain now hath found a tongue: 
 And Jura answers through her misty shroud. 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 
 
 Now I remember hundreds of such verses with 
 perfect ease and surety (taken on in youth, I 
 may confess), while I cannot re-word a single 
 one of the silhouettes put forth as " poems " by 
 the Down- with- Shakespeare School. In fact, I 
 could as easily memorize the stipple of a 
 stenographic report. 
 
 The success of one extraordinary rebel and 
 poacher is responsible for this revolt of the " free '* 
 poets. It is a great misfortune to poetry that the 
 peculiar vogue of Walt Whitman should have in- 
 spired so many untalented persons to go and do 
 likewise. He had, I freely grant, compensating 
 merits which none of his imitators may claim, 
 though some of them more than equal him in point 
 of productiveness. It is true that old Walt 
 jimiped the fence and raided the preserve of poesy 
 
 [215] 
 
PORTRAITS AND PREFERENCES 
 
 by unlawful methods. But what was mere poach- 
 ing in his case, justified to some extent by an 
 uncommon talent, is rank vandalism on the part 
 of the many graceless, ignorant and faking pre- 
 tenders who take his name in vain. 
 
 Note, however, that the vogue of Whitman is 
 mainly with professed literary experts or the sex- 
 ually emancipated — it has never reached the mass 
 of the people. And it never will, because of its 
 almost complete lack of what goes as melody and 
 metre. I do not remember to have ever heard an 
 ordinary person quote a line of Whitman's, though 
 — and here's a paradox for you — I have known 
 not a few persons of quite ordinary talent try to 
 write hke him! 
 
 One of the oldest superstitions of the race — old 
 even before Literature was so much as thought 
 of — was that the poet should sing. Will the free 
 poets remember this? They will find it an inval- 
 uable, nay, unerring test of vocation. And if they 
 will accept it, ah me! how much trouble and 
 vexation of spirit will it save them. 
 
 [216] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 ONE 
 
 BERMUDA 
 
 CONCERNING THE winter climate of Ber- 
 muda, it is quite impossible to get exact data 
 — in this respect Bermuda is like a lady whose age 
 cannot be questioned. The tourist books " leave 
 much to be desired " in the way of precise infor- 
 mation, yet it is difficult to accuse them of perjury 
 or prevarication. The hotel people, Cook's agents, 
 shopkeepers and natives generally are entered into 
 a cast-iron conspiracy on this point. The same is 
 carried to a sacrificial extreme. While I shivered 
 in my overcoat, with the mercury at 49° or 50° 
 (it was in mid- January), and ruefully watched a 
 cold rain falling. Mine Host Paschal of the Amer- 
 ican House paraded before me in a thin sack coat, 
 somewhat ostentatiously enjoying himself. Mr. 
 Paschal was a diver in his earlier career and is a 
 man of very rugged constitution. . . . 
 
 [2191 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 No doubt one feels the cold more in Bermuda 
 from not expecting it, and also because the hotels 
 generally are built of a porous kind of stone, which 
 is bound to convey discomfort. The coral insect 
 who made this stone, and who was indeed the orig- 
 inal colonist of Bermuda, took no thought for cer- 
 tain climatic contingencies. Certainly there were 
 a few days when I was glad to go to bed in the 
 afternoon just to keep warm. Explanation was 
 made that we were having phenomenal weather, 
 and I freely admit that it was paradisial compared 
 to conditions then existing at New York, to say 
 nothing of Montreal, Duluth, or Calgary. Never- 
 theless, I could not warm myself with a litho- 
 graphed copy of " Beautiful Bermuda," and I 
 should have preferred a little more of the " semi- 
 tropical climate '* so lovingly dwelt upon in that 
 admirable work. 
 
 Let me add that during my sojourn of a fort- 
 night there were some days when Bermuda ac- 
 tually lived up to her literary reputation and came 
 tardy off in no single respect. Ah! then she was 
 indeed lovely, this daughter of the sun, and her 
 strange fascination invaded my every sense, so that 
 I dreamed passively of remaining ever captive to 
 [220] 
 
BERMUDA 
 
 her strong toil of grace. Pas vrai, Bermuda? 
 Well, then; I kiss your hands and say au revoir! 
 — remembering only your smiles and forgetting 
 your frowns and tears. . . . 
 
 THE BEAUTY of the sea colouring in and 
 about Bermuda is hardly to be exaggerated. 
 It would seem as if that great artist the Sun had 
 proposed to himself certain experiments in this 
 tiny paradise before trying them in the world at 
 large. I shall never forget my first view of the 
 harbour of Bermuda, at early morning, under a 
 light warm shower, with a miraculous rainbow 
 trembling overhead almost within reach. Nor my 
 first glimpse of Harrington Sound, that wondrous 
 jewel of sea- water enclosed within the island's 
 green embrace: — it called to mind, in its image 
 of plenary and satisfying beauty, Shakespeare's 
 figure of " one entire and perfect chrysolite." 
 Certainly here is loveliness that " the sense aches 
 at," of which the heart cannot have too much, and 
 whereof the eyes weary not by seeing. I returned 
 time and again, but the beauty was ever the same, 
 or rather infinitely varied. 
 
 At my time of life, having discounted some few 
 
 [221] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 illusions, I feel that I could content myself in a 
 white stone villa on Harrington Sound, with a 
 sea of lapislazuli spread out at my feet. Espe- 
 cially in my present mood, as I am writing in face 
 of a grim snow-drifted Connecticut landscape that 
 quite corrects my notion of Bermudian inclemency. 
 Property in Bermuda is quite reasonable yet, I 
 am informed by a friend, who built himself just 
 such a place in that very spot a few years ago. 
 Now is the time to act before the American inva- 
 sion fully sets in and a boom is developed. This 
 calamity is imminent, but the Bermudians aver 
 with true British pluck, that they will sell out only 
 at the highest price. I think they dislike us, but 
 our money is not strictly objectionable. Really, 
 I am strongly tempted — after all, it is only forty- 
 eight hours from Broadway. Ariel is there — and 
 Richard Butler Glaenzer. By George — St. 
 George, of course — I'll do it! Pending the 
 necessary arrangements I cry with old Horace — 
 
 Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes 
 Angulus ridet! 
 
 I had been strolling about the Public Garden 
 at St. George, which is the oldest settlement in 
 [222] 
 
BERMUDA 
 
 Bermuda (1609). The Garden is overgrown 
 with weird tropical trees and plants, some of which 
 to a Northern eye, seem endued with a furtive, 
 conscious, malignant life (there was especially a 
 cactus, armed with razor-like leaves which I am 
 sure nobody could get past at night without leav- 
 ing behind a few sections of his person) . In this 
 garden there is also a huge monument to Sir 
 George Somers, Knight, who has been dead a long 
 time, his heart being here buried. Sir George was, 
 in effect, the original discoverer of Bermuda. 
 
 Leaving the garden, at length, where green and 
 variously armed and tentacled monstrosities seemed 
 plotting to detain me by force, I stepped into a 
 quaint, narrow old street; still musing over Sir 
 George Somers, Knight, and his buried heart. 
 Suddenly I was arrested by a chirping sound, 
 famihar enough to folk who dwell in great cities, 
 especially in those quarters where pleasure of a 
 certain sort is more or less frankly pursued. Look- 
 ing about, I saw a shapely " yellow gal " go traips- 
 ing across and down the lane with two redcoats 
 piping her off. The look on that girl's face, part 
 fear and shame, part coquetry and anger, was not 
 one to be lightly forgotten. It rises before me 
 
 [223] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 as a silent reminder that I have something to say 
 about Mr. Tommy Atkins. 
 
 NATURALLY!" you interject, since the 
 red-coat gives a touch of colour to the 
 island, while the drills, parades, regimental band 
 concerts, etc., furnish diversion to the tourists. 
 Don't we know that the American lady visitors 
 most unpatriotically dote on Tommy plain or in 
 epaulets? Are not romances so furnished from 
 time to time, some of them involving no end of 
 money? How many Tommys do you suppose have 
 been bought out of the service by American women 
 during the past ten years? Enough to make you 
 stare. American women are all snobs (the Ber- 
 mudians will tell you), have a perfect passion for 
 marrying foreigners, since that gets them notoriety 
 in the papers; and some of them are not hard to 
 suit — in their view, a soldier is the next good thing 
 to a title. The uniform shows off a good figure, 
 and when, pray, has the heart of woman proved 
 obdurate to martial airs and graces ? Also it must 
 be allowed that there are American ladies to whose 
 delicate ears the cockney burr seems the native 
 accent of aristocracy. Oh, not really of the Four 
 [224] 
 
BERMUDA 
 
 Hundred, of course; just comfortable middle-class 
 persons from Brooklyn, or Boston, or Philadel- 
 phia. The expectation of such is the fond hope 
 of Mr. Atkins, though it is at best only a lottery 
 chance. . . . 
 
 But I am thinking rather of those weak ones of 
 an inferior, childlike race who have had to bear the 
 burden of Tommy in divers shameful ways during 
 his age-long tenancy of these islands. The copious 
 tourist literature offers nothing under this head. 
 You may ask the omniscient Mr. Bell, who will 
 look you in the eye and talk about the weather. 
 The young woman at the Public Library is equally 
 non-committal. The American ladies who cry out 
 ecstatically that Tommy Atkins looks too dear 
 in his scarlet dress uniform, evince no curiosity on 
 the point, and would indeed consider the topic an 
 improper one. But you can piece out the story 
 for yourself by observing many faces among the 
 coloured natives of Bermuda. Very good-looking 
 they are as a rule and often with features of a dis- 
 tinctively English cast. Manners, too, decidedly 
 better than those of our own emancipated coloured 
 brethren. . . . Then, when you go to the 
 Church of England service at the Cathedral on 
 
 [225] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 Sunday, where the pomp of bedizened officers and 
 red-coated soldiery, helmeted and superb, enforces 
 the grandeur of the ritual — ^you may reflect, if 
 you please, upon this item of the cost of British 
 "civilization." . . . 
 
 WE WERE walking along one of those won- 
 derful roads, clean and smooth and ac- 
 tually sawn out of the living rock — roads whose 
 material was mainly supplied by the coral insect 
 and the labour of making them by the blacks dur- 
 ing more than two hundred years of slavery (freed 
 in 1834, they have had the care and labour of the 
 roads until this day). These Toads rank high 
 among the attractions of the island; they collect 
 no mud, being of porous coral limestone, whicli 
 quickly absorbs the rain, and they require little 
 cleaning for the same reason. Nature in Bermuda 
 is a great labour-saver. (The authorities aver that 
 no snow ever falls on the island, but I have seen 
 a very passable imitation of hail.) 
 
 It was an almost perfect day, such as comes not 
 infrequently in the winter season to restore hope 
 to the shivering citizen of Duluth or Calgary, and 
 to save many Bermudians from the fate of Ana- 
 [ 226 ] 
 
BERMUDA 
 
 nias. We were ascending a low hill on our way 
 to the sea caves, which are about two and one-half 
 miles from Hamilton. A young woman of our 
 party stopped to admire some bougainvilleas in 
 a wayside garden. Nothing lovelier than the pur- 
 ple flowers of this tropical plant could be imag- 
 ined — it makes you realize why this colour was 
 chosen by the Romans as a symbol of power and 
 aristocracy. We were sharing the young woman's 
 raptures when an old gentleman accosted us from 
 the roadside and offered to show us some finer 
 specimens of the flower. 
 
 He was over eighty, tall, with an eagle beak and 
 an eye still keen; but his head and hand shook 
 a little from palsy. He led us up the road a piece 
 and into his own garden on the crest of the hill. 
 It was carefully kept, but seemed old like himself: 
 the white house, too, had an aged appearance; 
 though it was very clean and in excellent repair. 
 There was an air of secular quiet about the place, 
 and the great palms themselves seemed to show 
 the slow effects of time. Presently we were admir- 
 ing the old man's bougainvilleas, which fully justi- 
 fied his pride, and he was telling us that he had 
 lived here sixty years. 
 
 [ 227 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 " Yes," he continued, replying to a surprised 
 exclamation; "and my wife with me — she died 
 only three months ago." 
 
 As he said these words, the old man's voice 
 broke a little, and we murmured our sympathy, 
 while striving to picture to ourselves this incredible 
 idyl. Sixty years of constant love and compan- 
 ionship had been his and hers, the old man told us, 
 under this mild sky where the rigours of the North 
 are unknown, in this quaint tropical garden whose 
 brooding trees seemed to guard the secret of long 
 life. Long before any of our party were born he 
 had brought his young bride here, and for the 
 space of two lives they had lived here together. 
 Happily, no doubt, as human nature will permit, 
 and sometimes learning that deeper love which 
 comes only by sorrow and bitterness. We thought 
 of the sadness of that separation, when this old 
 Adam lost his immemorial Eve ; of what must have 
 been his terrible loneliness and longing — and then 
 a pretty little girl holding a doll tightly hugged 
 under one arm, ran up to us and took her grand- 
 father's hand. He stooped to caress her, and as 
 he did so, we were conscious of the Spirit of Youth 
 like a living presence in that ancient garden. It 
 [228] 
 
BERMUDA 
 
 was a relief to us all; and there were tears in the 
 young woman's eyes when at parting he pressed 
 upon her a splendid cluster of bougainvilleas. 
 
 SMALL AS Bermuda is, one sees exemplified 
 there to advantage the British system of com- 
 bining extreme liberty with adequate suppression 
 of crime and disorder. Everybody seems to drink, 
 especially the native Bermudian, white or black, 
 who absorbs like the coral rock, though not pref- 
 erably at his own expense. Even the police are 
 not chary about drinking at the public bars, if 
 invited, and they are a distinct source of legitimate 
 entertainment to the free-spending tourists. But 
 all this marches with a better all-round observance 
 and enforcement of law than we have in ISTew 
 York, where a policeman would be " broken " for 
 drinking at a public bar. I will not deny that in 
 this respect, at least, the English seem to me the 
 better administrators of liberty. 
 
 It need hardly be added that the presence of the 
 soldiers — usually a regiment of one thousand men, 
 besides a war-ship with its quota of marines — 
 furnishes a strong deterrent to crime. Nor is 
 Tommy Atkins shy at wetting his whistle, and in 
 
 [229] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 this regard, his superiors nobly uphold the honour 
 of England. But this liberality is apparently con- 
 sistent with perfect discipline and good order. At 
 the time of my visit (1914) the record showed 
 but one homicide in forty years, and this among 
 the blacks. 
 
 [230] 
 
TWO 
 
 BERMUDA II 
 
 BERMUDA IS worthy to be celebrated by 
 poets, but her honours in this respect are not 
 oppressive. Larry Chittenden, the cowboy singer, 
 has cast his poetic lariat there to some graceful 
 effect, and my gifted friend Richard Butler 
 Glaenzer pauses occasionally in his pursuit of 
 the Great American Novel to throw off a sonnet. 
 Also Mrs. Burnett has a fine villa, one of the 
 island show-places, which persuasively recalls her 
 agreeable inventions. However, Tom Moore, the 
 Irish poet, who visited Bermuda over a hundred 
 years ago, still remains her chief boast in the way 
 of literary association. As Moore is a favourite 
 of my own, I permit myself a few remarks in this 
 connection. 
 
 Moore was a young man, in his early twenties, 
 when, in 1803, he saw Bermuda for the first time 
 — a little later he visited the island to qualify for 
 a sinecure office connected with the Admiralty, 
 
 [231] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 and sojourned there a few months. Moore got 
 this job through the influence of Lord Moira (the 
 revolutionary Lord Rawdon) . What with his ex- 
 quisite singing voice and social talents, he had al- 
 ready made himself a favourite in English aristo- 
 cratic circles — a position he was never to lose but 
 rather to deepen and extend with his increasing 
 fame. Pictures of the poet taken at this time 
 show an unmistakably Irish face, brilhant eyes 
 (suggesting a certain likeness to Brinsley Sheri- 
 dan) and a fine head of curling hair, which later 
 earned for him the sobriquet of " Bacchus." 
 
 Moore's Bermudian poems are therefore juve- 
 nilia, not to be classed with his maturer work like 
 the " Irish Melodies," still unrivalled in their blend- 
 ing of poetry and music. They are poetic epistles, 
 elegant, elaborated and somewhat too cunning in 
 their learned notes and allusions, which " Thomas 
 Little " addressed to his titled and aristocratic 
 friends, no doubt with a view to helping his modest 
 fortunes. Nevertheless, Moore's " Odes to Nea " 
 and other American pieces are not unworthy of 
 his genius, though but a first draught of the vin- 
 tage which had yet to win its full charm and mel- 
 lowness of bouquet. Their passion is rather liter- 
 [232] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 ary than real (Tommy was never much of a 
 Lothario, his " amours " being mostly imagined 
 for the exercise of his art). Nea stood for a 
 creation of this sort, as in later life the poet hinted, 
 rather than the " lady of the isle " with whom the 
 chronicles seek to identify her. Once indeed the 
 poet confesses that wandering together on the wild 
 and lonely shore, he and his Nea very nearly 
 " faute" as the French put it; but even here we 
 are not seriously alarmed for the lady's virtue. 
 " Nea's House " is shown, by the way, and with 
 very questionable taste, her descendants are traced 
 down to the present, none of them exhibiting any 
 marked resemblance to Moore. So legend arises 
 at the popular demand. 
 
 Moore's century-old descriptions of Bermuda, 
 whether in prose or verse, are singularly fresh and 
 true, reflecting the reality like a mirror. Nothing 
 finer can be imagined, it seems to me, than the 
 following which faithfully describes my own im- 
 pressions on entering the harbour of Bermuda: — 
 
 Bright rose the morning, every wave was still. 
 When the first perfume of a cedar hill 
 Sweetly awaked us, and with smiling charms. 
 The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms. 
 
 [233] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 Gently we stole before the whispering wind 
 Through plantain shades that round like awnings 
 
 twined 
 And kissed on either side the wanton sails. 
 Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; , 
 While, far reflected o'er the wave serene. 
 Each wooded island shed so soft a green 
 That the enamour' d keel, with whispering play. 
 Through liquid herbage seemed to steal its way. 
 Never did weary bark more gladly glide. 
 Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide. 
 Along the margin, many a shining dome. 
 White as the palace of a Lapland gnome. 
 Brightened the wave; — in every myrtle grove, 
 Secluded, bashful, like a shrine of love. 
 Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade, 
 Etc., etc. 
 
 Such lines as these help us to understand why 
 Bermuda is exceeding proud of the admiration she 
 inspired in the little dapper gentleman with the 
 musical voice and the tip-tilted nose who paid his 
 respects to her so long ago. As I have said, 
 Tommy had not reached his high notes at the 
 time ; but even so, you will not hear such warblings 
 among our pert magazine choir. I might also in- 
 stance " The Snow Spirit," which is indeed the 
 [234] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 loveliest of Moore's poetical tributes to Bermuda. 
 Tom Moore's House is the name given to an 
 old mansion or villa situated on one of the love- 
 liest points of Harrington Sound, and the tradition 
 which affirms his residence there as a guest is 
 fairly authentic. An old spinet is shown which 
 one would like to believe he played on (modestly 
 ogling the ladies therewhile) ; a room is exhibited 
 as his, and near by the house there stands a cala- 
 bash tree identified as the calabash referred to in 
 one of his poems (to guard the tourist from error, 
 some verses are thoughtfully placarded on the 
 tree) . I was glad to accept the whole legend out 
 of love for the poet of my race who has given so 
 much pure joy to the -world. Sacred indeed are 
 the vestiges of genius! I felt my heart uplifted, 
 standing as I was amid a scene which could have 
 changed but little since he lingered there and 
 imparted to all this beauty the charm of undying 
 song. 
 
