tired of the things we really like, but only of the things which have
appealed to us momentarily because of their novelty. When we really
like an author, we like another author who is like him. When we really
like a melody, we like another melody which is like it. When we really
like a place, we have no desire to leave it. Early in life we form
attachments for certain things--our homes, our parents, _Mother Goose_
and the like. This fondness we never entirely outgrow. We like the
books we used to like, the pictures, the songs and the places. I am
speaking now, Sir, of normal human beings. There are some, ever seeking
new things, who never learn to like anything. To them, old books are
wearisome, old pictures are uninteresting, old tunes insipid. To them,
all places are places to go from or go to, but never to stay in. For
them, the past is closed and history is out of date.
“Beware of imitations!” say the advertisements. “Beware of
originality!” say I. If we were all original, there would be no
living with us. The original genius is well enough when we wish to be
entertained, but it is the old-fashioned reliable imitator who makes
this world the pleasant place it is. And let us not forget, Sir, that
the most original thing in the world is sin.
I am, Sir,
DAVID DUPLEX.
A FLATTERING TRIBUTE
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: Some months ago I read in your magazine an article in which
you advocated the keeping of a journal or diary, saying that by this
means one might always keep one’s self well informed as to what
progress one might be making spiritually, morally and mentally upon
the journey through life. This suggestion struck me very forcibly; so
much so, indeed, that I straightway determined to act upon your advice
and to begin forthwith such a record of my intimate life as would
enable me, at any time when the spirit moved me, to inform myself in
this respect. Up to the time when I read the article of which I speak,
I had always considered the writing of a diary as rather a senseless
occupation, since I could not see why one need put down that which
was already well known to one’s self; but when I had read your advice
upon the subject, I soon came to see that there is much which will
inevitably escape, not only the memory, but the attention as well,
unless committed to paper.
Convinced, then, of the usefulness of such an intimate record, I set
myself to writing down with great particularity all that I saw, heard,
said, did or read; so that I may now look back at the end of the year
and review each day in all its details. As you may suppose, I was much
surprised to find myself given to habits of which I had formerly been
quite unaware. I discovered that much of my reading, for instance,
was of a decidedly frivolous and unprofitable sort. After considering
this for some time, I have come to the conclusion that it is time for
me to mend my ways and to abandon my habit of indiscriminate and idle
reading, and I therefore request that you will cancel my subscription
to _The Idler_.
Thanking you for the article on diaries, which will, I am sure, prove a
most valuable suggestion to me, I am, Sir,
Truly yours,
LUCY LACKWIT.
THE RIDDLE OF A DREAM
“Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride a gallop.”
--_Shakespeare._
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: I have had a curious dream and I am at a loss to account for
it. I have consulted an old dream book, which I have in my possession,
and which was formerly the property of my old nurse, Aunt Betty S., but
for all my diligent searching therein, I have failed utterly to find
anything which might serve as an interpretation of my vision. I called
at the public library of our village and asked for the latest and most
up-to-date work of this character, but the librarian only laughed at
my request and assured me that she possessed no such work and that as
far as she knew there had never been any such work upon her shelves.
To my protest that no library could be complete without at least a
few volumes of this character, she retorted that only fools and old
fogies any longer had any faith in the meaning of dreams, and that if I
was troubled with nightmare the best thing I could do would be to stop
lying on my back or be more careful of what I ate before going to bed.
It would seem that I am a bit old-fashioned in my faith in the meaning
of dreams, though I do not see how any one who pretends to a belief in
the Christian faith can scoff at the interpretation and significance of
them in the face of the many notable instances cited in the Bible, as,
for example, the vision of Jacob and the dream which caused Joseph to
flee into Egypt. I suppose, however, that I should not be surprised at
the light and irreverent fashion in which the young people of to-day
treat this subject, when I reflect that a Christian clergyman has
recently suggested a revision of the Ten Commandments. Notwithstanding
the apparently widespread heresy concerning the futility and emptiness
of dreams, I trust that I am not the only Christian gentleman now
living who clings to the faith of his fathers and who has sufficient
faith in the inspiration of the Gospels to believe that a dream is
something more than a result of injudicious eating. It is in the hope
that some such person may be a reader of your journal and that the
result may be a correct interpretation of my own dream, that I am
writing this to you. I observe that your journal is somewhat behind the
times in many respects and therefore I assume that some of your readers
are likely to be as old-fashioned and as “superstitious” as myself.
The dream which I am about to relate came to me in the following
circumstances. I had been out rather late the night before and had
partaken of a number of fancy dishes such as I am not in the habit of
eating at my own table, but which my daughter, who is just back from a
young ladies’ finishing school, assures me are much more pleasing if
not more nourishing than the ham and eggs which I was upon the point
of ordering for our supper after the theater. It was in the morning
of the next day and we were out in our new automobile which had only
come from the factory the day before. The automobile, or “car” as my
daughter calls it, is of rather expensive make and luxurious to a
degree. Being somewhat fagged by my unaccustomed dissipation of the
night before, I leaned back upon the cushions and presently I fell
asleep.