 BERMUDA PRODUCES nothing that at all 
 approaches in economic value the opalescent 
 colours of Harrington Sound, or the varied 
 splendour of her sunsets. The island can scarcely 
 
 [235] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 feed itself, so small is its arable area, and therefore 
 the American tourist, while offering himself a 
 change of scene in going to Bermuda, does not 
 make a revolutionary change of diet. How the 
 coral insect knew, when it built this island ages 
 ago, that New York would be able to send food 
 there, is as profound a mystery as may be. It is 
 true there is the Bermuda onion, an important 
 article of export — (not so important as formerly, 
 however, the Texas onion now making great 
 inroads upon the market) . By the way, this escu- 
 lent seems to be so rare in Bermuda that at my 
 hotel it figured among the desserts, and then only 
 on grand occasions. 
 
 Farming is mostly in the hands of the Portu- 
 guese who have supplanted the blacks of late 
 years, the latter here as everywhere having no 
 taste for steady hard labour and preferring the 
 lighter gregarious employments of the town. The 
 Portuguese are amazingly industrious and saving. 
 
 Tropical fruits such as bananas, mangoes, etc., 
 are grown rather for show than use, it would seem, 
 the climate not being hot enough to give them their 
 full maturity ; I fancy the same is true of oranges 
 and lemons. So there are a few drawbacks to a 
 [236] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 " semi-tropical " climate, though the same are not 
 set down in the tourists' ritual. 
 
 But indeed, Bermuda is not to be eaten — she is 
 to be just tasted, kissed if you will, looked at a 
 very great deal, and temperately enjoyed. This 
 sounds a bit figurative, but I have no better coun- 
 sel for the tourist. . . . 
 
 Another thing the coral founder could hardly 
 have anticipated a million years ago: New York 
 sends money to Bermuda as well as food, gobs of 
 it, by the tourists who pour in from December to 
 May. (There is very little tourist business in 
 Summer, though Bermudians vouch for a climate 
 that should make Paradise envious.) Of course, 
 New Yorkers are welcome for their money — Ber- 
 
 IT 
 
 'muda has the peculiar hard British reverence for 
 lucre — but they are Hkewise a little feared. This 
 applies especially to Americans who have acquired 
 estates and winter residences there — no large num- 
 ber. They are blamed for demoralizing the labour 
 market by paying fancy wages to their servants. 
 English colonists of caste resent this, and in con- 
 sequence thereof, are planning to make acquisition 
 harder for the too-free American spender. His 
 lavishness in the matter of tips alone has scattered 
 
 [ 237 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 seeds of discontent among the coloured folk, who 
 now think and talk about money ( I have it on the 
 best Bermudian avouchment) as never before in 
 the annals of the island. This is embarrassing to 
 the person of ordinary means, for every New 
 Yorker is at first sight taken for a millionaire, and 
 the truth being presently discovered, he is made 
 to feel the tacit but eloquent depreciation of the 
 Jungle (coloured hotel people, etc.). Positive in- 
 conveniences also arise from the same cause. It 
 must be said in all candour that after a short so- 
 journ, the parasitic atmosphere of Bermuda be- 
 comes oppressive. Spenders of the exaggerated 
 Broadway type are not improving the native mor- 
 als and manners of the island. I was told that 
 a cub of a rich and famous New York family vis- 
 iting there last season, amused himself by giving 
 five-dollar tips for the most trivial services. This is 
 the most hateful vice of the American " bounder," 
 and next to this the depreciatory attitude which 
 he adopts toward his own country with the first 
 British Bermudian who sits down with him to 
 whisky-and-soda. It is really curious how 
 quickly our " bounder " takes the British atmos- 
 phere of the island. In this he is warmly emulated 
 [238] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 by his women folks. Listening to them (which 
 you cannot easily help doing) you would marvel 
 how the American Constitution lasts overnight! 
 
 AUTOMOBILES ARE neither used nor 
 ' permitted to be used in Bermuda. Many 
 wealthy Americans have sought to override this 
 veto, only to find themselves up against a stone 
 wall. Common sense approves of this ordinance. 
 The islands are smaller in area than we are apt 
 to think, about twenty-five square miles; the roads 
 are rather narrow, as a rule, with many sharp 
 curves and turns, so that careful driving is at all 
 times necessary. Then — and this is perhaps the 
 strongest argument against the auto — the hotels 
 make a feature of carriage drives to the various 
 sights of the place, and thereby many of the col- 
 oured people get their livelihood. 
 
 These black drivers are generally polite and 
 good-natured. George, a favourite of mine, had 
 markedly English features and possessed a fund 
 of information, always ready if not invariably ac- 
 curate, as to all things Bermudian. His fluent 
 speech, eliding consonants wherever possible, was 
 a delight to the ear. In his accent there was a 
 
 [239] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 trace of cockneyism, and very curiously, he sounded 
 his "v's" hke Sam Weller; thus, "werry" for 
 very, " wallable " for valuable, etc. It is many 
 years, I understand, since this peculiarity dropped I 
 out of the speech of Londoners. A significant 
 reminder of the long occupation of Tommy 
 Atkins. . . . 
 
 George's simplicity was charming : he had never 
 been off the island and he was proud of the fact. 
 Had he had any chances to go to New York? 
 Oh yes-sa, 'deed yes, plenty times, but Bermuda 
 alius seemed good enough for him. He noticed \ 
 that some of those coloured boys that went to New 
 Yohk (George was about forty) came back afteh j 
 a yeah or so and nevah 'peared the same-like. 
 They spent their money for cough medicine en' 
 seemed to drap away-like, en' then one day you 
 heahd of a fuhnal. No — sa, I ha-nt any fault to 
 find with Behmuda. In cou'se the wages are wery 
 small, oh, yes — sa, wery small, en' if it wa'n't foh 
 the kindness of the tourists " — Here George deli- 
 cately flicked the off horse's ear and permitted me 
 to reflect that his simplicity was not wholly free 
 from art. 
 
 But simple these Bermuda blacks are, as one 
 [ 240 ] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 does not find them in the States. Thus, I was 
 talking to George about the freedom from crime 
 which is one of the regulation boasts of Bermuda, 
 only one man, and he a black, having been hanged 
 there in forty years (this was quite recently and 
 the police sergeant who arrested him is regarded 
 as a hero) . " Well, no — sa," said George, " it's 
 true they ain't much bad doin's heah, neither 
 among the black folk nor the white folk. En' it 
 stands to reason why not — ^you jest can't help 
 yousself. You'se jest got to behave, for how'se 
 you goin' to get away? S'pose you rob somebody 
 or beat some one up right here in Hamilton and 
 then run to Paget, or Tucker's Town, or St. 
 George. What do they do? " concluded George, 
 liis voice rising with the triumph of the disclo- 
 sure, — " why they jest telephone ovah dere en' git 
 you!" 
 
 Nothing more naive ever came out of the 
 Jungle: — I regret that my imperfect translitera- 
 tion of George's dialect fails to do it justice. ... 
 
 [241] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 A HALF-DOZEN Boer prisoners-of-war still 
 remain in Bermuda, having refused to take 
 the oath of allegiance to English authority. They 
 have been on the island twelve years, expiating 
 their stubborn and hopeless fidelity to their lost 
 country, and they are the objects of much curi- 
 osity to visiting tourists. As prisoners-of-war, I 
 daresay the government supports them, or at least 
 makes them some provision; but they seem to live 
 by their trade in souvenirs, cedar canes and cas- 
 kets, calabash bowls, etc., which they turn out with 
 remarkable skill. 
 
 I liked to talk with one of them especially, a 
 short, powerful man about fifty, said to have been 
 an officer under Paul Kruger's government. He 
 had the grey piercing eye of the marksman, re- 
 minding me of that fatal accuracy of aim on the 
 part of those war-like farmers, which cost the 
 British Empire so much blood and treasure. It 
 flashed suddenly upon me one day when I had 
 referred to his "fellow-soldiers." "Soldiers!" 
 he ejaculated, pausing over his lathe, " we were 
 not soldiers, but freemen. Sixty thousand of us, 
 young and old — nothing you could call an army." 
 [242] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 A patrol of redcoats passed the open door of 
 the Boer's Httle workshop as he spoke. I looked 
 at the short, grey-eyed man and he divined my 
 thought. 
 
 " But we were a match for over two hundred 
 thousand of those British," he added, as if he had 
 not paused in his speech. 
 
 "And listen!" he said, coming nearer with 
 uphf ted hand and burning eyes ; " the Bible 
 it says there will be a war, and then a peace 
 which will be no real peace, and then again a 
 war! We shall be twice sixty thousand the next 
 time." 
 
 My heart swelled at the courage of this uncon- 
 querable rebel, and for the first time I realized how 
 dear liberty must be to men of his simple, primitive 
 type, austere and God-fearing. He had served in 
 all the bloody conflicts of the Transvaal, from the 
 Kaffir War to Jameson's Raid, and lastly in that 
 great struggle which had almost brought the giant 
 power of England to its knees. Majuba — Mod- 
 der River — Spion Kop — what visions rushed upon 
 me ! Looking at him, this plain homely hero, my 
 eyes misted and he seemed to grow taller before 
 me, while his face assumed an air of grandeur 
 
 [243] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 and something of solemn beauty. " It is the Spirit 
 of Liberty itself honouring this soldier of a lost 
 cause," I thought, stricken with awe; and I felt 
 that my feet pressed holy ground. . . . 
 
 " I prefer a lemon stick," I said to the Boer, as 
 I was about to choose a souvenir; "the cedar is 
 too brittle." 
 
 " Try this one, then, with the cedar handle," he 
 said, offering me a sturdy cudgel of lemon wood, 
 the tough lemon tree of Bermuda. " You can 
 strike with it." 
 
 " I take this stick," I said meaningly to the 
 Boer, " not because I have any need of it — but 
 because you struck!"* 
 
 "Would God that I might strike again!" he 
 replied, grasping my hand in farewell. 
 
 I shall never see him again, for he and the other 
 recalcitrants will soon be sent back to Africa. Re- 
 calling what they have endured for their stubborn 
 fealty, who will say that patriotism is not still the 
 Greatest Thing in the world? . . . 
 
 There is an alleged remark of Mark Twain's 
 (surreptitiously postcarded without Mr. Bell's ap- 
 proval) that the trip to Bermuda is like going 
 [244] 
 
BERMUDA II 
 
 through hell to get to Paradise. My own expe- 
 rience was just the opposite — I got my hell re- 
 turning! But going or coming you are bound to 
 get yours — 'tis a toll due to Father Neptune from 
 which only hardened sea-dogs are exempt. How 
 a man survives such a cataclysmal tearing up of 
 his " inwards," and surviving, how he ever comes 
 to forget it or pass an hour without prayerfully 
 remembering it, — these are mysteries beyond the 
 unaided power of human reason to solve. Per- 
 haps it is vanity that makes us wish to hide even 
 from our inmost selves the picture of that awful 
 " goneness " and humihation. I got mine, at any 
 rate, and I fondly believed that there was no sec- 
 ond to it on the ship. But a large man, somewhat 
 superfluously repeating my sentiments in an ad- 
 joining stateroom, completely undeceived me on 
 this point. Listening to him, I felt quite ashamed 
 of my own performance, and decided that I was 
 but a raw amateur. I even told him as much, but 
 he did not receive my observation in a friendly 
 spirit — that is, I so judged, for his words were un- 
 intelligible. Well, well, under the circumstances, 
 a little petulance seemed excusable. . . . 
 
 Do you ask me, shall I ever make another trip 
 
 [245] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 to Ariel's enchanted isle? I reply, what man 
 worthy of the name would be content with one 
 kiss of a beautiful woman? . . . Not I, of a 
 truth, Bermuda! 
 
 [246] 
 
THREE 
 
 THE CONQUEROE 
 
 FROM THE very outbreak of the Great War, 
 beginning with the hurricane dash of the 
 Germans upon Liege, there was the usual public 
 expectation of some great general or military hero 
 to be cast up by the tide of events and to dominate 
 the situation. 
 
 The public eternally wants a hero and the busi- 
 ness of war is to furnish him, is it not? Well, 
 then: the public will not be satisfied with boards 
 of strategy, army councils, or even kings and 
 emperors in the background. It demands him — 
 LUi — in a word, the Man on Horseback! 
 
 But the Great War proceeded, battles were lost 
 and won, cities besieged and taken, fortresses 
 blown up, whole regions laid desolate and un- 
 counted thousands of men slaughtered: and yet 
 the Hero, the Expected One, failed to appear. 
 Through the smoke of battle, through the bloody 
 
 [247] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 mist of carnage, from lands near-by and from 
 remote countries all eyes watched for Him in- 
 tently, all hearts trembled with the wish to hail 
 and salute the conqueror! 
 
 Still he came not, though there were several false 
 alarms which exasperated a public that deemed 
 itself cheated in this monstrous war without a hero. 
 Generals, generals, generals — princes and high- 
 nesses and excellencies — a world on horseback but 
 not THE MAN : what sort of a humbug farce of war 
 was this for which the world would have to pay 
 so dear a price! 
 
 Responding to the popular desire, the news- 
 papers sought to pick out and distinguish a hero ; 
 for it was to their profit to whip up the interest 
 of the public, which flagged at times over the dull 
 and censored chronicles of the war. For there 
 passed many days without a battle or striking 
 incident of any sort, and even the invention of 
 journalists, unhampered by knowledge of what 
 was actually taking place, often failed of its pur- 
 pose. Thus for a moment General Joifre shone in 
 the journalistic calcium; then the spotlight shifted 
 in turn to Von Kluck, Von Hindenburg, French, 
 Pau, and others. None would do after the briefest 
 [248] 
 
THE CONQUEROR 
 
 exposure, and then the bold attempt was made to 
 play up the Kaiser as the man. But his imperial 
 modesty took the alarm and his name disappeared 
 from the official bulletins. The Crown Prince 
 was tried with a little more success; however, he 
 gave an interview and talked himself out of the 
 hero class. Then the newspapers sought to lead 
 out a statesman who would answer the public 
 desire, failing a real military hero. Churchill was 
 thrown on the screen, but he was so egregiously 
 under measure that this attempt may be said to 
 have failed even more decisively than the previous 
 efforts. 
 
 The public fumed with exasperation and the 
 newspapers were at their wits' end : they had tried 
 their whole bag of tricks, including the most costly 
 and brilliant American fakes, and yet here was the 
 indisputable fact : the public was being flatly bored 
 with the Greatest War of modern times — a war 
 which, practically for the first time, had furnished 
 the spectacle of men fighting in the air. But the 
 public grumbled that it was more of a spectacle 
 than anything else, and a great deal of vulgar wit 
 was expended on the " Zeppelin pleasure tours." 
 Clearly, something would have to be done, and 
 
 [249] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 quickly too, if journalism were to maintain its 
 profits and its prestige. 
 
 Still the monotonous campaign went on, East 
 and West. The official reports of the several 
 powers engaged took on a deadly sameness, even 
 to contradicting each other's claimed victories. 
 There were battles, sieges, marches, counter- 
 marches, assaults, repulses from day to day. The 
 military censors were learning the art of news- 
 paper composition: it seemed that they would 
 develop a first-class journalist before they would 
 turn up a great general. But meantime, alas, 
 the public was being bored to death. And 
 still nobody appeared in the wrinkled front of war 
 to give even a momentary thrill of the hero — the 
 Awaited One. Not a single man to draw upon 
 himself the world's long pent up acclaim as the 
 Napoleon — the Ney — the Murat — the Suwarrow 
 — the Bliicher — even the Boulanger of the hour I 
 
 In default of a real hero, the popular mind 
 sought to amuse itself and at the same time give 
 vent to its ill humour by playing with metaphor. 
 Thus it said when the winter was well advanced: 
 " At least there is one good general among them 
 now — Gen. January! He will bring matters to 
 [250] 
 
THE CONQUEROR 
 
 a head." And later on: "Gen. January wasn't 
 quite up to the mark, but wait! — ^you'll see that 
 Gen. February will make short work of this war." 
 Well, he didn't, and the real hero of the Great 
 War was yet to appear and make his coup de 
 main: which I am now about to relate to you. 
 
 THE WORST of the winter was over. Gen- 
 eral February had retired, having done his 
 utmost to rout the two great armies locked in 
 an unyielding embrace. General March had then 
 come on with more than his usual snowing and 
 blowing, and such was the fury of his assault that 
 for a moment it seemed as though he would break 
 the deadlock and whistle the combatants away. 
 But he too failed, and recalling all his windy 
 heralds and trumpeters, was presently forced to 
 retire in high dudgeon. 
 
 Now, with the first mildness of the spring, a 
 change began to make itself manifest in the war. 
 There was a great abatement of the ferocity which 
 had marked its earlier stages. Attacks and coun- 
 ter-attacks were still frequent along the extensive 
 battle line separating the two great armies, but 
 the tale of those killed in such encounters dimin- 
 
 [251] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 ished daily — nay, it was even rumoured that the 
 fighting was of a half-hearted kind. Also it began 
 to be whispered that the hostile armies had neigh- 
 boured each other so long in all the cold and misery 
 and privation of the trenches, with bleak Nature 
 as their common enemy, that they now found it 
 impossible to attack with the old fury and hatred. 
 
 But it turns out that there was even a more 
 potent cause at work than the amity which these 
 racial enemies had found for each other in the long 
 winter months of that terrible struggle. The real 
 Hero of the war — the conqueror himself was on 
 the point of appearing! 
 
 A relaxation of discipline became the general 
 order — a relaxation marked by some painful yet 
 ludicrous incidents. A German soldier was court- 
 martialled for failing to salute his captain — ^than 
 which, as is well known, no offence could be more 
 heinous to the Teutonic mind. His excuse was 
 that he had started to do so, but with hand half- 
 uplifted had been obliged to stop and scratch him- 
 self in a particularly odious manner. He threw 
 himself upon the mercy of the court and implored 
 his captain in moving tones to admit that he him- 
 self had set the example. At this the members 
 [252] 
 
THE CONQUEROR 
 
 of that stern court evinced an unheard-of emotion, 
 and, as by a common impulse, all began to scratch 
 themselves! The soldier was dismissed with a light 
 reprimand and withdrew, scratching himself grate- 
 fully to the last. 
 
 An attempt was then made to adapt the require- 
 ments of the manual of arms to this odd physical 
 necessity, but it was only partially successful, and 
 a perfect fury of scratching seized upon the whole 
 army. This hateful exercise was practised every- 
 where and in the highest company. It was even 
 found impossible to forbid it to the very waiters 
 and other menials when serving princes and high- 
 nesses and excellencies. Noblesse oblige! These 
 exalted personages soon adapted themselves to the 
 unpleasant condition, without serious loss of dig- 
 nity. Indeed it was soon noticed, as a vindication 
 of the aristocratic idea, that the nobilities scratched 
 themselves with an air distinct from that of the 
 common soldiers; but it must be added, with no 
 less heartiness. 
 
 Similar scenes, with a like accompanying laxity, 
 were observed in the French and English camps. 
 In the former, the humourous imagination of the 
 common soldier had devised a complete scratching 
 
 [253] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 manual or tactic. This had a very droll effect 
 when performed in unison by a whole company, 
 as it frequently was ; but it must be allowed that 
 the fibre of discipline was much weakened by these 
 exhibitions. 
 
 The English were more stolid in their perform- 
 ances, as was to be expected from the national 
 character, but they too scratched with great vigour, 
 and as if such occupation were dearer to them than 
 defeating the enemy. The amount of bad lan- 
 guage and profane blasphemy thereby released 
 among them was much greater than in the other 
 camps, but it would be an error to regard this 
 solely as an indication of ill temper, such freedom 
 of expression being a favourite relief with the war- 
 like English. 
 
 SUCH WAS the annoying condition among 
 these unfortunate men-at-arms when one 
 morning in early April the Sun, as if heartily 
 entering into the jest, threw an unwonted heat 
 upon them. The eifect was truly indescribable 
 (this is one of the seven oldest phrases in the 
 world, but there is nothing to take its place). 
 Every man felt as if he was being eaten alive, 
 [254] 
 
THE CONQUEROR 
 
 and the futility of men scratching with only- 
 ten finger-nails was instantaneously recognized 
 throughout those mighty hosts. They wavered 
 still a moment, and then as another searching beam 
 came from old Sol, they broke into imiversal flight, 
 throwing away arms and clothes as they ran — but 
 always scratching! Camps and entrenchments 
 were abandoned with all their munitions, booty, etc. 
 In a few hours that immense theatre of war was 
 completely deserted and Silence had resimied her 
 dominion over the scene (this phrase is also very 
 ancient but quite indispensable to the serious 
 writer). The hero had come at last. The 
 CONQUEROR had done his work. The Great War 
 was over! 
 
 RECENT AS was this surprising event, it 
 seems strange that there should be any ques- 
 tion as to the identity of the real hero who brought 
 it to pass. But already it is clear that, perhaps 
 from motives of national diffidence, an attempt 
 is being made to rob him of the credit, not merely 
 of a great victory but of the far greater glory 
 of restoring peace to a world and ending a war 
 which had threatened to engulf civihzation itself. 
 
 [255] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 Envy quibbles over the name of the Illustrious 
 Hero, seeing that it cannot dispute his achieve- 
 ment. Thus, some authorities leaning to the 
 German side call him gen. laus; while some 
 favouring the French name him gen. pou (not to 
 be confounded with Gen. Pau) . What the Eng- 
 lish call him is left to the discreet conjecture of 
 the reader. 
 
 Perhaps I may add, as a moral, that thus it will 
 be seen the public is never really disappointed of 
 its hero in like circumstances: come he infallibly 
 will, though to be sure, not always in the form 
 and shape demanded by the popular imagination. 
 
 [256] 
 
FOUR 
 
 JTWO PICTURES 
 
 THERE IS a famous passage in Carlyle 
 which describes the meeting of two hostile 
 armies arrayed for mutual slaughter and waiting 
 only the word of their commanders. The com- 
 mon men of whom these armies are made up have 
 not the slightest grievance on the one side or the 
 other, nor are they moved by the least animosity. 
 No supreme cause of country has called them into 
 the field — they are there simply in obedience to 
 the summons of their rulers, for reasons which 
 touch them not at all, which do not concern their 
 private fortunes or interests, and which they are 
 not suffered to understand. Yet at the call of 
 authority they have abandoned their wives and 
 children, their fathers and mothers, their sweet- 
 hearts or promised brides, — yes, all that attaches 
 them to life, in order to shed their innocent blood 
 and the blood of others innocent as themselves, 
 
 [257] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 merely to gratify some capricious whim, some 
 guilty or vain ambition of their rulers. 
 
 On each side there are priests actively exhorting 
 these common men to do their duty : that is, to shed 
 their common blood with courage, as they hope for 
 salvation through the merciful wounds of Christ. 
 And the priests are very careful to point out that 
 in so doing they are but obeying the will of God, 
 as expressed through their rulers, His chosen rep- 
 resentatives. Now as this plea is put forth by 
 the priests on both sides, and indeed ever has been 
 since men first banded to slay and rob their kind, 
 it follows that the horrible blasphemy is achieved 
 of making God chiefly responsible for the crime 
 of war! 
 
 Thus braced and stimulated by the blessing of 
 religion, these common men prepare bravely to 
 slaughter their fellows and to submit to be slaugh- 
 tered themselves; telling themselves that it must 
 be the right thing to do, since their rulers desire 
 it and the priests sanction it. Yet they go to the 
 killing with reluctance or indifference, at first, 
 until very soon, with the blind fury and savagery 
 which the spirit of war engenders, they are changed 
 in despite of themselves. From harmless common 
 [258] 
 
TWO PICTURES 
 
 men, thinking only with regret of their abandoned 
 homes and dear ones, of their peaceful occupations, 
 the idle plough and loom and workshop, — they 
 are in a few moments turned into murderers, 
 delighting and exulting in the slaughter of their 
 fellows, maddened by the sight of blood, crazy to 
 kill — ^kill — kill! — and lost to the instincts of 
 humanity. 
 
 Something like this is the terrible image of war 
 called up by Carlyle's famous description. I have 
 here employed the idea — not the words. 
 
 There is another picture of two armies drawn 
 by the hand of Karl Marx the Socialist, which, 
 though not now so famous and admired as that of 
 Carlyle, will in time to come be far more cele- 
 brated, invoking greater praise and blessing upon 
 the name of its author. It is in truth less a picture 
 than a prophecy whose fulfilment no remote gen- 
 eration is surely destined to see. 
 
 Karl Marx describes the meeting of the armies 
 for battle in much the same manner as Carlyle. 
 They are made up of common men — ^that most 
 abundant food for cannon. They are summoned 
 to the field by their rulers and have themselves 
 no interest or stake in the matter, no cause at 
 
 [259] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 issue, no passion of hatred or revenge to gratify ; 
 nor is there any true interest of patriotism to be 
 served by the conflict to which they are driven. 
 However, the priests are on hand to supply the 
 cordials of faith and absolution; and after making 
 the usual exhortation, they retire to the rear. 
 
 The armies are now face to face and almost eye 
 to eye, when at the signal for battle given simul- 
 taneously on both sides, the mighty host of arrayed 
 enemies throw down their weapons and with one 
 universal hurrah rush into each other's arms! 
 
 In that tremendous shout the Spectre of War 
 vanishes forever. The priests and the vultures 
 leave the field where the Brotherhood of Man cele- 
 brates its holy rites. The rulers abdicate their 
 thrones and the Era of Humanity begins. . . . 
 
 Who would not prefer the picture of Karl 
 Marx? Who would not do what in him lies to 
 speed the day of its realization? Who does not 
 believe that what is now happening throughout 
 Europe makes that Day as inevitable as the rising 
 of the Sun of Justice! 
 
 [260] 
 
TWO PICTURES 
 
 DEAD MEN are not the only fruit of war. 
 Bellona gives life as well as death. Venus 
 and Mars are the most ancient of lovers, and not 
 the least fruitful. Even in the midst of slaughter 
 and destruction, life preserves its eternal calcula- 
 tion : the seeds of another harvest are sown. Death 
 never wholly conquers; Life never entirely per- 
 ishes: they are equal and eternal duelists. 
 
 And Life goes singing to Death for Love has 
 met and kissed him on the way. Euoe Bacchel — 
 wait for the harvest ! . . . 
 
 Listen! I lay no claim to prophecy, but this I 
 will hazard: after the war there will be such a 
 bursting forth and expansion of the joy of life 
 that the oldest man shall not remember to have 
 seen the hke. The world will go en fete and with 
 the harvests gathered on a hundred battle-fields 
 celebrate the return of happiness and hope and 
 security. Euoe BaccTie! From the lush fruits of 
 harvest gathered above the deep dreaming dead, 
 men will pluck an unwonted desire for all the 
 sweets of life — as if those who fell under the hand 
 of Death, ere they might taste and enjoy, had so 
 bequeathed their longing. Ah, terrible indeed 
 
 [261] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 must be those joys that shall content both the 
 living and the dead! Think of the countless host 
 of young men, the picked flower of their several 
 races, who died without having known more than 
 the desire to love. 
 
 O Hymen Hymenae iOj 
 O Hymen Hymenaee! 
 
 They that fell sleep longing for a red lip and 
 a white bosom will not be wholly cheated of their 
 desire. The kisses of which they but dreamed will 
 fructify in the wondrous harvest. Happy the 
 lovers that survive! 
 
 OH, YES, it will be a grand time for Eros and 
 Bacchus and all those ancient gods and god- 
 desses whose business it formerly was to preside 
 over the joys of human life. Indeed, they still 
 revisit us from time to time and take a hand at 
 their old functions, though we call them by ugly 
 barbarian names and pretend to cut their classic 
 acquaintance. They will all come back, Pan and 
 Sylvanus, the ruddy laughing God of the grape, 
 and droll Silenus, the saucy smiling Eros, the fauns 
 [262] 
 
TWO PICTURES 
 
 and the satyrs, the free graces, the nymphs and the 
 dryads, to hold such revels as have not been enacted 
 among men since Olympus went out of fashion. 
 Life is pagan, death is Christian: be sure the old 
 gods will not fail this opportunity to repossess 
 themselves of the world stolen from them by the 
 Galilean. At least they will make a glorious try 
 for it. Euoe BaccJie! . . . 
 
 Life is coming back from death, while the desire 
 of the many who were cut off in their bloom will 
 soon burst forth in wondrous purple harvests — 
 aye! in an efflorescence of joy that will overspread 
 the whole earth. 
 
 We have mourned long enough for the dead — 
 soon we shall drink and forget, intoning our 
 Nunc est hibendum! Life is for the living. Love 
 and Beauty and Happiness are here forevermore. 
 Euoe Bacche! 
 
 [263] 
 
FIVE 
 
 THE COLLECTOR 
 
 YOUR TRUE collector, like the poet, is born 
 — ^not made. 'Tis a passion that shows itself 
 early in life, even as doth poetry. Here, alas, the 
 likeness ends, for the collector survives the poet in 
 the human breast. 
 
 Who does not remember the schoolfellow that 
 won away all his marbles and those of the other 
 lads? How we used to gape and wonder at his 
 luck, poor simpletons! — it was but the nascent 
 genius of the collector. I recall, as a thing of yes- 
 terday, such a young hunks taking me to his home 
 and showing me, craftily bunked in the garret, all 
 his " shining gain." Aladdin's treasure was beg- 
 garly by comparison. I still feel the choking envy 
 that rose within me at sight of that ghttering 
 variegated heap of alleys, agates, bullseyes, and 
 marbles. Since coming to years of maturity, the 
 [264] 
 
THE COLLECTOR 
 
 spectacle of no man's wealth has affected me half so 
 much. And as I stood there mumping with impo- 
 tent desire over those pellets of glass and clay, I felt 
 a strange sinking at the heart, which an older wis- 
 dom translates into the conviction that I would 
 never become a collector. The presentiment was 
 only too well founded — I have never collected any- 
 thing that the world sets a price on, and to this 
 hour I stand naked outside the Kingdom of 
 Junk. . . . 
 
 That collecting (in the technical sense) is car- 
 ried to a point of unreason by many persons, may 
 be easily granted. In strict fact, he is not worthy 
 the proud title of Collector whose hobby appears 
 anything short of a transcendent passion or mania 
 for which he stands ever ready to risk life, limb, 
 and fortune. Whip me those paltry varlets and 
 pretenders who affect to be collectors from their 
 base economies invested in the sweepings of cheap 
 auction rooms: — it is not with such canaille we 
 have to do here. 
 
 Collecting, like literature, has what may be 
 called the grand style, which to achieve in some 
 degree confers a sort of brevet or patent of esteem. 
 It is a pursuit that has aristocratic affinities on 
 
 [ 265 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 every side: hence, I suspect, the ardour with which 
 it is followed in this country. 
 
 My purpose is not to " catalogue " the collect- 
 ing fraternity, whose name is Legion, nor to 
 enumerate the objects of their perquisition, which 
 span ahke the dictionary and the industry of man. 
 Even to mention merely the principal classes of 
 collectors were a mighty task. I content myself 
 with glancing only at the collectors of printed 
 things from Incunabula and Elzevirs to the broken 
 volumes of Papyrus.* 
 
 T'other day I was politely requested by a firm 
 of Boston book-sellers to state " what special line 
 of books I collected," a blank form being thought- 
 fully provided for my reply, with a specimen page 
 of a sort of collectors' Who's Who, which the said 
 firm is to bring out. 
 
 Really, Messieurs, you do me too much honour! 
 I have not the vanity to aspire to be a Collector, 
 and still less — pardon me — the pertinent and 
 necessary pecunia. I get my books where I can, 
 and I confess to a partiality for hunting them out 
 in old-book stalls, those repositories of the only 
 
 * The Papyrus : a small literary monthly edited by the writer :■ 
 from 1903 to 1912. » 
 
 [266 1 
 
THE COLLECTOR 
 
 " second-hand " commerce which disgraces not the 
 purchaser ; and I pay as little for them as I may. 
 'Tis a traffic that appeals to me with its seemly 
 pretence of learning on the part of the dealer, 
 and that air of obliging you which no other mer- 
 chant doth assume. But no " special line," if you 
 please, echoing my Boston inquisitors; I can read 
 any sort of book if it have literary life-blood in its 
 veins. The counterfeits of such I abandon to the 
 hieratic or professional collector, by whom they are 
 sometimes fabulously rated. 
 
 I suspect the vanity of exclusive possession is 
 three-fourths of the collecting mania, but there 
 can be, and commonly are, subsidiary motives, 
 such as (I regret to say) pride of money, snob- 
 bery, the itch of singularity, pretence of learning, 
 and mere pedantry. Indeed, though it irks me to 
 censure ever so lightly any devotee of the gentle 
 art, it may not be denied that a prevailing type 
 of rich book collector collects for his own credit 
 and public repute, rather than from a genuine love 
 of learning or literature: he is, as a witty writer 
 has said, a man withj not of books. Of course, I 
 refer only to the American species: but the same 
 reproach has been often alleged against his Euro- 
 
 [267] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 pean fellow. Horace Walpole is the model that 
 both seek to pattern by: he was, as Macaulay 
 describes him, an indefatigable collector of worth- 
 less trifles and a prince among snobs. But he had 
 distinction of a kind, and he remains the polished, 
 perverse patron of rich collectors of the parvenu 
 type. 
 
 It is the custom of our American journalists, 
 who love to mouth money above all things, and 
 therefore print no end of nonsense about rich col- 
 lectors, to congratulate such persons fulsomely on 
 their acquisitions, and to ascribe both to them and 
 their " treasures " an importance which neither can 
 justify. The enormous prices alleged in the news- 
 paper chronicle are seldom, if ever, paid; the 
 actual value to the public of some of the costliest 
 and most ambitious enterprises of the collector is 
 little or nothing. Here, as elsewhere,, the jour- 
 nalist lackeying the rich proves an unsafe guide. 
 
 But my cue is rather the mania of collecting 
 per se, of which Balzac has given us the heroic 
 example in " Cousin Pons." That is a sad enough 
 story, in all conscience, and generally speaking, I 
 fear collectors do not have a merry time of it, spite 
 of the flattering homage of the newspapers and 
 [ 268 ] 
 
THE COLLECTOR 
 
 the even sweeter envy of the neighbours. Their 
 works cannot follow them, of course, when they 
 become pulvis et umbrae and placens uxor (rarely 
 in sympathy with our manias) in default of strict 
 testamentary injunction, is quick to hustle a life's 
 accumulated treasures to the auction rooms. All 
 are dispersed to ahen hands, and Defunctus, in- 
 stead of the proud memorial bust and tablet he had 
 promised himself in some great library or museum, 
 has this for his epitaph: Vanitas vanitatum! 
 
 I have been led into these somewhat drab reflec- 
 tions by seeing lately advertised, at auction sale, a 
 hbrary of rare books belonging to a collector whom 
 I had quite intimately known. This worthy gen- 
 tleman collected from as honest a motive as any, 
 yet it were more than human if he found himself 
 averse to the sort of notice heaped upon him by 
 fulsome newspapers and flattering friends. His 
 " great learning " was constantly referred to, 
 which he, a cultivated man, but not at all a pro- 
 found scholar nor privately claiming the character, 
 took no pains to deprecate. And certainly there 
 was great learning in his house, within the musty 
 ancient folios or black-letter tomes, in the acquisi* 
 tion of which he had spent a considerable fortune^ 
 
 [269] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 It is very singular how a ruling passion grows, 
 and surely the passion of collecting is no excep- 
 tion. 
 
 In the beginning this man owned his books, but 
 when the mania reached its height, they literally 
 owned him. Showing me his Hbrary of Incunabula 
 — early printed books in Latin which he could not 
 read for the hfe of him — ^he said that to get some 
 volumes which would fill out his collection he 
 would be strongly tempted to sacrifice the remain- 
 der of his patrimony. 
 
 This was certainly the vanity of possession, for 
 as he could not read the books in their Latin text, 
 it would be foolish to suppose that his passion was 
 that of the scholar. No, it was the true mania of 
 the collector: others with longer purses had out- 
 bidden him in his desire, and the fact left him 
 craving and unhappy. 
 
 I can not myself see much use for a library of 
 books mildewed and mummified by the lapse of 
 centuries, which one does not read, and scarcely 
 dare handle, and which one has to keep in fire- 
 proof cases or at the Safe Deposit. (My friend 
 actually kept there his most treasured volumes.) 
 A book is the most familiar creature possible: life 
 [270] ^ 
 
THE COLLECTOR 
 
 offers us little to rival its companionship. Now 
 to lock it up in a steel box, preserving it for a 
 barren non-use, seems to me as foolish a thing as 
 ever man conceived. 
 
 Add the consideration that all such books are to 
 be had in plain honest English, if of the least 
 value, and for little above the price of herrings, — 
 and really I don't see what excuse there can be 
 for such learned rubbish, outside a museum. That 
 a man should spend his money and his life in the 
 work of collecting these cast-off reliquaries of 
 thought, these exuviae of erudition, is quite beyond 
 my philosophy. But there^ of course, is the 
 mania. ... 
 
 And I will not say (though I be myself lacking 
 in the stuff of which your preux collector is made) 
 that there is not something fine and heroic in the 
 hobby. It is a passion at least, and a man with 
 a passion may be condemnable in a hundred ways, 
 but he cannot fail to be interesting and alive. 
 This is always true of the greater sort of collec- 
 tors: their strifes and emulations, their counter- 
 marches and campaigns, have something Homeric 
 about them, and the tale is one to which the world 
 seldom inclines a careless ear. . . . 
 
 [271] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 When Goodman Grandet, urged by greed rather 
 than devotion, snatches at the silver crucifix in his 
 dying convulsion, we are not shocked, so true is 
 the touch of art; and we applaud Balzac for this 
 bold depiction of the ruling passion strong even 
 in death. . . . 
 
 To live a collector is to die a collector! 
 
 I doubt not that my friend's last conscious 
 thought was of his books and of the enduring 
 monument they would raise for him in the public 
 remembrance. Having no children of his body, he 
 might rely on them alone to carry his name to a 
 far posterity. Hence, my sorrow at seeing them 
 " put up and knocked down," as the shop phrase 
 brutally has it, at public auction. It was, of a 
 truth, in ghastly fashion like putting the man him- 
 self up and knocking him down; and I did not 
 stay to see how his treasures went. However, the 
 humour of the situation was saved by the presence 
 of his brother collectors, competitors in the acqui- 
 sition of Incunabula, etc., who seemed eager to 
 despoil him as they will in turn be despoiled. . . . 
 