It appeared to me that I was no longer in the automobile, but trudging
along the road as I was in the habit of doing in my younger years. As I
came to a turn in the road I was confronted with a troop of horsemen,
who were by all odds the strangest company it has ever been my lot
to behold. All of them were splendidly mounted on magnificent horses
which were caparisoned like the mounts of the knights in some rich and
gorgeous medieval tapestry. Their bridles were of chased leather with
bits and buckles of solid gold; their stirrups were of platinum and
silver, and their saddles were of silver and gold, upholstered in plush
and velvet. Silk and satin ribbons floated from the bridles of the
horses and flaunted in the wind in gay and beautiful streamers. But
with the horses and their trappings the magnificence came to a sudden
end. The riders themselves were the most incongruous riders for such
noble animals that one could imagine. They were, without exception,
tattered and bedraggled to the last degree of unkempt frowsiness. Their
faces were gaunt and drawn as with hunger and their hair hung unbrushed
and uncombed upon their frayed collars. In more than one instance a
foot was thrust through a silver stirrup while the toes of the rider
came peeping through the broken ends of his boot. A more wretched
company mounted upon more beautiful chargers it would be difficult to
imagine.
At sight of me the whole company came to a sudden halt, checking their
mounts as at the command of a leader, though no word was spoken. The
leader of the cavalcade, who bestrode a handsome gelding, rode out a
little in advance of his fellows, and removing his crownless hat, swept
me a bow, leaning low over the pommel of his saddle. And when I had
returned his salutation, he addressed me in these words: “I give you
good morrow, gentle sir, and I beg you in the name of Christ and this
our company that you spare us a few coins of silver or of gold that we
may partake of food and drink, for the way is long and weary and we can
not travel without meat and wine to sustain us on our journey.”
Now this speech greatly astonished me, as I had never seen so large a
company of beggars journeying together, and I was the more astounded
that men mounted in such splendid fashion should be asking alms.
“What!” I cried in amazement, “are you begging then, while you ride
upon such fine horses, and your bridles and saddles are worth a king’s
ransom?”
“Even so,” replied the leader, “and much as I loathe discourtesy, I
must remind you that our time is short, so pray give us what funds
you can spare and let us be on our way, for we hope to reach our
destination by nightfall.”
“And what is your destination?” I asked.
“The City of Vain Display,” he replied. “But we dally.”
“But if you need money,” I protested, “why do you not sell your horses
and trappings?”
At this the whole company cried out in protest, and the leader
answered: “Sell our mounts? Never! Look at them. Are they not
beautiful?”
And truly they were. And as I looked at them I was seized with a great
desire to feel a horse of like magnificence between my knees, and I
cried, “I wish that I, too, had a horse like that!”
“Give me all the money that you have,” said the leader, “and you shall
have one.”
So I gave him the money. Presently I found myself riding with them and
my clothes were as tattered and torn as the clothes of the others.
And we set off at a furious pace, faster and faster, until the horses
panted with exertion, and after a time one stumbled and fell, sending
his rider over his head to the hard road. But nobody stopped, and
looking back, I saw the unfortunate fellow sprawling in the roadway
with his neck broken. On, on we went, one horse after another giving a
final gasp and falling down in the road, and as each one fell we who
were left urged our mounts to greater exertions, plying whip and spur
without ceasing, until finally only the leader and I were riding on.
Then his horse stumbled to its knees and rolled over on its side, and I
rode on alone. Lashing my horse I strained onward till the poor beast
came crashing down with a jar that threw me headlong upon the highway,
where I fell so heavily that I woke.
I have pondered over this dream ever since, but I confess I can make
nothing of it. I must draw this letter to a close now, for my daughter
informs me that the automobile is waiting, and I have not mortgaged my
house to secure the thing for the purpose of letting it stand idle.
I hope, Sir, that if you or any of your readers can read me the riddle
of this dream they will be good enough to forward the solution to
Your humble servant,
TIMOTHY TINSELTOP.
BLUFFTOWN, NEW YORK.
BEDS FOR THE BAD
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: It was Sancho Panza, if my memory serves me right, who
invoked a blessing upon the head of the man who first invented sleep; I
think he had done better to bestow his blessings upon the man who first
invented beds. I think it extremely doubtful if sleep can be classed as
an invention of man; it is, rather, a function, like breathing, and I
doubt not that Adam fell a-nodding before ever he knew the meaning of
sleep at all. The bed, upon the contrary, is without question of human
origin, for no other living thing has constructed anything resembling
it except the bird, who makes his nest serve him as both bed and house,
and certainly no deity could have occasion to use such an article,
seeing that eternal wakefulness is a necessary attribute of godhood.