 Not to end upon a sad note, I urge the gentle 
 reader, if he is not now a collector, to become one 
 forthwith. 'Tis an amiable passion that adds a 
 [272] 
 
THE COLLECTOR 
 
 great zest to life — nay, many wise persons think, 
 prolongs it. For it is not to be doubted that the 
 years of desire mark that term of life in which we 
 are most thoroughly and vitally alive — not an inert 
 nerve or pulse anywhere. Begin then to collect, 
 by all means ( — there are my own trifling Works 
 and the aforementioned broken volumes of Papy- 
 rus) . For to desire something is to want to get 
 or collect it: and whilst we collect we live! 
 
 [273] 
 
SIX 
 
 THE PENMAN 
 
 T'OTHER DAY, on the Main street of our 
 town, I saw a man pursuing tranquilly an 
 occupation which will ere long be listed with the 
 abandoned trades. In point of fact, this particu- 
 lar craft or art (as I might almost call it) is little 
 practised nowadays, and seldom seen except in 
 country places. Even there it has much descended 
 from its pristine dignity and has something of a 
 barely tolerated character, while its practitioners 
 have fallen to the level of street fakirs. 
 
 The man was writing cards at fifteen cents the 
 dozen, and seemed to be doing a brisk trade. 
 About a score of persons were gathered about his 
 chair and table, some of them following with open 
 mouth his curious skill. He was a very large man 
 for such delicate work, and fat withal, but still he 
 seemed perfectly cool, good-natured and comfort- 
 able. I joined the group of his patrons and 
 [274] 
 
THE PENMAN 
 
 admirers; it was years since I had seen anybody 
 earning a livelihood in that way. 
 
 A single glance told me that he was master of 
 his art (really I must call it so) . He wrote v/ith 
 astonishing swiftness and perfect execution; never 
 blotting, or spoiling, or making a false-stroke; 
 turning out the cards, dozen after dozen, with 
 uniform ease and celerity. This mountain of a 
 man had yet a small shapely hand which traced a 
 script that an angel might envy; moreover, with 
 curves and flourishes and shading that vividly 
 brought back to me that terror and obsession of 
 my school-days — the Spencerian Copy Book! 
 
 As the fat man pranced and pirouetted, cut the 
 figure eight, looped the loop and did everything 
 imaginable with that wonderful pen of his — it 
 stood out at a right angle from the holder in a 
 knowing fashion — I ran over in my mind some of 
 the miseries I had undergone (the whole could 
 not be told) owing to this cursed Spencerian pen- 
 manship. 
 
 [275] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 THE SPENCERIAN Copy Book shades with 
 horror (I am too sad to intend a pun)' 
 those early school-days; even now I can not recall 
 it without a sickening sense of incapacity and fail- 
 ure. Humbly persuaded am I that no clumsy- 
 pawed urchin ever made a worse botch of the 
 Spencerian. The most prodigious pains resulted 
 only in a horrid travesty, and a cursed trick I had 
 of smearing the page at the last moment, necessi- 
 tating a fresh copy, gave a Sisyphean cast to my 
 labours. The fact that my own father was the 
 teacher made things almost hopeless, for it seemed 
 harder to please him than anybody else, and when 
 the punitive ruler came down upon my poor 
 awkward young fingers, I felt that despair 
 which childhood only knows, even more than 
 the pain. 
 
 What a fearful tyranny the Spencerian was, and 
 not less a humbug! For how in common sense 
 could a fumbling young lad be expected to produce 
 a fair copy of that perfect script executed by the 
 engraver's art? My father could not do it him- 
 self, nor many another teacher; but I was beaten 
 for my failure. As well beat me for my inability 
 [ 276 ] 
 
THE PENMAN 
 
 to walk on knives. I could not see the fairness 
 of it then; I can not now. O those burning tears 
 of youth, and that heart choking with the sense of 
 undeserved punishment and injustice! If ever I 
 have been a rebel since and a contemner of author- 
 ity, if ever I have been a giber and a scoffer at 
 things conventional or of the Copy Book order, 
 let the Spencerian bear the blame ! 
 
 I can not hope by any effort of language to 
 express my envy and admiration of the boy who 
 could passably imitate the Spencerian headlines 
 in the copy books. Such a phenomenon turned up 
 from time to time, and I envied and admired him 
 with a sincerity inspired by the absolute convic- 
 tion that I should not be able to do likewise in 
 nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine years. 
 As to that point my judgment was precociously 
 correct — I still write what is technically termed 
 a " rotten hand " (without a trace of the Spen- 
 cerian influence) , and the wise printer will not set 
 up my copy except at price and a half. The test 
 of reading it is the hardest I can propose to a 
 stenographer — few are equal to the same. And 
 to be strictly candid, I now and then throw off 
 a page of caligraphic beauty (remote from the 
 
 [277] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 Spencerian model) which the writer is himself 
 unable to decipher. 
 
 The Spencerian has thus embittered my life, for 
 I would have learned the typewriter in my jour- 
 nalistic period (as many reporters were obliged to 
 do) but for the spirit of rebellion and ungodliness 
 which that infernal system had engendered in me. 
 I have had a machine in my house these dozen 
 years, but I have never learned so much as to 
 print my name — for the same reason. My present 
 means of communicating my literary expression is 
 about as choice a specimen of kakography as a 
 captious connoisseur could desire to see. But I 
 know what it cost me to acquire it, in spite of the 
 Spencerian, and nothing shall ever wrest it from 
 me — not even a typewriter! For in clinging to 
 it thus stubbornly and passionately, I feel that I 
 am somehow evening accounts with the monster 
 that desolated my tender youth. . . . 
 
 THE FAT penman wrote right along while 
 I was thinking as above, and I reckon he 
 made sixty cents while I was losing both time and 
 money. He was about my own age and might 
 easily have been one of those boy wonders at my 
 [278] 
 
THE PENMAN 
 
 father's school, who could do anything they liked 
 with the Spencerian. (We were led to expect that 
 they would infallibly get to be president of the 
 bank, etc., but somehow they always came short of 
 these glorious hopes.) As I looked, the fat man 
 deftly traced a lovely swan with a scroll in its beak, 
 bearing the name of a young lady from Rowayton, 
 who blushed with pleasure as she received it. 
 
 The fat one made her a very graceful bow, and 
 the tail of his eye descending caught mine with 
 a barely perceptible wink. There was drollery 
 too in this otiose villain, who sat enormous but at 
 perfect ease, plying his little pen; while we his 
 vulgar clientele gaped and sweated round him. 
 
 An artist, I said to myself, turning away, and 
 a hero as well, for did he not conquer the Spen- 
 cerian, that dragon of my school days? But unless 
 an apoplexy helps him off, I fear the day is not 
 far distant when he will have to hunt another job. 
 
 [279] 
 
SEVEN 
 
 CHANTICLEER 
 
 Ti/TAN, WHETHER of city or country, is 
 ■^^ ^ largely the creature of habit. 
 
 One realizes this especially in regard to one's 
 sleep — a problem that perplexes most of us sooner 
 or later, who have too curiously meddled with our 
 brains. And after trying both, one discovers that 
 there is not so much noise in the city nor so much 
 quiet in the country. There are those who sleep 
 soundly and those who sleep badly in both places. 
 It really makes no difference. Of course this 
 corner of Connecticut is not what my little girl 
 calls the " really real " country: it is but, so to say, 
 semi-rural, uniting at odd times and in an exqui- 
 site degree, the disadvantages of both rus and urbs. 
 
 But my argument as to the sleep still holds, for 
 the poet Richard Le Gallienne, who lives at 
 Tokeneke in the deep country a few miles from 
 [ 280 ] 
 
CHANTICLEER 
 
 me, has written an inspiring poem to "A Bird 
 at Dawn." 
 
 I suspect it was not Richard's choice to be awake 
 in the chilly grey morn and listen to the ethereal 
 bird. Or maybe he only made-believe to have 
 heard it: poets are long on imagination anyway, 
 and most of 'em that I have known would never 
 have heard a bird at dawn unless they had been 
 out all night on a lark! 
 
 However, if we take Richard's poetic word for 
 it, he was indeed broad awake when most of us 
 want to be asleep and heartily curse the milkman 
 or the neighbour's dog for breaking our matutinal 
 slumbers. And that's the point that concerns us 
 in this little homily. 
 
 When we lived in the Big City I used to have 
 a " white night " from time to time. This was 
 due not so much to early piety as to a habit I had 
 formed of reading and smoking abed. A delicious 
 habitude, I still protest, and one shrewdly suited to 
 the philosophic temper; but I must allow that it 
 has certain drawbacks. There was a risk of in- 
 voluntary self-cremation, which kept the family 
 in a state of expectant terror. There were occa- 
 sional petty damages to the bed-clothes, to the 
 
 [281] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 reader's " nighty " or pajamas — the small toll he 
 paid for snatching his " fearful joy." And there 
 was — worst of all and the only thing that moved 
 him to real remorse — the speeding up of the mental 
 wheels that led to the inevitable White Night! 
 
 Well, as I was saying, I didn't leave it behind 
 me in the city: it still calls on me from time to 
 time, although lately I am more given to perpen- 
 dicular smoking (oh, I sometimes taste the sweet- 
 ness of a relapse!), and I try to govern the 
 " wheels " with a wiser care. Alas, how powerless 
 are we to control that strange mechanism which 
 tyrannizes over our life! 
 
 But I do not fear my white nights so much as 
 formerly in the city, where one was crushed and 
 overborne on every side with human life : here there 
 be certain dulcifying circumstances added to the 
 old Terror, which just now made me think of 
 Richard and his " Bird at Dawn." He does not 
 name the feathered warbler that gave him his 
 delightful experience and indirectly enriched the 
 world with a new joy. A bird, he says: no more. 
 It is also to a bird that I owe the reHef that has 
 come to my insomnia, but I need not be so reticent 
 as the poet: — ^my bird at dawn is Chanticleer. 
 [ 282 ] 
 
CHANTICLEER 
 
 And how shall I describe the anodyne he brings 
 me under the stress of my own self-evoked tor- 
 ture? . . . 
 
 It is always the same fight that wears out the 
 dark hours. I try to think that I am not trying 
 to go to sleep — the prescription of some heaven- 
 born genius ; and, as always, make a most exquisite 
 failure of it. I invent weird variations upon the 
 usual gymnastic of insomnia; I try every known 
 posture and almost fetch up standing on my head. 
 Then I say to myself, " This is foolish. I must 
 not contend with it. I must simply ignore — for- 
 get it and go passively to sleep." Excellent! — 
 and I proceed to lie more or less passively awake 
 for hours. The humiliation of the defeat — the 
 consciousness that it is girding at one — that is per- 
 haps the worst part of the punishment. 
 
 Sometimes I come very near to fooling it by 
 listening to the trains. A great railroad runs not 
 far from my house, and goodness knows how many 
 trains pass to and fro at night. It is curious that 
 I never give them a momentary attention in the 
 dayhght; they simply mean nothing to me. But 
 in the dark night when I lie sleepless, yet perhaps 
 not in full waking consciousness, the trains domi- 
 
 [ 283 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 n,ate my thought. I yield myself willingly to this 
 obsession, hoping that they may carry me away 
 from it: — and sooth to say, often they do. These 
 escapes are among the most ticklish experiences 
 of my insomnia, and I would not deny that there 
 is some compensation in the adventure. 
 
 But, at best, they are interludes as rare as fortu- 
 nate, not to be counted upon for the real bad 
 nights: — then, however patiently I listen to the 
 long roll of the trains, filling our quiet valley with 
 the shattering thunder of their advance or the 
 mighty echoes of their retreat; attentive to their 
 distant calls and signals, a formidable antiphony, 
 and to all the heart-moving alarums of their tre- 
 mendous rallies under the night sky; yet am I 
 still dry-eyed and feverishly awake when the earli- 
 est raucous mutterings of Chanticleer from his 
 cooped security very near, begin at length to 
 unhinge my rigid mind and incline it toward sleep. 
 He is the true warder of Morpheus: — what sooth- 
 ing peace in those first notes that irresistibly invite 
 one to snuggle down and lose the tyranny of the 
 night watches in a delicious haven of rest! How 
 I bless the homely, domestic bird, true friend of 
 man and eke his bountiful provider, beyond any 
 [ 284 ] 
 
CHANTICLEER 
 
 bulbul or nightingale or lark or thrush that ever 
 inspired the happiest rhymes of poet. Now my 
 senses delicately drowse while I hear the Goodman 
 telling his duteous wives that he is about to bring 
 back day and light again. Admirable boaster! — 
 sapient natin-alist! — 'tis not I would say thee nay. 
 I catch their sleepy, syncopated remarks of loyal 
 praise and admiration; but I am quite gone over- 
 board and sunk in the ocean of oblivion, deeper 
 than plummet e'er sounded, before the Coop bursts 
 into full matin chorus. 
 
 Ah, Monsieur le Coq, good master Gallus, brave 
 and worthy Chanticleer, honest lover of the warm, 
 brown earth, I set thee above the feathered vani- 
 ties that despise thee on thy dunghill. Thy hum- 
 ble life is all service and giving; thou art besides 
 a model citizen, keeping thy wives in order and 
 acquitting all thy duties with a relishing zeal. I 
 salute thee, ancient witness and sharer of man's 
 best life, and were I a poet like neighbour Le 
 Gallienne, I would honour thee with a song that 
 should put to blush the finest madrigals in praise 
 of those that contemn thee. What is, forsooth, all 
 this folderol and skimble-skamble stuff about night- 
 ingales and birds of dawn, etc., compared to thy 
 
 [ 285 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 terrene and solid virtues? Gladly I avail myself 
 of the following simple yet inspiring verses which 
 but do thee merited honour, and for which I am 
 indebted to a modest poet whose virtues court the 
 shade. Heartily I endorse his sentiments and hope 
 they may find some responsive echo in a world 
 where man is lowering his crest and the hen-minded 
 threaten to usurp dominion. 
 
 THE COCK CROW 
 
 (Written at 4 A. M. on being awakened by a 
 rooster.) 
 
 Greeting to thee, oh Chanticleer, 
 That hailest the rising sun! 
 Brave herald of our masculinity. 
 Lord of the barnyard. 
 In this age of crowing hens 
 And cackling capons 
 Whom the hens do scorn and peck; 
 A henpecked age that says 
 All fowls must crow 
 And cackling is the part 
 Of those " weak things " 
 Who but lay eggs 
 And hatch the coming generations. 
 [286 ] 
 
CHANTICLEER 
 
 Thy head erect, thy crest and plumes 
 
 Proclaim the dominance of the male. 
 
 When thou thy clarion call dost still 
 
 And hens borrow thy spurs to fight 
 
 To rule the roost. 
 
 And pluck thy plumes 
 
 To deck themselves withal. 
 
 What fate is thine, O noble bird! 
 
 What spurious call is that 
 
 Which greets the setting sun? 
 
 The crow of feminism's strident squeak, 
 
 Its brood in incubators. 
 
 Letting the emancipated mother hens 
 
 "Lead their own lives/' 
 
 Repudiate their motherhood 
 
 And duties to their race. 
 
 Crow on, O Chanticleer, crow on! 
 
 For when thy call is stilled. 
 
 Then race is dead, and art is dead. 
 
 And love is dead. 
 
 And unseoced hens can neither breed 
 
 Nor do thine errand in a world of strife! 
 
 [287] 
 
EIGHT 
 
 THE CIRCUS 
 
 IT IS about the kalends of May when the world 
 grows beautiful again under the touch of 
 Spring ; when the pain and uselessness of toilsome 
 effort presents itself as an overwhelmingly new 
 consideration; when all out-of-doors breathes an 
 irresistible invitation to come and play; when in 
 truth everybody hates to work and the rural school- 
 boy incited by certain flaming, variegated posters 
 on the dead-walls, thinks of playing hookey for 
 good and running away with the circus, and hesi- 
 tates only between the choice of bareback riding 
 and the flying trapeze. I pity the man who in his 
 youth never entertained this dazzling idea, and I 
 should be wary of doing business with him. 
 
 I was chewing the end of my pen this morning 
 and waiting for an idea — ^which would not come, 
 perhaps because I was not voting unanimously 
 for it — a state of mental recalcitrance not im- 
 [288] 
 
THE CIRCUS 
 
 proved by the chirping of an ecstatic robin on a 
 maple branch just outside my window — when after 
 some hesitant scuffling the attic door opened and 
 there appeared a Delegation composed of the 
 Three Youngest — aged respectively ten, eight, and 
 five— who with a unanimity that spoke of thorough 
 rehearsal, burst out clamorously — 
 
 '' Pa, we. want you to take us to the Circus! " 
 
 Bless my soul, I thought, what better thing can 
 I do? And as the weak minority of me thus 
 yielded, the Idea fled, saying, " I knew all along 
 that he didn't want me to-day." Then as I cast 
 aside my work, the robin trilled forth a sarcastic 
 roundelay — just look at the malice of that, when 
 he knew how much he was to blame! I don't care, 
 I said, it is the Spring — and only the Circus 
 can give you a real chance to be young again 
 with the kiddies. It is their Lupercal — perish the 
 task that would forbid these joyous rites! Let 
 them lead me, I said, to the Aggregated Marvels 
 of the Mastodonic Menagerie — to the glittering 
 Ensemble of the Picturesque and Panethnic Pro- 
 cession — to the Riotous Resilience and Rutilant 
 
 [289] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 Splendour of the Roman Chariot Race — to the 
 subordinate, but no less Seductive Symposium of 
 Segregated Wonders in the Sideshows — ^yea, even 
 (Virtue, be calm!) let them guide my fainting 
 steps to the Ten Thousand Dollar Beauty Show, 
 to that Dazzling and Delicious Divan of Diapha- 
 nous Divinities — and I will consume peanuts with 
 the youngest of 'em. Ma! get the children ready! 
 
 WHEN I WAS a boy in a little town on the 
 Mohawk River up in New York State — a 
 town that was very much alive with the whir of 
 spindles and all manner of factories — there were 
 two overshadowing events in the year — Circus and 
 Fourth o' July. Other hohdays there were, of 
 course, but none of them — not even Christmas — 
 meant anything like the same pleasure and antici- 
 pation to me. Perhaps because I was the kind 
 of boy that had to look for his good times mainly 
 on the outside. I fancy most motherless boys, 
 without even sisters to help bring them up, would 
 be of my taste in the matter — a taste for the 
 sterner holidays. 
 
 Life was therefore of small account between 
 Circus and Circus (I omit from present considera- 
 [290] 
 
THE CIRCUS 
 
 tion the glorious Feast of Noise and Flame). 
 I tried to save up my pennies, not easily come by, 
 for the one as for the other; but from an early 
 weakness of economy, as well as the parental par- 
 simony, often found myself without the means of 
 entertainment. Something like despair I have 
 known since as a man, but nothing to compare 
 with the bottom-out-of -all-things, end-of-the-world 
 dejection and despondency of one small boy with- 
 out even a lonesome nickel to bless himself with 
 on Circus Day. Do you wonder that the Dele- 
 gation mentioned above found me so easy? . . . 
 What an event was the coming of the Circus to 
 the small boy population of our town! Nothing 
 else was thought of, from the appearance of the 
 first posters to the arrival of the show, heralded 
 by strings of uncommon looking horses. Not the 
 most ordinary courier or outrider but excited the 
 deepest interest and was the object of endless curi- 
 osity and speculation. Whether the Circus was 
 big or just medium size made no particular mat- 
 ter to us — it was a circus, that was enough, and 
 we were equally interested whether it came by 
 special train with imposing cars of unwonted con- 
 struction for the menagerie, or just rolled into 
 
 [291] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 town by the turnpike in its own tented wagons. 
 It was romance in the concrete — the visualization 
 of wonder — ^the reahty of adventure brought near, 
 all accompanied with that strange plucking at the 
 heart which only boyhood knows, and for which 
 it is most to be envied and regretted. 
 
 I would give much to recall my feelings when 
 I had slept with one eye open in order to get up 
 at cock-crow to see the Circus pitch its tents on 
 Bilbrow's field, a space big enough for a Roman 
 hippodrome. But of this I am sure, that romance 
 has never spread a scene of such enchantment be- 
 fore my eyes. Oh, the heart-stirring excitement 
 when the canvasmen, — those extra-blasphemous 
 navigators of the circensian ocean — raised the 
 great centre-pole of the Main Tent! It might 
 have been done with less noise and swearing, per- 
 haps, but would it have impressed me half so 
 much? How cheerful the sight of them messing 
 in the open air, while an immensely fat and good- 
 natured black cook roasted huge steaks over a 
 cunning camp fire! How I longed to get away 
 from the tyranny of tasks and to be a part of that 
 life, so free and careless, yet full of adventure it 
 seemed; and how I envied the boy who, from time 
 [292] 
 
THE CIRCUS 
 
 to time, ran away with the Circus ! What became 
 of that hero of one's early admiration seems, by 
 the way, as profound a mystery as the ordinary 
 failure of the head boy in school to take all the 
 prizes in after hfe. I know for sure, at any rate, 
 that he never got to own the Circus, and I suspect 
 he paid dearly for his romantic yearnings. But 
 as a boy, I would have enthusiastically swapped 
 any future whatever for his chance. 
 
 All the details of this strange nomadic caravan 
 life appealed to the boyish sense of wonder, which 
 even transfigured the rough servants of the scene, 
 as being of the fellowship of Aladdin. Those can- 
 vasmen, for instance, were the toughest lot of 
 rowdies that could be picked up by the manage- 
 ment, skilled in assembling that sort of material. 
 They were in fact chosen for their fighting ability 
 and disposition. Their manners were soft and 
 gentle in keeping. I do not believe that any sort 
 of human creature has ever surpassed the circus- 
 man of those times in the art of obscene blasphemy. 
 His manners may be, and doubtless are, changed 
 for the better, and he is now selected for peace 
 rather than war. But my boyish memory is still 
 fain to dwell on him as a spouting geyser of to- 
 
 [ 293 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 bacco-sprinkled invective ; an active volcano, so to 
 speak, of sulphurous commination, whose cuss- 
 words were merely the flowers of a picturesque 
 rhetoric. In point of fact, the circusman 
 swore rather more than seemed necessary even 
 in his trying occupation, and I suspect that 
 he did a lot of cussing just to keep up his 
 courage. There was some occasion for this, I 
 promise you. 
 
 Rushing the canvasmen was in those days a 
 favourite diversion of tough youth : hence, the mili- 
 tant character of the tanbark retainers. There 
 were places that the stoutest circusmen feared to 
 " make," on account of the battles that were sure 
 to be precipitated. Broken heads were not the 
 most serious result of these scrimmages; some- 
 times, though rarely, a life was taken on one side 
 or the other, causing a bitter feud renewed each 
 year on the visit of the Circus. On this account, 
 there were not a few towns which every circus 
 deemed it prudent to skip, though good show 
 towns and directly in their circuit (as the itinerary 
 was called). 
 
 Our own town was pretty bad in this respect, 
 owing to the large factory element in the popula- 
 [294] 
 
THE CIRCUS 
 
 tion. It had the dishonour of raising one of the 
 worst criminal gangs in the State, the members 
 of which, after consuming their youth in desperate 
 feats of hardihood, mostly died in prison. I al- 
 ways proudly understood that our town (in whose 
 just fame for badness we small boys rejoiced) was 
 one of those places the circusmen would rather have 
 passed by. Certainly I saw some bloody battles 
 between the canvas guardians and our tough youth, 
 which gave an added spice of adventure to the 
 marvels of the Circus. We small boys often 
 profited by these encounters to scamper under the 
 canvas and hoist ourselves to stations of safety — 
 a perilous feat that set your heart thumping for 
 an hour thereafter. But it meant getting some- 
 thing more out of the Circus than the nice boy did, 
 whose papa or mamma carefully ensconced him 
 in a reserved seat, with a disgusting provision of 
 popcorn and peanuts. All great experiences are 
 bought at a price! 
 
 I never see nowadays the type of young desper- 
 ado who used then to affront the hardy canvas - 
 men with their knotted clubs. He trusted to his 
 hard fists as his only weapon, though his skill in 
 tripping the adversary was not the least brilliant 
 
 [295] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 feature of his attack. Ye gods of fistiana, what 
 a rough-and-tumble fighter he was! — really, the 
 battle that makes the sternest test of mettle and 
 endurance. But alas! I sing the warriors of a 
 past generation. Have we lost the secret of their 
 breeding? I should think it a loss, if courage is 
 to remain among the virtues of the sons of the 
 people. The bold lads of whom I speak had a 
 rough but not unworthy code of honour: they 
 fought fair and eschewed the weapons of the 
 assassin. 
 
 COMES BACK to memory now the pale face 
 and undaunted blue eyes of the picked dare- 
 devil of them all, a warlike youth called " Grinny " 
 Keogh. There was a certain consonance in this 
 queer nickname, arising from the fact of his being 
 always agrin, even when most minatory and dan- 
 gerous. This peculiarity served him in good stead, 
 for it usually fooled the enemy and gave him leave 
 to get in the first blow, which was the heart of 
 his tactics. He knew not what fear was, and he 
 risked life and liberty to win and keep the admira- 
 tion of his fellows. We younger ones looked up 
 to him with a sort of idolatry of wonder, which 
 [296] 
 
THE CIRCUS 
 
 warms me even at this distance — a little matter of 
 thirty-odd years! 
 
 I see " Grinny " now, with one or two lieuten- 
 ants, facing a burly canvajsman, while we younger 
 ones, standing back a little, look on in a ravish- 
 ment of terror and expectancy. 
 
 " Grinny " is smiling his pale smile while he 
 parleys with the man, who is guarding a stretch 
 of canvas in the big tent which offers an easy 
 entrance. The boy, though smiling, is tensed in 
 all his slight figure for action, while his adversary 
 stands relaxed and careless, not dreaming of an 
 atxaci^. 
 
 Suddenly I hear " Grinny " say, in a tone 
 raised for our attention — " We're going in here. 
 Rube, and you'd better not let on to notice us." 
 
 The man's face changes and he makes as if to 
 strike the daring lad, but in a twinkling " Grinny " 
 lands a smashing blow and the canvasman takes 
 the count, while a raft of boys scamper under the 
 tent. Often have I seen " Grinny " walk away 
 composedly after shooing in fifteen or twenty boys 
 m this fashion. It is true that I have now and 
 then seen some boys caught on the inside follow- 
 ing such a raid and most unmercifully clubbed 
 
 [ 297 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 — perhaps a few of them bear the marks to this 
 day. But that never deterred the rest of us 
 when " Grinny " Keogh gave the signal for rush- 
 ing a canvasman. ... 
 
 I should hate to try it to-day — and have I not 
 said that the breed of " Grinny " Keogh has be- 
 come extinct? — but I remain convinced that no 
 better way has ever been thought of for a boy to 
 get all there is of danger and delight and adven- 
 ture out of the Circus. 
 
 [298] 
 
NINE 
 
 NOCTURNE 
 
 MY GOD! how like a dream life passes! To- 
 day we are young, with endless time be- 
 fore us, free to postpone our most daring projects 
 of ambition, of glory and fame; sure of ourselves, 
 surer still of the vast credit of years we have at 
 our disposal; content to dream of the task not 
 yet begun and to anticipate the unearned reward. 
 To-morrow we are of a sudden grown old, and all 
 that limitless estate of time, with its possibilities 
 of work to be done and glory to be achieved, seems 
 shrunken to a hand's breadth, like the magic skin 
 in Balzac's fable. All we know is that Youth 
 was but just now here, and lo! it is gone. . . . 
 
 It is an evening in early summer and the sky is 
 still red with the reflections of sunset. The man, 
 of middle age, sits by an open window, holding a 
 book which he appears to read; but for some time 
 
 [ 299 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 he has not turned a page. This the man's wife, 
 a few years younger than he, does not perceive 
 from her station on the other side of the room 
 where, seated in an easy chair, she is dandling a 
 young child. Nor is she conscious of her hus- 
 band's gaze which from time to time rests upon 
 her with a curious fixity and intentness that in- 
 cludes the living woman no more than the book 
 in his hand. 
 
 The silence has not been broken for a long time, 
 save by the cooing of the child: married persons 
 of middle age do not much trouble each other with 
 unnecessary conversation. 
 
 His glance passes over the infant as ignoring it 
 entirely, rather than with conscious indifference. 
 Evidently it is not his child, for not so does a man 
 of middle age regard such a pledge of love when 
 it is his own. And though the woman's form 
 plainly denotes her as having borne many children, 
 there is lacking in her manner toward the babe on 
 her lap that intangible something which affirms 
 the mother. 
 
 Let us peep over the man's shoulder and see 
 what he reads at this twilight hour in the Book 
 of his Life. 
 [ 300 ] 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 AH, LIFE was good then, and better than 
 they knew, in the prodigal spirit of youth. 
 How sweet she was, the young wife, and how 
 graceful her slim form and firm waist as yet un- 
 spoiled by child-bearing. People often took her 
 for the sister or nurse of her two children. He 
 remembered her small pretty head, with the deli- 
 cate ears, and the long shapely neck which he 
 loved to kiss when she was doing up her bright 
 hair. How adorable she was in the first years of 
 their marriage, and what happiness was his in the 
 fulness of youth and desire and possession! Oh, 
 that enchanted cup! — if he might but drain it 
 again, how would he linger over every drop and 
 savour its sweetness to the last! And he cursed 
 himself for a spendthrift who had taken no ac- 
 count of his riches until all was gone. 
 
 Then there came back to mind a pretty childish 
 trick of hers which used to ravish his heart with 
 pleasure. She would pretend sometimes to plead 
 for a kiss, standing on tiptoe and making a comical 
 imitation of a poodle that " begs." Nothing ever 
 appeared so charming to him, he remembered with 
 a pang at the heart, as again he saw that lovely 
 
 [301] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 laughing face before him, and took it in his hands, 
 and covered it with kisses. 
 
 Ah, my God! where is now that fairy childhke 
 form, those pleading lips and eyes in which youth 
 incarnated all its innocence and all its charm? 
 Gone as utterly as though the earth covered 
 her. ... 
 
 These dear joys were snatched in the scant lei- 
 sure of a worker on the press, and he thought, with 
 a curse, of the furious expenditure of energy by 
 which he purchased that little home nest. His job 
 was a " rotten " one, in newspaper dialect, being 
 that of night editor on a morning sheet owned by 
 three old men who hated and envied each other 
 as only journalists can. It was at least a blessing 
 that they went home at night and left him to get 
 out the paper. But the effort required to please 
 all three and to keep clear of the intrigues always 
 hatching in that atmosphere of jealousy and sus- 
 picion, made his place hateful to him. And how 
 miserably they paid him for his hard service; how 
 cunningly they b^gained with his youth and in- 
 experience, though so greedy of money for them- 
 selves ! 
 
 Then he reflected that newspapers are built up 
 [302] 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 on the wasted forces of young men for whom the 
 work has a fascination, with its false challenge to 
 talent and ambition. His own servitude had been 
 long enough, God knows, consuming the flower 
 of his youth, and often he lamented with helpless 
 rage those bright years gone down forever into 
 that Slough of Despond. But Youth and Love, 
 in their eternal fashion, contrived to save some- 
 thing from the wreck. There was this memory, 
 for example, which now summoned echoes in 
 his heart like those awakened by an old love 
 tune 
 
 He worked nights, but had Sunday off, when 
 some member of the staff would take his desk and 
 cherish a brief dream of succeeding him; for poor 
 as his job was, everybody wanted it in that house 
 of famine. Also the three old men varied the 
 monotony of plotting against one another by fo- 
 menting plots among the staff, which sagacious 
 policy was supposed to promote esprit de corps. 
 
 But nothing could spoil the enjoyment of those 
 Sundays which absolutely were his, freed from the 
 newspaper grind and its harassing anxieties. If 
 the rival morning paper got a " scoop " on his 
 substitute, there was nothing in that for him to 
 
 [303] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 worry about. Nay, perhaps, as he was not him- 
 self untouched by the mean spirit of the place and 
 knew the calculations of the whelps around him, 
 it might afford him a secret satisfaction. 
 
 Then, on fine Sundays in summer, they always 
 had early dinner and in the afternoon went for a 
 sail on the river. This was the great pleasure of 
 their existence, and they talked about it from one 
 week's end to the other. Nothing was allowed to 
 prevent their being together on that day, and they 
 were vexed if any of their relations came to see 
 them. You see they were still lovers. 
 
 The sail was only a dozen miles or so, up the 
 river and back; but the river was the Hudson and 
 that little stretch of it between low banks lined 
 with frequent houses and here and there a factory, 
 though perhaps not much to boast of and certainly 
 without real grandeur, will yet always seem to 
 him the loveliest piece of scenery in the world. 
 And to make quite sure that the illusion will re- 
 main, he has never revisited the place, and is thus 
 privileged to see it with the eyes of memory. 
 
 [304] 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 THEY WERE always a bit late getting to 
 the landing-place, where expectant passen- 
 gers were cooped up until sailing time. For the 
 young wife had to make herself very fine for this 
 grand occasion, with her best frock and highly 
 starched linens; and besides, there were the two 
 children, a boy of four and a girl of two years, 
 that had to be dolled up until the last possible 
 moment. Sometimes a little vexed at her delay, 
 he would pretend to start off by himself with the 
 boy; and then she would hurry after him with a 
 rustling of starched skirts and her pretty face red 
 from the exertion, leading or carrying the little 
 girl. Oh, they often tiffed about this and other 
 trifles, as young couples do, perhaps to purchase 
 the added sweetness of making up ; but they loved 
 each other well for all that. And very proud he 
 was of her youth and beauty, and her perfect 
 health that made her seem fragrant as a flower. 
 Proud also was he of the children, pretty like 
 their mother, and especially of the boy, his first- 
 born. 
 
 On these Sunday outings, the latter wore a 
 natty sailor suit, and his activity on the boat was 
 
 [305] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 such as to keep his fond parents fully occupied; 
 hence, they were always tired at night-fall and 
 very glad when the little steamer pushed her nose 
 into the home slip. 
 
 Sometimes, in spite of their best vigilance, he 
 would escape from them and hide somewhere in 
 the murky lower quarters of the boat amid the 
 throbbing machinery, giving them no end of 
 trouble to find him. Or he would conceal himself in 
 a part of the hold where he could almost dangle his 
 feet in the water. Then the young mother's ter- 
 ror would be great, and the father would swear 
 to punish the urchin severely — but he never did. 
 And now he recalled bitterly the many years 
 marred by the waywardness of this spoiled first- 
 born. 
 
 Commonly the boat was crowded to capacity, 
 and there was a great strife for seats and good 
 places in the bow or on the shady side. The crowd 
 was sometimes so rough and disorderly that he 
 wondered what he should do in case of an 
 accident; and then he resolved to save his wife 
 and let the children go; not without an agony 
 as acute as if the issue were actually presented 
 to him. 
 [ 306 ] 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 Sometimes, after embarking, they found them- 
 selves squeezed against the rail, each with a child 
 on knee, and scarcely able to move hand or foot, 
 while the little steamer raced through the familiar 
 landscape. But even so, they were happy, smil- 
 ing at each other, and thinking of their mutual 
 joys; oftenest of all, of the darkness and the re- 
 turn home. 
 
 Usually they brought a lunch and got beer or 
 soft drinks on board. Entertainment of a sort 
 was furnished on these trips by a middle-aged 
 German and his wife, both very fat, and their 
 two young daughters. The man tortured a fiddle 
 of ancient and disreputable appearance, the woman 
 drew shrieks out of a battered concertina, and 
 the frauleins, who were pretty and yellow-haired, 
 sang popular songs. Their voices were sweet and 
 shrill, and their cheeks went very pink when they 
 sang this refrain, which seemed to be a favourite 
 with the Sunday crowds: — 
 
 ''She's my darling Carrie! 
 Yes, the girl Vll marry. 
 Every evening just at eight. 
 Standing by her garden gate" 
 Etc., etc. 
 
 [307] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 This beautiful and thrilling ballad was especially- 
 called for on the return trip, when the shadows 
 were falling and the lovers on board drew their 
 chairs nearer for company, or better still, some- 
 times occupied the same chair. Then the fat Ger- 
 man gave his old fiddle a rest and his fat wife 
 ceased to torture the abused concertina. But first 
 a collection will be taken, and then ladies and 
 shentlemens, my daughters vill sing dot lovely 
 song, " Carrie." 
 
 This announcement was always hailed with ap- 
 plause, and the collection was usually the heaviest 
 of the day, causing the fat couple to exchange 
 winks indicative of vast contentment. Finally the 
 girls would take their station hand in hand, where 
 the crowd was thickest with lovers, and set up 
 the eternal refrain. Always they ended with this 
 sentiment, which seemed to send an amorous throb 
 through their audience, and which was usually 
 followed by the sound of kisses, scuffling of chairs, 
 and here and there a suppressed shriek amid the 
 crowd— 
 
 " Oh what bliss. 
 One loving kiss 
 From Car — rieJ" 
 [308] 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 The last stanza was long drawn out and exe- 
 cuted in crescendo — it never failed to make a hit 
 with the excursion lovers. And though our mar- 
 ried pair laughed at the silly song, and the young 
 wife looked with disapproval at the violent flirta- 
 tions going on about them, there was something in 
 the air or the words that drew their hands and 
 hearts together and whispered to them of — ^Home! 
 
 Here the middle-aged man's meditations were 
 broken by the entrance of a laughing young woman 
 who took the child from its nurse's arms, saying: 
 " I'm sure you'll think I'm imposing on you. 
 Mamma, with this baby of mine. But " — with 
 an ecstatic hug — " she's such a darling! " Then 
 flinging a glance at the silent man by the win- 
 dow, — 
 
 " Oh, you needn't look so glum, Papa. I know 
 you're holding it against me because I've made 
 you a grandfather, a little before your time, yes? 
 But for such a perfect love of a darling" (series 
 of hugs) , " who wouldn't put up with a little thing 
 like that!" 
 
 [309] 
 
TEN 
 
 YEARNINGS 
 
 YOUR LETTER gave me a deep thrill of in- 
 terest and emotion. I am old enough to 
 offer you this as a genuine compliment. But you 
 are wise, and you know that age does not count 
 with persons of the idealistic temperament, in mat- 
 ters of the heart. 
 
 Yet I am not happy in replying to you. I 
 dread new friendships, especially with women, 
 which make disturbing claims upon a writer and 
 interfere with his work. For no matter how much 
 a woman may protest her interest in your artistic 
 effort, she is always more concerned to gain your 
 admiration for herself. Fatally, inevitably she is 
 a rival to your work, stealing the thought from 
 under your pen, intruding her brow, her eyes, her 
 lips between you and the face of your Dream. 
 
 Therefore, I pause ere I seal this letter, seized 
 by I know not what presentiment of evil and mis- 
 [310] 
 
YEARNINGS 
 
 fortune from an act so simple. But our expecta- 
 tion of blessings from the unknown is so strong, 
 in spite of dolorous and repeated disillusions, that 
 I end by taking the hazard — as always ! — and com- 
 mitting to the post the letter which is now before 
 you. And the written word being gone beyond 
 recall, I have an access of doubt and regret which 
 causes me the most poignant misery. 
 
 Faint heart, you think, or perhaps more likely, 
 the cold prudence of age? . . . 
 
 I hasten to reassure you — though not what men 
 call young, I am still far enough, thank God, 
 from what women call old. Indeed, Madame, I 
 have to strive constantly against this incorrigible 
 youth of the heart — at once the blessing and the 
 curse of the artistic nature — ^lest it lead me into 
 folly unbecoming my years. 
 
 But do not mistake me. I am stronger than I 
 long was, for I have learned that Love is a ter- 
 rible wastrel. And — pardon me! — I have other 
 honey to give ere my course be run. After all, 
 you see, the sun is not so high as once it was, and I 
 cannot echo my youthful boast, that a woman is 
 the only thing for me between the heavens and the 
 earth. Ah, Madame! I have been thoroughly tried 
 
 [311] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 in those sweet flames, and like holy Lawrence, I 
 was anxious that the fire should reach every part. 
 But one must pass on, after all — and especially, 
 one must do his stint of work. . . . 
 
 Then your letter came, as many a letter has come, 
 and an old unrest of the heart was awakened. 
 Why did I feel on touching your unopened letter, 
 that it held some portentous word of fate, which 
 not to hear or know were better for my peace? 
 Whence these intuitions, sudden lights flashed on 
 the soul, which seem intended to warn and save 
 us? ... 
 
 I looked long at the picture of the beautiful 
 woman which came with your letter, and all my 
 old cowardice and much of my old desire awoke. 
 Those eyes, that mouth, that splendid hair, the 
 whole conquering charm and beauty of you, might 
 well have overthrown a stronger will than mine. 
 
 Why did you send that picture if you were con- 
 tent merely to be, as you said, a friend standing 
 in the shadow, with no claim upon my life? Do 
 you not see that by this act of yours, you have 
 given the lie to your gracious promises? I might 
 have feared you less, had I not thus early learned 
 how much there is to fear! 
 [312] 
 
YEARNINGS 
 
 For in truth, I do fear this mimic semhlance of 
 you, as if it were the living woman whom I have 
 never seen. The eyes seem to burn into mine — 
 the hps seem to plead for a kiss — the entire sov- 
 ereign seduction of you transpires from the pic- 
 tured card. Yes, Madame, rejoice in your con- 
 quest! I do fear you; and I put away the 
 picture where its insistent gaze may not aifect 
 my nerves, in order to frame a reply to your 
 letter. . , . 
 
 LET ME begin by granting that a great pas- 
 sion is the highest gift that can fall to a man 
 of the artistic temperament. I mean, of course, 
 a passion which soothing and satisfying, yet never 
 cloying the physical man, shall spur the artist to 
 the fullest exercise of his talent. I will even grant 
 that the artist lacking this ideal companion and, 
 in a sense, collaborator, must fail of complete ex- 
 pression. Such a passion means to him, in a word, 
 perfect health and efficiency. That genius gives 
 the best account of itself which has its most fruit- 
 ful dreams upon the bosom of love. 
 
 Balzac, much as he feared woman as the most 
 fatal source of distraction to the artist, yet knew, 
 
 [313] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 as he knew everything, how greatly art is indebted 
 to her. And despite the famous chapter on chas- 
 tity in " Cousine Bette," we know that he allowed 
 himself compensations far exceeding his written 
 precept. Nor did he ever let go the fair hand of 
 woman, while building the immense edifice of the 
 " Human Comedy," as if dreading to lose the one 
 vital source of inspiration. During nearly twenty 
 years — ^practically the entire span of his creative 
 life — he wrote almost daily letters to Madame 
 Hanska, making her, as it were, the patron saint 
 of his achievement. This was in truth the greatest 
 of his romances. 
 
 Byron, defendipig his connection with the Guic- 
 cioli — the most fortunate of his friendships with 
 women — declares in a letter to Moore that a pas- 
 sion is absolutely necessary to the mental life of 
 a poet. Further, he avers that but for his ad- 
 ventures and affaires de coeur, he would have 
 vegetated in obscurity, voiceless and unknown, like 
 many an English squire. 
 
 But, alas, Madame, how rare is such a passion 
 among those clever but unfortunate people who 
 make history, or biography, or scandal ! It would 
 seem that ideal matings are reserved to the com- 
 [314] 
 
YEARNINGS 
 
 mon and undistinguished ones of the earth, or even 
 the industrial classes. Who has not witnessed ex- 
 quisite idyls of affection among the poor and 
 lowly? Plumbers hit off the grand passion more 
 luckily than poets. Haberdashers are more hap- 
 pily married than great novelists and dramatists. 
 Even the despised race of vagrant tinkers can 
 point to examples of conjugal love and fidelity 
 which put to shame the chronicles of genius. A 
 wit of our time has aptly expressed the truth in 
 this paraphrase of Gray's famous line — 
 
 " The short and simple scandals of the poor," 
 
 I suspect the poets have bargained ill with life, 
 for what poem ever written can be compared to 
 the perfect love of a woman's heart? . . . 
 
 You remember how Daudet explored this pain- 
 ful yet intensely human subject in his "Artists' 
 Wives," certainly the most acute and searching, 
 yet withal delicate, analysis of the whole matter 
 that has been made. What a charmingly gentle 
 chirurgeon he appears in probing and revealing 
 these lesions of the heart! What bitter truths he 
 tells without bitterness ! How pathetic these trag- 
 
 [315] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 edies seem, which, upon reflection, we are as- 
 tonished to find, present only the common stuff 
 of experience: — it is the writer's art that has 
 wrought the illusion. In Daudet's book, you will 
 find every type of incompatible from the fool who 
 hates her husband's talent and does him to death 
 with her ignorant spleen, to the sly woman of the 
 world who furthers her good man's interests at a 
 certain expense to him unknown, in the peculiar 
 French fashion. 
 
 In the prologue to this charming book (which 
 only a Frenchman could have written), Daudet 
 seems to hold the thesis that men of the artistic 
 vocation should not marry, the risks to their work 
 being so great in an ill-assorted union. By way 
 of clinching the point, he does not report a single 
 strictly fortunate instance among his collection of 
 artists' wives. Daudet was himself most felici- 
 tously married, as all authorities agree, and his 
 book seems to me the more remarkable on this 
 account. 
 
 That wonderful short-sighted observation of his, 
 long applied to the world of Paris, where such 
 examples abound, reports only tragedies or fail- 
 ures. 
 [316] 
 
YEARNINGS 
 
 Is it not cruel, Madame? But perhaps you ask, 
 why is the artist so tragically liable to the mis- 
 fortunes of marriage? Let me answer in the 
 words of Daudet. The first and greatest danger 
 of marriage, he says, is the loss or degradation of 
 one's talent. The ordinary run of men are, of 
 course, exempted from this observation. " But 
 for aU of us, poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, 
 who live outside of life, wholly occupied in study- 
 ing it, in reproducing it, holding ourselves always 
 a little remote from it, as one steps back from a 
 picture the better to see it, I say that marriage 
 can only be the exception. To that nervous, ex- 
 acting, impressionable being, that child-man that 
 we call the artist, a special type of woman almost 
 impossible to find, is needful; and the safest thing 
 to do is not to look for her/' 
 
 BUT IS the artist more fortunate, Madame, 
 in seeking outside of marriage, in relations 
 condemned by religion and the social law, that 
 peace and joy which only union with a beloved 
 woman can give? I will not deny that such con- 
 nections occasionally seem to favour the painting 
 of pictures and the writing of poetry or music — 
 
 [317] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 the paucity of the known instances and the celeb- 
 rity of the persons lending to these a significance 
 which they may not properly claim. Such friend- 
 ships, of the left hand, are scarcely to be spoken 
 of in this country, though our reticence on the 
 point is no proof that they do not exist — I believe 
 indeed that relations of this kind, more shrewdly 
 concealed than in Europe, are far less uncommon 
 than our conventional hypocrisy would allow. 
 
 Granting so much, what pledge of happiness do 
 they offer the artist? — what hope of continuance, 
 of fidelity and security? I believe in nothing so 
 much as in miracles, Madame, yet there is but one 
 answer to these questions. . . . 
 
 Alas, there is danger wherever we turn. The 
 Platonic friendship has long since been laughed 
 out of court — it is possible only to the old or in- 
 firm or sexually deficient. In the case of two 
 normal persons, it is bound to end in possession, 
 or — what is not so well known — in hatred on one 
 side or the other. The man hates the woman who 
 gives much without giving all; the woman hates 
 the man who fears to take all while taking much. 
 The sense of an unpaid debt leaves them perma- 
 nently wrong toward each other. We touch here 
 [318] 
 
YEARNIlSrGS 
 
 the secret source of those wonderful acrimonies 
 which are often disclosed among persons whose 
 lives had seemed an open book. I should add that 
 in these affairs, the woman is always more bitter 
 and unforgiving than the man. With that spe- 
 cial divination reserved to your adorable sex, you 
 will readily understand why, Madame. . . . 
 
 Let me conclude, dear unknown Friend, by ask- 
 ing of you that which I fear to be impossible for 
 us both. Remain unknown — unseen — unapproach- 
 able: yet a light in the shadow, a hope in the 
 emptiness of barren years, a cordial to the often 
 weary heart and drooping spirit! Let me wor- 
 ship you in secret — at once a glory and an illu- 
 sion — like the unknown masterpiece of Balzac's 
 painter. Let us, even like that infatuated artist, 
 wise with the prescience of genius, forbid ourselves 
 a meeting, a disclosure which could only put an 
 end to our dream. Be and forever remain the un-i 
 known masterpiece of my soul! 
 
 Write to me sometimes, but — even better — leariJ 
 to speak to me in the Silence . . . this is in truth 
 the test of that higher love to which we both 
 aspire. Do not, I pray you, ask me to come to 
 see you ... ah, my God! why did you send 
 
 [319] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 that picture? . . . Rather send the voiceless as- 
 surance of your love to me as from a convent 
 sanctuary whose high walls and vigilant guardians 
 keep us forever apart. 
 
 Can you obey me in all this? 
 
 "Yes!" I hear you cry, with a dolorous and 
 passionate eagerness. But even in the accents of 
 that solemn pledge of renunciation, I detect the 
 tone with which you will welcome me to your 
 arms, and I know my feet to be set in the ways 
 that lead to you! 
 
 WHEN THE writer had traced the last word 
 of the foregoing letter, his brow was a little 
 pale from the effort of composition and also from 
 the emotion which his thoughts had induced. 
 Sinking back in the deep study chair, he clasped 
 his hands above his head with an habitual gesture, 
 and said to himself in a half -vexed way: 
 
 " I swear this foolishness gets a man, in spite of 
 himself. No aid to seduction so potent as the 
 imagination! " 
 
 At this moment the wife of his bosom entered 
 the room and kissed him lightly on the forehead. 
 Then with conjugal assurance, picking up the 
 [320] 
 
YEARNINGS 
 
 scattered sheets on his writing table, she glanced 
 carelessly over them. 
 
 "Ah," she remarked indifferently, in no wise 
 affected by the real or simulated passion of the 
 written words, " so the women of unsatisfied yearn- 
 ings are after you again? Poor dear! — what a 
 bore to have to write such people." 
 
 " My love," replied her husband, a little wearily, 
 " when they stop writing at last it will mean trou- 
 ble of a more serious kind; for I shall then know 
 that I have lost my ' punch.' " 
 
 " Ye-es," she assented abstractedly, still looking 
 through the manuscript; " but her picture that you 
 speak of so warmly — where is it? " And her tone 
 became staccato all of a sudden, seemed to admif 
 of no trifling. 
 
 " My dear," he rejoined in conciliatory fashion, 
 " I did not want a recurrence of — ^you know what 
 — (he winced as he spoke) and so I destroyed it." 
 
 Their eyes fully met and she held his long, but 
 he did not waver. 
 
 " You are a dear," she said, after a moment's 
 hesitation, " and also — though I your wife say it — 
 an artist ! " 
 
 [321] 
 
ELEVEN 
 
 PLATONICS 
 
 I BELIEVE it never has been settled whether 
 a true friendship, without love, is possible be- 
 tween the sexes. Candid philosophers say not. 
 They argue that friendship as understood between 
 men, " passing the love of woman," requires above 
 all things a logical mind, and this they deny to 
 the softer sex. Hence the noble friendships so 
 often occurring among men, free from the taint 
 of selfishness and appealing to the higher sympa- 
 thies of our nature, are (they say) impossible be- 
 tween men and women. Sex is the preventing 
 cause. 
 
 However, other philosophers have held the con- 
 trary with no small show of reason. ISTow and 
 then they have even made experiments in their 
 own persons — as, for example, Abelard — with re- 
 sults which, while not absolutely confirming their 
 [322] 
 
PLATONICS 
 
 theories, have afforded some of the most amusing 
 literature in the world. 
 
 To a simple mind, indeed, the spectacle of a 
 philosopher meddhng with Platonics calls up the 
 familiar image of the monkey and the buzz-saw. 
 But all things are not essentially as they appear 
 to the simple mind. 
 
 So the problem remains unsolved and of peren- 
 nial fascination. 
 
 Let me state it more frankly: Can a man and 
 a woman of no great disparity in point of age and 
 temperament have a close, hearty, and genuine 
 friendship without any element of sexual love 
 entering therein? 
 
 Isn't it a hard one? And what one of us has 
 not puzzled his head and sometimes hurt his heart 
 over it? 
 
 The French, to be sure, have blazed a warning 
 for us in their famous adage: "A woman either 
 loves or hates." 
 
 An epigram, you say, and only a half-truth at 
 best. Ah, but who shall give us the whole truth 
 as to any human proposition? And what a pierc- 
 ing half-truth it is ! The more I learn of the sex — 
 and, please God, I shall be always learning, lov- 
 
 [323] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 ing, and suffering through them — the more I am 
 convinced that it applies to them universally. 
 
 Oh, yes, she must love or hate — ^there is no 
 middle way. And if this be true or only half 
 true, it needs no argument to prove how vainly 
 men sometimes seek a perfect friendship with 
 women — a friendship without the crosses and the 
 delights of love. I doubt if such a friendship is 
 ever in a woman's thought. Recall your expe- 
 riences. The moment a woman takes you up as 
 a friend she loves you, though she may not admit 
 the fact to herself: the moment she puts you down 
 she hates you. It is quite a bewildering expe- 
 rience for the man, handicapped as he is by the 
 logical faculty; but no doubt it has some secret 
 satisfaction for the woman. To be much loved is 
 therefore to be much hated: that is the bitter half 
 of the apple. 
 
 For, alas! it is true that woman's love is near 
 akin to hate — " a lovely and a fearful thing," as 
 sang a poet who had drained the cup to the dregs. 
 I sometimes wonder is either quality to be found 
 unmixed with the other? Can we have love with- 
 out hate or hate without love? The only glimpse 
 of hatred I have ever had that quite appalled me 
 [324] 
 
PLATONICS 
 
 was from one who had loved me very much — ^in 
 a trice, by one glance from a woman's eyes, I was 
 whirled from a green and smiling Paradise into 
 a lurid Hell. . . . Ah, happy they who neither 
 love nor hate! 
 
 A man who has had some interesting friendships 
 with women of talent confides to me that the 
 cause of their usual failure is the feminine lack 
 of logic. A woman, he says, wants to monopolize 
 you in friendship as in love. You must have 
 no friends save of her choosing. You must take 
 over and make your own her private antipathies 
 and prejudices. You must like where she likes, 
 dislike where she dislikes, and, in short, see the 
 world through her eyes. The arrangement by 
 which two men agree to hold each other in the 
 firmest friendship without regard to the fact that 
 a third man may be heartily loved by the one 
 and as heartily hated by the other — ^that logical 
 adjustment of relations which keeps the world in 
 balance, is a function peculiar to the masculine 
 mind and is looked upon by women as monstrous 
 and immoral. Hence the impossibility of holding 
 such friendships with them as were the dream of 
 Plato, or even such wholesome, agreeable, and 
 
 [325] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 mutually profitable relations as we so often see 
 subsisting between men. 
 
 My friend also mentioned, as a curious experi- 
 ence of his in a Platonic way, that women import 
 into their friendships with men — irreproachable 
 friendships, of course — ^that somewhat cruel, feline 
 and punishing spirit which they are said to mani- 
 fest toward their lovers and husbands, recipients 
 of their most intimate favours. A confirmed and 
 perfect Platonist, my friend justly felt that any 
 and every symptom of sexual love should be rigour- 
 ously excluded from an ideal friendship between 
 man and woman. But he was obliged to confess 
 that nothing was so trying, in his harmless com- 
 merce with women, as the effort to secure this 
 condition; and often he was made to feel that, 
 though the caresses of love were not reserved for 
 him, he got more than a due share of the scratches. 
 
 So far I went willingly whither my friend led 
 me. But I pointed out to him that a stronger 
 hand was leading us both back to the original 
 difficulty, the crux of the problem — I mean the 
 impossibihty of the sexes meeting on any common 
 ground but that of sex. 
 
 And there we dropped the matter, as many a 
 [326] 
 
PLATONICS 
 
 wiser man has done since the days of Plato, and 
 as whoso neglects to do shall gather fruit to his 
 sorrow. . . . 
 
 Moral? Oh, yes! she must either love or hate. 
 
 [327] 
 
TWELVE 
 
 FALSE YOUTH 
 
 THE PASSIONS make trouble for us during 
 the greater part of our lives, and it may be 
 true that, in a sense, they are themselves the 
 deepest potential proof of life. Many people un- 
 doubtedly cultivate and cherish their passions on 
 this presumption; some such are of our familiar 
 acquaintance, while there be famous instances in 
 Holy Writ and in the profane but no less inspired 
 pages of Balzac. Instead of giving thanks, like 
 Sophocles, that age has freed them from the tyr- 
 anny of carnal desires, they dread more than any- 
 thing the cessation of these, and they pray that 
 their torments may continue with them to the end. 
 It is a common error to suppose that the most 
 tragic and violent effects of passion are limited to 
 youth: an error too much fostered by popular 
 romances, as well as the public reserve maintained 
 on this subject. Such exceptions as force them- 
 [328] 
 
FALSE YOUTH 
 
 selves upon the public notice from time to time 
 are dismissed as abnormal, and society refuses to 
 discuss the matter. 
 
 No, it is not Youth that furnishes the darkest, 
 the most fatal and convulsing dramas of passion, 
 but rather that period of life we call middle age, 
 beginning in man at the forty-fifth, in woman at 
 the thirty-fifth year. Then or thereabouts com- 
 mences for both a season of false youth, the Indian 
 Summer of the sexual passions, during which de- 
 sire is felt with a violence and exacerbation never 
 known before. Especially is this apt to be the 
 case if either the man or the woman have ceased 
 to love his or her partner and is tempted to seek 
 another object of passion: a lamentably common 
 incident. 
 
 The state is one that demands for the fullest 
 understanding thereof a psychological as well as 
 physiological explanation, which it is not my busi- 
 ness to offer. But this I will say: the malady of 
 false youth is largely induced by the fear of age, 
 with consequent loss of the power of pleasing the 
 opposite sex. It may be that such fear is stronger 
 in women than in men: the reserve which females 
 maintain on the subject and the mystery with 
 
 [329] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 which it is enveloped yield no positive clue. In 
 this, as in other respects, woman keeps her secret; 
 yet certain inklings, such as the revelations of 
 Karin Michaehs, in her book, " The Dangerous 
 Age," leave us to infer that there is little differ- 
 ence between the sexes on this point. That both 
 men and women alike dread the end of sex-life, 
 and the latter the more since it means the loss of 
 their greatest power, are conclusions that may be 
 frankly accepted. Hence that element of hardi- 
 hood, of recklessness and desperation in the pas- 
 sions of middle age which so often shocks us in 
 actual life, so as to merit the Latin appellation 
 nefanda — meaning things forbidden to be spoken 
 of, or under the taboo of Nature herself. Such 
 incidents tempt at once and dishearten the por- 
 trayers of life. For the world will not have such 
 disorders exhibited, except under conditions very 
 difficult; it turns away from the most powerful 
 depiction thereof in book or play as something 
 monstrous and unfit for art. Balzac indeed ex- 
 plored this as every other sinister province in life, 
 but it remains a question whether he is not more 
 hated than admired for it; for the world dislikes 
 to hear, quite as much as it needs to realize, the 
 [330] 
 
FALSE YOUTH 
 
 terrible truths set forth with such unsparing real- 
 ism in " Cousine Bette." 
 
 Even as such things are passed by in fiction or 
 remain still-born in drama, so are they hushed up 
 and smothered in the reality of every-day exist- 
 ence. Truth of this sort is indeed stranger than 
 fiction, but society will not have it on any terms; 
 rightly it feels that behind such explosions of ill- 
 timed passion are forces that, if let loose, would 
 tear the social structure to pieces. 
 
 The passion of youth is ever regarded as an 
 amahilis insania, and all things are pardoned to 
 it by grace of its talisman, Romance. We are not 
 offended by the sweet unconscious immodesties of 
 Juliet, nor careful to provide an expurgated ver- 
 sion for om- children; her story remains an open 
 page to each new generation of maidenhood. But 
 the world refuses to admit a romantic interest in 
 the amorous disorders of the middle-aged; it sees 
 only the fearful nature of the scandal threatening 
 the peace and honour of famihes — the shock of a 
 revelation which upsets the established belief in 
 virtue. 
 
 All the world loves a lover, it is true, but not 
 an old lover. Had Romeo and Juliet been of 
 
 [ 331 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 middle-age we would never have heard of their 
 sweet folly or star-crossed love ; Shakespeare would 
 not have immortalized nor the world canonized 
 them; and it is very doubtful if a fugitive echo 
 had reached us of the two old fools of Verona! 
 
 So it is that such passions and tragedies of the 
 middle-aged, though always occurring, are seldom 
 exposed to the naked censorship of public opinion. 
 The honour of the community is engaged, as by an 
 unwritten law, to suppress such scandals, and 
 even the newspapers are apt to leave them alone. 
 But we have all heard of such, and we shall con- 
 tinue to hear of them so long as the elements of 
 human nature remain as they are. There is 
 no change in the eternal Decameron of human 
 passion. 
 
 I have referred to the boldness and hardihood, 
 the extreme daring which often mark the " ro- 
 mances " of elderly persons ; indeed they quite 
 match or even surpass anything recorded in the 
 Book of Youth. The type of Ninon is far from 
 being an uncommon one among women. Elderly 
 Romeos are taking the fatal draught, elderly 
 Juliets are following suit every day; or both are 
 coming by their desire without tragic denouement, 
 [ 332 ] 
 
FALSE YOUTH 
 
 beyond the occasional breaking up of a family on 
 either side. In any case, high courage is required 
 for the business, which is apt to alternate between 
 tragic risks and a perilous sort of comedy. 
 
 Perhaps such misadventures would not happen 
 so often if the world would but cure itself of these 
 persisting illusions, namely: — 
 
 Its inexpugnable belief in female virtue and its 
 incurable superstition that children preserve and 
 guarantee a woman against temptation. 
 
 Its equally persistent and absurd notion that 
 middle age separates a woman from passion and 
 its liabilities. 
 
 Its foolish persuasion that woman is different 
 from man in regard to the laws governing her 
 sexual life. 
 
 False youth comes to both, and for the woman 
 no less than the man it is potent to tear up the 
 tooted sacred ties of life, flout the honour of mar- 
 riage, corrupt the innocence of childhood, and 
 turn the sanctuary of home into a romping place 
 for devils! 
 
 Think not, Mr. Safe-Husband, that you may 
 lay aside all anxiety concerning your dear wife, 
 because forsooth she has passed her prime and the 
 
 [333] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 tints of autumn begin to mark her beauty. Nay, 
 now indeed you shall do well to love her and court 
 her and cherish her and watch her as never before : 
 of a truth there be wolves abroad and anigh who 
 would not scorn your one ewe lamb. Are you a 
 bit wanton and lickerish yourself, though a good 
 husband as men go, and do you with a full share 
 of that amiable conceit which hath been the cuck- 
 olding of many a simpleton, take it to be a man's 
 privilege, etc.? — the discerning reader will easily 
 supply the rest. 
 
 Have a care lest she learn the trick from you, 
 when it shaU go hard but she will better the 
 lesson — mayhap to the sorrow and confusion of 
 your house! 
 
 [334] 
 
THIRTEEN 
 
 GHOSTS 
 
 I BELIEVE in ghosts. But hear me — I mean 
 ghosts of the living, not of the dead. Ghosts 
 that you can see at noonday. Ghosts that excite 
 no fear and that present nothing spectral to the 
 eye. Ghosts to us alone! — not to themselves or 
 to the indifferent crowd. 
 
 They are, first of all, the women whom we have 
 loved, perhaps too well, and who loved us in re- 
 turn, or made us so believe: but who are now as 
 if dead to us, as we are dead to them. 
 
 Do not ask why — a stupid question. There are 
 a hundred reasons for the thing. 
 
 It was but yesterday you stood very near a 
 charming little ghost of this species, and she was 
 not aware of your presence. You were both in 
 a crowd at the Grand Central Station and you 
 stood just behind her. In days that are past, she 
 would have " sensed " you at once had you been 
 
 [335] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 farther away. In love as in hate we are gifted 
 with a second sight. But now she was totally- 
 unconscious that your breath fell on her right ear. 
 The seat of telepathy is in the heart, you see, and 
 you two no longer thought of each other — save 
 as ghosts. 
 
 And yet it was not so very long ago that a casual 
 meeting would have filled you both with joy — ^you 
 know it, for there are some things a woman cannot 
 dissemble. You thought the same thoughts, and 
 sometimes expressed them in the same words, to 
 your mutual fond amusement. Merely to lunch 
 with her was a liberal education (if the shade of 
 Dick Steele will tolerate the paraphrase). No 
 sooner had you left her than you went home and 
 wrote to her the things which you had forgotten or 
 feared to say (she always knew they would come) . 
 And even in sleep you could not break the spell of 
 her possession of you, which she maintained by a 
 hundred quite innocent and exquisite seductions: 
 now that it is all a closed chapter you are glad that 
 they were innocent — that nothing really came of 
 it. Nothing in your life was ever so sweet or so 
 much to be regretted. 
 
 Oh, heart of mine (you apostrophize her warily 
 [ 336 ] 
 
GHOSTS 
 
 and wordlessly) but a little while ago I would 
 have followed you to the ridge of the world, and 
 the desire of you seemed the whole of life. And 
 yet here I am standing so near that I might 
 touch you with my hand, but not the less I 
 know you to be at an irrecoverable distance 
 from me, and so my heart is strangely at peace — 
 my heart that would once have burst at the 
 enforced silence! . . . 
 
 You could see that there was an expression of 
 calm wifely dignity on her face, the reflection of 
 a tranquil, assured, and conventional happiness. 
 She was still pretty, but without a certain bird- 
 hke coquetry of allure incompatible with the mar- 
 ried state. And you recollected the charming 
 little moue she sometimes made when teasing you. 
 
 . . . But, as you were saying, the lady is now 
 
 a ghost! . . . 
 
 WHAT STRANGE emotion quickens the 
 heart on coming face to face unexpectedly 
 with one of those animated spectres who bear a 
 relation to us quite different from the rest of the 
 breathing world ! As I have said, a kind of second 
 sight seems called into play by this melancholy 
 
 [337] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 rencontre, for you see the living-dead with a weird 
 and startling clearness — as one sees the face of 
 an enemy in a dream! — ^yet almost without con- 
 sciously observing him. And all the time you feel 
 as if a cold wind blew upon you and you stood 
 in the very presence of Fate. And without eye 
 meeting eye or by any the least sign giving token 
 of recognition, you feel yourself subjected to the 
 like terrible stripping and scrutiny by the x-ray 
 of hate that once was love. 
 
 Such meetings are very unpleasant, but they 
 help you to realize that Hfe is not all bridge and 
 marmalade. 
 
 Just the other day, in this fashion, I encountered 
 my old crony Whiffles for the first time in the 
 dozen years since our ahenation. I never did you 
 wrong, O Whiffles, and if you wronged me, your 
 friend, I forgive you; but ghosts we shall be to 
 each other until the Great Release. . . . 
 
 A good fellow Whiffles, and I was fond of him, 
 in . spite of his terrible Scotch egotism and his 
 tyrannous rule of the talk (never was such a 
 coursing tongue hung in a Scotchman's jowl), 
 and his variant, flyaway humours. A very human 
 creature withal, of a spirit that often threw out 
 [338] 
 
GHOSTS 
 
 strange lights that seemed to portend no common 
 destiny. 
 
 Maybe I liked him the better for his roaring 
 Keltic faults, seeing that he could be as tender 
 and faithful a friend as our favourite Alan Brech 
 (in those days Robert Louis was our god and a 
 bond betwixt us), — and hang it! youth is of a 
 grand tolerance when its loyalty and affection are 
 engaged. I knew men who constantly longed and 
 daily vowed to smash Whiffles, but his anfractu- 
 osities pleased me, hke a sauce piquante. 
 
 How did we break? A stupid thing to ask, 
 since the finest and firmest friendships are dis- 
 solved every hour for the veriest trifle. The 
 wonder would be if there were ever a real cause! 
 
 Then I almost ran into the arms of this old 
 friend with whom I have shared some of the best 
 hours of my youth, while we talked and drank our 
 fill and disputed each other's pet opinions. I say 
 I liked Whiffles and so at times I would affect to 
 give in, else he might have brought a sickness on 
 himself with his lust to overcome me. But I never 
 really was vanquished or convinced by the man. 
 And yet I should ask nothing better than to go 
 back through those long years of estrangement 
 
 [339] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 and hold head to him again over the drink and 
 the debate. 
 
 Well, as I was saying, almost I tumbled into his 
 arms; but the sight of a living ghost acts marvel- 
 lously in restoring one's self-possession, and I got 
 a grip on myself just in time to avoid an awkward 
 situation. Maybe they know in Heaven just how 
 long I parried an impulse to take him by the hand 
 in the name of our old comradeship — it was a 
 space too brief to estimate as we reckon time here 
 below. But in these affairs the heart is ruled by 
 a sure intuition. Whiffles and I exchanged the 
 x-ray of the aUenated and passed each other as 
 strangers. ... A tall man, with a reddish-grey 
 beard (it flamed like his temper when I knew 
 him), the least supernatural person in appearance 
 that you could wish to look on; but so far as I 
 am concerned, as veritable a ghost as ever walked 
 the ways of the living. . . . 
 
 DO NOT think to frighten me with tales of the 
 dead who leave their resting graves at night 
 to pursue some uncanny mission. The churchyard 
 never held a fear for me, and if the dead walked 
 my path, I would brush them from me Uke sum- 
 [340] 
 
GHOSTS 
 
 mer insects. Ah! believe me, the grave never pro- 
 duced a pang hke that seizure of the heart, that 
 death-in-life sensation with which we must greet 
 a living ghost from out our past, though seen at 
 noon-day. I am fey for days after seeing one — 
 even such a rosy blue-eyed spectre as the little 
 woman mentioned above. 
 
 Do you wonder, then, that I hold to this position: 
 — If there must be ghosts, let them come from 
 death, not life! 
 
 [341] 
 
FOURTEEN 
 
 , THE AGE OF SAFETY 
 
 NOT LONG ago a sly little troll of a Scandi- 
 navian woman put forth a book which she 
 called " The Dangerous Age." It made some- 
 thing of a pother, owing to the frankness of the 
 author in dealing with matters of sex that are, 
 generally speaking, taboo with us. One expects 
 a literary woman to go far along this line (inde- 
 cency is her jorte when she really sets out to shock 
 us), but the little Scandinavian person went the 
 limit. And she quite riddled the old notion that 
 virtue is a matter of geography, as expressed in 
 Byron's couplet — 
 
 What men call gallantry and gods adulfry. 
 
 Is much more common where the climate's sultry, 
 
 I was myself surprised that in the frozen North 
 there could be such prurient consideration of a 
 theme which is usually left to the Latin South for 
 [ 342 ] 
 
THE AGE OF SAFETY 
 
 congenial literary treatment. Undoubtedly, that 
 aided the modest author in her evident purpose 
 to make a scandal and a sensation, in which she 
 perfectly succeeded. 
 
 The little Scandinavian woman made even 
 wicked Lutetia stare with her frank disclosure 
 of certain things which women are never supposed 
 to reveal, save in the most intimate confidences 
 among themselves. She broke the Law of Sex, 
 or in male parlance, " struck below the belt," and 
 thereby forfeited the sympathy and support of 
 women. Therefore, her visit to this country was 
 a failure: even Madame New York could not 
 tolerate a woman who boldly avowed, through the 
 heroine of her fiction, that she Hked men to go 
 unbathed — with the charm about them of Horace's 
 " olentis hirci! " Moreover, she had humiliated all 
 womanhood by revealing secrets of the gyneceum 
 never whispered before, thus affording new 
 weapons to the common enemy Man! It was 
 too much even for the robust candour which 
 certain advanced females among us import into 
 their discussions of Sex. Charlotte Perkins Gilman 
 positively refused to meet this imprudent sister of 
 the North — and what could you expect after that? 
 
 [ 343 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 Her visit to America was, as I have said, a failure 
 socially, and I suspect her publishers were not 
 much in pocket thereby. 
 
 However, it must be allowed that her book was 
 a good deal of a success, and got itself read and 
 wrangled about pretty much the world over. She 
 had " told on " her sex, as perhaps never woman 
 writer had done before. Unlovely as the revela- 
 tion was, that was enough to make her book sought 
 after by all manner of people. Men hked it much 
 better than women, for an obvious reason — it had 
 snatched away the veil from the inscrutability 
 of sex. 
 
 But there is a larger profit for them in this 
 book, if they will consider it rightly. Karin 
 Michaelis named as the "dangerous age" the 
 middle term of life at which a woman ordinarily 
 ceases to exert a physical fascination upon men. 
 She must then resign herself to be no longer sued 
 and pursued, courted and caressed, and she can 
 no longer hope to occupy a disproportionate share 
 of one man's time, or of that of many, if she be 
 plurally disposed. All is finished for her: she can 
 neither give the disease nor impart the remedy; 
 and she is effaced as a source of the most insidious 
 [ 344 ] 
 
THE AGE OF SAFETY 
 
 and universal trouble that the world has ever 
 known. 
 
 Is it not sad, Mesdames? — and who could blame 
 you for being vexed with this odious little Scandi- 
 navian and her hatefully candid book? . . . 
 
 But looking now to the advantage of my own 
 sex, I see not why the Dangerous Age for women 
 should not be the Age of Safety for men, and I 
 wish it might occur as early for the one as for the 
 other. 
 
 WHAT THINKING man but has rejoiced 
 at the end of that long slavery, so often 
 ignoble in its basis, to which he has sacrificed his 
 golden years? Oh, the blind worship of dolls, red- 
 hpped and long-haired and bauble-eyed, by which 
 a man gets no profit of his youth and often goes 
 maimed all his days! Oh, the cursed tyranny of 
 the flesh, to which strength yields up its best 
 sinews, genius its highest aspirations, ambition its 
 loftiest dreams! What tragedies are to be laid to 
 it! — secret tragedies from which the world bleeds, 
 though it dare not pubHsh them. What worse 
 tragedy than that of the hatred and alienation 
 which too often mark the end of this bondage 
 
 [345] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 of the flesh for both man and woman! When, 
 oh when will the world learn to use this thing as a 
 blessing instead of a plague and a curse? . . . 
 Not very soon, it is to be feared ; but the sooner, 
 we may hope, when men and women alike, instead 
 of lamenting the end of sexual domination or seek- 
 ing to prolong it, shall rather rejoice at regaining 
 their freedom. It is a degrading yoke, as we 
 know, which presses many almost from the cradle 
 to the grave. Some of the ancient poets not in- 
 aptly saw in it the malice of the gods, and Sopho- 
 cles gave public thanks when he was at length 
 freed from the stings of desire (that he was then 
 about eighty does not damage the present moral) . 
 In our civilization it prevents the full development 
 of the race — perhaps we can not conceive what men 
 and women would look like, or what their intel- 
 lectual possibilities would be, without the handi- 
 cap imposed upon them by countless ages of sex- 
 ual slavery. So deeply rooted is it, both in the 
 strength and the weakness of humanity, so con- 
 firmed by the sanction of religion and the pre- 
 scription of immemorial habit, that a real reform 
 can be hoped for only among the ultimate emanci- 
 pations of the race. ... 
 [ 346 ] 
 
FIFTEEN 
 
 BEST 
 
 THIS LITTLE word is one of the sweetest 
 and most consoling of our common speech. 
 
 Merely to utter it. gives one pause, for many- 
 are its pious and healing implications. If nothing 
 more, it conveys the image of a great hush and the 
 fall of coohng, noiseless waters on ears closed to 
 the sensuous challenge of life. 
 
 It expresses an idea which is cherished in the 
 innermost heart of humanity, as if in obedience 
 to some Divine instinct. Also it signifies one of 
 the great illusions that make the hardest life not 
 merely endurable but spiced with a single element 
 of romance. 
 
 But nothing can be said on this subject which 
 is not trite, the theme being one of the eternal 
 staples of human gossip and speculation. As, 
 without the hope of rest some day, who would have 
 strength or will to go on with his burden? Or, 
 
 [ 347 ] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 it is the one light that never quite fails us in our 
 journey to the grave. Perhaps of all the sayings 
 of JesuSj the most touching, the one that has 
 found deepest echo in the heart of humanity, is 
 this : " Come unto me all ye that labour and are 
 heavy laden, and I will give you rest." 
 
 The promise of rest is one that every man makes 
 himself, from the poorest to the richest. Nay, the 
 need of it levels all distinctions of fortune, for 
 the rich man has a proverbial difficulty of attain- 
 ing it. Lazarus plans to take things easy in the 
 eleemosynary line when his children are grown up. 
 Dives will really settle down to enjoy life when 
 he has lifted that last million. 
 
 Both cheat themselves, have always cheated 
 themselves, and yet the Great Illusion endures. 
 It outlasts love itself, for the fondest lovers are 
 glad at length to turn away from each other — ^to 
 rest! 
 
 Where the bridegroom all night through 
 Shall not turn him to the bride. 
 
 Yes, dearie, I know it is written that we shall 
 rest from our labours — but not on this side of the 
 [ 348 ] 
 
REST 
 
 heavenly Jordan. For I have come to iSfty years 
 in this pilgrimage of life, and I do not yet see 
 the beginning of my rest. The beginning? — alas, 
 when has this old heart of mine borne more anxious 
 labour than at present? Often it will not let me 
 sleep o' nights for its complaining — ah, what 
 things the heart tells us at such times, when it 
 seems to have intuition of its destiny! And some- 
 times, from a depth almost below consciousness, 
 it whispers of a boon it desires very much and 
 yet fears to name. Rest? . . . Aye, rest indeed! 
 
 BUT SHORT of that dreaded consummation, 
 do we — ^nay, can we — ever really rest? We 
 are sure the heart never stops beating, and there be 
 learned men who affirm that the brain is always 
 in a state of activity, conscious or unconscious. I 
 am apt to agree with this, as I have scarcely slept 
 without dreams since boyhood. Is it any wonder 
 that we go wrong with our poor brains so over- 
 worked — never suffered to run down even once in 
 fifty years ! . . . 
 
 There is thus involved a double idea which makes 
 the thought of final rest (as dissociated from the 
 fear of death) so precious and consoling to us. It 
 
 [349] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 is that we shall escape not alone the " slings and 
 arrows of outrageous fortune," but also that we 
 shall be freed from the fardels of our own physi- 
 cal, individual life. Rest and immunity from both 
 are to be had only upon one condition — a condition 
 which does not always seem so hard, dearie, after 
 you have come to fifty year! 
 
 Not that you need love life the less at that 
 epoch — indeed you are apt to love it the more and 
 to yearn for it as one must for all lovely and perish- 
 able things. But while your sense of the precious- 
 ness of life is increased, so likewise is your per- 
 ception of its illusions. In youth, in order to gain 
 the keenest edge for our joys, we make it a point 
 of honour to ignore certain things that enter into 
 the account. This might be called the truce of 
 youth. Age is bound by no such exigent comity: 
 it knows that the rose is sweet, and it has an ironic 
 sense of what is behind the sweetness of the rose. 
 This is not an advantage, in especial, except as it 
 tends to facilitate the final abdication and bring 
 you to your portion of rest. 
 
 But still we revolt against that, save at the very 
 last moment, and cling to the hope that we shall 
 have the repose we crave on less ineluctable terms. 
 [350] 
 
REST 
 
 We want to rest, oh so much, but also we want 
 to hve and enjoy it — to know that we are resting. 
 And while we voice our vain plea the heart and the 
 brain keep up their unintermittent labour and an- 
 guish. How hard it is to make these children 
 understand ! 
 
 THERE IS an old Latin phrase which casts 
 some light on the problem — Parva domus, 
 magna quies: Small is the house, but great the 
 peace thereof! 
 
 The world is too much with us, even in age, that 
 we should have here the perfect rest we seek. How 
 shall you bribe the poor heart that wakes in sad 
 loneliness at night to weep over its lost youth or 
 to tremble before the exaggerated cares of the 
 morrow? 
 
 Ah! there is but one way, the oldest of human 
 fashions, which we are too apt to associate with 
 images of horror and repulsion. And though we 
 cry for rest — rest — rest all the term of our Hves, 
 and insist that life has been to us a martyrdom, 
 yet do we shrink from the true Rest when at last 
 it comes to our relief. See! it is but a single step 
 to the narrow house and the great peace, the per- 
 
 [351] 
 
REALITIES AND INVENTIONS 
 
 feet rest: but no! we cry out in terror and turn 
 back to the life that has scourged us so cruelly. 
 Anything but that! we exclaim, while the long 
 awaited and entreated One stands patient by. . . . 
 
 How hard it is, dearie, to make these children 
 understand! . . . 
 
 Give us our rest, O Father, in thine own ap- 
 pointed time and of thy gracious olden fashion. 
 Lay thy annulling seal upon the o'erlaboured 
 heart: drop thy healing nepenthe into the weary 
 brain. Teach us not to fear that which brings 
 us nearer to Thee. Suffer us to go to sleep 
 with no more consciousness than the flowers that 
 take no care for their awakening. Give us this 
 last and best of all thy gifts — Parva domtis, magna 
 quies! 
 
 [352] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 ONE 
 
 PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 The Literary Motive 
 
 IF YOU ask me what is the first word of art, 
 I answer: Patience. And the second: again 
 Patience. And the third, once more: Patience! 
 
 II 
 
 To write at all it is necessary to do both good 
 and bad work — the proportion is what matters. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A vast amount of nonsense is put forth by 
 literary persons in the name of posterity. There 
 is dishonesty as well as nonsense in this. The 
 truth is, every earnest writer works in and for 
 the present, with little thought of posterity. With- 
 
 [355] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 out the stimulus furnished by a living audience, it 
 is very doubtful if any literature worth while 
 would be produced. 
 
 IV 
 
 Robert Louis says wisely that it is not how 
 much we earn for our day's wage, but how we 
 earn it, that really matters. 
 
 A crust and freedom would suit me better than 
 any sort of servitude or capitulation, though 
 gilded with the income of a Carnegie. But the 
 world is so organized that one can at best but 
 clutch the shadow of independence. Well, even 
 for the shadow I would risk much. . . .Nay, I 
 would be the veriest beggar in thy courts, oh 
 Liberty ! 
 
 In the time of Pericles there were no news- 
 papers, yet even the fish-wives discussed the great 
 orators and poets in excellent Attic. In these 
 piping days of journalism everybody is taking on 
 the newspaper mind and our popular dialect is 
 become a sort of disease borrowed from the lazar- 
 house of languages. 
 [356] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 VI 
 
 Nothing is so difficult as to think, so to speak, 
 in a straight line, for the mind's strongest tend- 
 ency is to turn round on itself like a mouse in a 
 cage. The faculty of straight-out thinking is one 
 of the rarest, and no man who possesses it can 
 escape the divining rod of Fame. Sometimes it 
 makes a great philosopher like Kant, or a world- 
 master like Napoleon, or a grand creative artist 
 like Balzac. 
 
 VII 
 
 Byron said that Curran talked more and better 
 poetry than he had ever read. Allowing for the 
 hyperbole, one sees why Curran never wrote any- 
 thing equal to such praise. Talking and writing 
 are two different things and presuppose two very 
 different kinds of talent. 
 
 VIII 
 
 No task were possible did we not see the end of 
 it from the beginning, and perhaps, with all our 
 love of life, we should shrink from it with a thou- 
 sand-fold terror were there no certainty of death. 
 Swift's conception of a tribe of human beings who 
 
 [357] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 could not die, is justly voted the most horrible in 
 literature. 
 
 IX 
 
 Every reflective genius needs the second and the 
 third thought, and hence this type is rarely great 
 or successful in action. " I think like a man and 
 act like a child," said Renan. 
 
 x 
 I have got through caring much about style — 
 what I care for is a man or a woman who has 
 LIVED. Mere style is the affectation and wor- 
 ship of pedagogues or pinheads. 
 
 XI 
 
 To hold the Ideal to-day is no assurance that 
 you will gain it to-morrow: — even the humblest 
 writer is plagued with pages of past work which 
 his heart misgives him he will never again equal. 
 
 XII 
 
 " I have taken too many crops out of the brain," 
 said Thackeray, predicting his early death. It is 
 the kind of crop, however, that tells. Bad writers 
 generally live long. 
 [ 358 ] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 XIII 
 
 Lafcadio Hearn would have given his books to 
 the publishers for the privilege of correcting his 
 proofs. This is the spirit that makes literature 
 but keeps you out of the "best sellers." 
 
 XIV 
 
 It is a thrilling thought that I shall live while 
 my thought survives and fructifies in other minds. 
 Fail me not, thou inner light! 
 
 XV 
 
 If thou wouldst have good of thy genius, flee 
 the chatterers; — power is from the Silence. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Plague on the voluminous! I had rather write 
 a half-dozen perfect pages than the " hundred 
 novels of old man Dumas." 
 
 XVII 
 
 Constant effort is the price of literary produc- 
 tion : — the source of talent is a well that often seals 
 up over-night. 
 
 [359] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 XVIII 
 
 At one's best, one writes up to the level of 
 somebody's faith and love and admiration: — 
 there is no other way to the heights. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Perhaps the bitterest thought that can come to 
 a man is that the work to which he has set his hand 
 is not worth the doing at all. And it is a thought 
 that has plagued the greatest. 
 
 XX 
 
 Balzac's old Goriot says : — " We bring our chil- 
 dren into the world and they drive us out of it." 
 This is one of the truths for telling which a writer 
 is hated by the public. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Nothing is rarer than to find a writer possess- 
 ing literature and life in equal degree. Of the 
 two it is better, for success, to be short on litera- 
 ture and long on life. 
 
 XXII 
 
 The day is long for power and purpose; short 
 for weakness and irresolution. 
 [360] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 XXIII 
 
 The first step in learning how to write is to 
 learn how to feel. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 When head and heart ripen together, rich is 
 the harvest. 
 
 xxv"^ 
 
 Fail not to make a daily offering to the great 
 god Futility! 
 
 Truths and Truisms 
 
 BARRING ACCIDENTS, most people live 
 as long as they want to : the Life Force de- 
 pends upon the will even more than is now recog- 
 nized. But you shall not keep the precious boon 
 of hfe by fleeing all effort, caring merely to live 
 and lying close like a hare in its form: — lie you 
 never so close the thrifty Reaper will not pass you 
 by. Therefore, look to it — to hve is to WILL 
 and to will is TO DO. 
 
 II 
 What is it in human nature that makes men 
 love to grovel before fetiches of flesh or stone? 
 
 [ 361 ] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 Nothing is more certain than that millions prefer 
 such prostration to the noblest dignity and free- 
 dom. To kowtow to any fool drest in a little 
 brief authority, — this is one of the strongest and 
 most deeply rooted of human instincts: it is also 
 the chief obstacle to human progress. No doubt 
 it harks back to those early ages of the world, and 
 some not so remote, when fear and superstition 
 were the supreme governing forces. And though 
 the substance of these be long since gone, the 
 shadow still affrights us. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Candour is inculcated in all the copy-books, but 
 a man who attempts to make his way in the world 
 without cunning, both aggressive and defensive, 
 soon finds himself as a lamb among wolves. It's 
 a pity that our stock moralities are drawn up with- 
 out reference to the facts of life. 
 
 rv 
 
 No hypocrisy is more common among men than 
 a pretence of friendship and regard. And yet, 
 hollow as it is, nothing avails more to keep the 
 frame of things together. 
 [362] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 V 
 
 We need the friend that is near much less than 
 the friend that is remote. Perhaps the most pre- 
 cious and helpful sympathy acts only from afar. 
 
 VI 
 
 Complain not that thou art ever longing and 
 unsatisfied — ^to be content and without desire is 
 the portion of Age or Death. 
 
 VII 
 
 There is so much treachery in the run of men 
 that Jesus Christ ought to be accepted as Divine 
 from this fact alone — that He managed to pick 
 twelve with but one traitor among them! 
 
 VIII 
 
 In former years I was somewhat romantically 
 inclined, but now I find myself apt to agree with 
 Bacon, that there is very little friendship among 
 men. Still, I continue to dream of a friend! 
 
 IX 
 
 The tongue is an obscene member, as certain 
 votaries of Venus well know; one does not readily 
 
 [ 363 ] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 show it, even to the doctor. Have a care of thy 
 tongue — it may be the primeval Snake! 
 
 X 
 
 There is consolation behind every catastrophe. 
 Nothing better attests the wisdom of the Greeks 
 than the eternal fable of Pandora. 
 
 XI 
 
 Disraeli's famous saying that no sensible man 
 ever tells his religion, is in some danger of being 
 discredited with Dr. Eliot and so many others 
 rushing into print. But are they really telling? 
 
 XII 
 
 Many a soul dies in terror to awake and find 
 God smiling upon it. 
 
 XIII 
 
 To be free is to be alone. The herd may admire 
 and envy your state, but all the same they give 
 you the road and go by on the other side. 
 
 XIV 
 
 There is enough good in life to make us wish 
 to live forever and enough evil to reconcile us to 
 any death. 
 [364] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 XV 
 
 Seen from Sirius, doubtless our troubles are not 
 of so much consequence. 
 
 XVI 
 
 That men do not live too long is perhaps the 
 one thing for which they have sound reason to 
 be grateful. 
 
 XVII 
 
 To praise a man's talent and a woman's beauty, 
 though you do not believe in either, is the most 
 profitable of perjuries. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Let us not hate life because we have to relin- 
 quish it, but let us fold our tent with serenity and 
 pass out with a Hail ! to the advancing generations. 
 
 XIX 
 
 I have known many men, and many more have 
 heard my name, but the friends of my heart — ah, 
 how easy it is to number them! 
 
 [365] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 XX 
 
 Age enables us to see life stripped of illusions, 
 even as autumn shows us the wood in its bare 
 anatomy. 
 
 XXI 
 
 There isn't a single laugh in the Bible from 
 beginning to end. This is no laughing matter. 
 
 The Woman 
 
 SHE IS a fool, Barry," says Sir Charles 
 Lyndon, referring to his amiable consort, 
 "but she will kill you as she has killed me." 
 Nothing in that masterpiece of " Barry Lyndon " 
 better certifies the greatness of Thackeray. And 
 they call him satirist because he would not blink 
 the facts of life! 
 
 II 
 
 In the time of Montaigne a man was considered 
 old at forty; nowadays there is a well-marked 
 period of second youth, fruitful in romance, which 
 sets in about forty-five and may run to sixty — • 
 it all depends on the woman. 
 [ 366 ] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 III 
 I love women — oh yes, I confess it ! — but I must 
 say that I have never seen the Principle of Evil 
 incarnate in a man in such a degree as now and 
 then it appears in a woman. 
 
 IV 
 
 Tell a woman one thing about herself which she 
 does not like to hear, and you stand bare in her 
 regard, with no shred of grace from all your pre- 
 vious loyalty and lip service. 
 
 The Garden of Eden story is now generally dis- 
 credited, but a long time yet will be required to 
 clear up the character of the Snake and the 
 Woman. 
 
 VI 
 
 Fortune is personified as a woman, not merely 
 for that it is fickle, but because, in a deep sense, 
 woman is the bringer of most good or evil fortune. 
 
 VII 
 
 When age forbids a woman to attract with her 
 sex she sometimes falls back on the ordinary hu- 
 
 [367] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 man virtues. This is a compensation not to be 
 despised. 
 
 VIII 
 
 There has never been discovered an acceptable 
 substitute for youth — but women continue to rum- 
 mage the vanity shops. 
 
 IX 
 
 To have love is to have power: — Love is the 
 mighty parent and begetter. 
 
 The true test of love comes when both man and 
 woman have reached a " certain " age. 
 
 XI 
 
 Never look to be forgiven by the man who has 
 wronged you. The woman, however, sometimes 
 relents. 
 
 XII 
 
 There has never been a kingdom of this or any 
 other world that a man would not throw away for 
 the woman of his heart. 
 [368] 
 
PHILOSOPHY IN LITTLE 
 
 XIII 
 
 It is a law of Nature that sex should preoccupy 
 the best years of life — an unjust law most of us 
 feel, sooner or later. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Is this the climacteric — ^when a man stops see- 
 ing the faces of women in his dreams? 
 
 XV 
 
 To hate where one has loved is an exquisite in- 
 dulgence which some people mistake for a virtue. 
 
 , XVI 
 
 The illusion of sex countenances all the other 
 illusions. 
 
 [369] 
 
TWO 
 
 THE GEAIN OF WHEAT 
 
 IT IS curious how the vital word — the electric 
 spark of true feeling or passion — survives in 
 literature, though it have to be recovered even as 
 a single grain of wheat from many bushels of 
 chaff. I felt this strongly t'other day in look- 
 ing through Hazlitt's lectures on the Elizabethan 
 dramatists. Rather a dull book in the main, I 
 fear, though Hazlitt is one of my cherished famil- 
 iars; dull not so much by fault of the lecturer as 
 by the intolerable length, and too often most un- 
 poetic quality of many of the " specimens " pre- 
 sented. And decidedly hard reading. It seems 
 wonderful that Hazlitt found an audience to sit 
 them out, and I suspect they confirmed his friend 
 Lamb in those humourous prejudices of his against 
 lecturing, which find expression in one of his 
 quaint letters. 
 
 Hazlitt's own sound talk, without close reference 
 [370] 
 
THE GRAIN OF WHEAT 
 
 to his subject, is much the better part of these 
 lectures, though I go not so far as to say they were 
 not worth doing. Indeed, I would utter no such 
 censure upon any work of honest Hazlitt's. Only 
 I wish there were more of him to the " intolerable 
 deal " of Elizabethan. 
 
 But to my point. How the vital word leaps 
 out from those musty old forgotten plays which, 
 generally without true inspiration or artistic 
 " staying power,^" and written in a manner almost 
 obsolete, scarce the talent of Hazlitt could serve 
 to make interesting. Profiting by his pioneer la- 
 bours in this field, I offer a few instances. 
 
 Old Decker's monument is in one line — a char- 
 acterization of Christ: 
 
 "The first true gentleman that ever breathed/' 
 
 John Lyly's little Campaspe song of a dozen 
 lines, which tells how Cupid lost his eyes to the 
 beauty, has long survived his plays. 
 
 Of Marlowe, that mighty young rival of Shake- 
 speare, we have strictly speaking only one line — 
 
 Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? 
 
 [371] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 The couplet, 
 
 Cut is the branch that might have grown full 
 
 straight. 
 And burned is Apollo's laurel bough, 
 
 though memorable from its application to the poet 
 himself, is seldom quoted even by scholars. 
 Beaumont and Fletcher have — 
 
 'tis not a life, 
 'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away, 
 
 in admiring the simple pathos of which we may 
 well echo the praise of Hazlitt. 
 
 Beaumont alone has the world-famous and 
 memorable — 
 
 What things have we seen 
 Done, at the Mermaid! 
 
 Also: 
 
 So nimble and so full of subtile flame. 
 
 And (less often quoted) — 
 
 Nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 
 [372] 
 
THE GRAIN OF WHEAT 
 
 Ben Jonson, who thought himself a peg or two 
 above Shakespeare, and who certainly wrote a ton 
 of learned rubbish, has — 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 for which a world of lovers should forgive him 
 much; as also — 
 
 Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she! 
 
 And the noble apostrophe — 
 
 Dear son of memory and great heir of fame. 
 
 With a few other famihar references to Shake- 
 speare. And that exquisiteness in little — 
 
 ^' the bag o* the hee" 
 
 Here's shrinkage, of a truth; but 'tis the fan 
 with which winnowing Time has sifted the Eliza- 
 bethans, some of whom plumed themselves, the 
 public concurring, on their successful rivalry of 
 Shakespeare. In truth, the great William seems 
 not to have been inclined to contradict them, for 
 
 [ 373 ] 
 
LAGNIAPPE 
 
 does he not modestly speak of his " desiring this 
 man's art and that man's scope," etc.? It seems 
 to me not the least wonderful circmnstance of the 
 glorious legend of Shakespeare. . . . 
 
 I trust the valiant reader who has come so far 
 with me may reckon not vainly that he has gleaned 
 a few grains of wheat by the way, now that we 
 have reached 
 
 THE END. 
 
 [ 374 ] 
 
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