The bed, in my opinion, is the greatest of all human inventions,
without which sleep were robbed of half its pleasure. Nowhere do we
enjoy such delicious refreshing repose as when snugly ensconced in a
proper bed, and for my part, there is no other luxury which I could
not spare better than my bed. Napkins, tablecloths, knives, forks,
spoons--even the table, I could forego without great loss of appetite,
but I can rest nowhere else than in a bed, and I can rest well in no
bed but my own. So strong is my regard for this article of household
furniture, that, were I a poet, I should ask no greater glory than to
be the author of those beautiful lines of Thomas Hood--
“O bed! O bed! delicious bed!
That heaven upon earth to the weary head!”
No truer words were ever spoken than those of Isaac De Benserade when
he said:
“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,
And, born in bed, in bed we die;
The near approach a bed may show
Of human bliss to human woe.”
A man may be without land or money and still be happy; he may endure
the loss of friends and fortune, and he may preserve his courage even
in the face of shame and disgrace; but, Sir, a man who has not a good
bed is no more than half a man. Without this refuge from the trials and
troubles of the world, a man is robbed of the one consolation which it
should be the right of every man to enjoy. Without a bed, his vitality
is sapped, his courage is broken down and his moral sense is impaired.
I maintain, Sir, that no man can go bedless without becoming a menace
to the community, and this brings me to the subject I had in mind when
I sat down to write this letter.
I have observed, Mr. _Idler_, that though a great many people of
excellent intentions devote themselves to the task of reforming and
reclaiming members of the criminal class, the result of their labors
is very far from being satisfactory. In spite of the great number
of reformatories, prisons and houses of refuge erected in all parts
of the world; in spite of numberless soup kitchens, missions, free
sanatoriums and the like, men continue to break the laws and all our
efforts to eradicate crime appear to go for little or nothing. Now I
am convinced that there is a very good reason why this is true, and
it is my conviction that our failure to abolish crime is directly due
to our stupidity and block-headedness in attacking the problem from
the wrong angle. Instead of trying to reform our criminals by the fear
of punishment, we should prevent crime by diverting their minds from
evil-doing and direct them into proper paths by the simple expedient
which I am about to lay before you.
There is nothing in the world which is more likely to put a man into a
good humor with himself, with other men and with existing conditions,
than a good night’s rest. As I have said before, every man who lacks a
bed is a potential criminal and there are a number of reasons why this
is so. To lack repose naturally wears upon the nerves and reduces a man
to a condition bordering upon insanity. It is conducive to cynicism,
self-pity, a feeling of resentment against all other men and a strong
sense of injustice. No matter what the cause of his bedless condition
may be, no man can preserve an even temper when he wants to go to bed
and has no bed to which he may go. Again, being out of bed and out of
temper, he is ripe for various sorts of evil deeds from which he would
turn in loathing after a good night’s rest. He is driven for shelter
and divertisement into the haunts of vice and the dens of iniquity. He
beguiles his sleepless hours in the company of vicious and dissolute
persons. He regards the world from an entirely different point of
view from the man who has just passed seven or eight pleasant hours
in restful slumber. Sleeplessness and crime are as closely related as
insomnia and insanity. Crime leads to sleeplessness and sleeplessness
leads to crime.
Now, Sir, what I propose is just this: let us put the criminals to bed.
Instead of offering the outcast a cold plate of soup or an inane tract,
let us offer him a warm comfortable bed where he may lie down and pass
at least eight hours of the twenty-four in dreaming that he is John D.
Rockefeller or some other such harmless illusion. Let us offer him an
opportunity to recover his strength, his courage and his moral balance
in innocent sleep. I do not believe that the perfect social state can
ever be brought about until such time as every person in the world
shall own his own bed; until such time as beds shall be assigned by law
to all those who can not purchase them upon their own account; until
such time as a man’s bed shall be sacred to his own use, exempt from
taxation or seizure by writ or other legal process and as inviolate as
the clothes upon his back. I do not believe a perfect social state will
ever be attained until it shall be a crime for a chambermaid to make a
bed improperly or for a merchant to sell an imperfect spring or a lumpy
mattress. I do not believe a perfect social state can ever be reached
until every man in the world, and every woman and child, is guaranteed
a good night’s rest every night in the year.
But as we have not yet advanced to a state of civilization where it
would be practicable to provide every human being with a personal
bed of his own, let us do what we can. Do you believe, Sir, that any
but the most callow of youthful roisterers prefer the disgusting
atmosphere of the all-night saloon or the bleak cheerlessness of a
park bench to the heavenly comforts of a good bed? If you do, Sir,
you are vastly mistaken. Throw open to these men an absolutely free
lodging-house filled with clean comfortable beds, where all may come
and go unquestioned as long as they enter at a certain hour and remain
a stipulated time, and I warrant you that lodging-house will be filled
to its capacity every night in the year. Let every community erect as
many of these lodging-houses as its financial condition will permit.
Let the vast sums that are now being wasted upon futile missions and
piffling soup-kitchens be diverted to this legitimate end. Once we
have our criminals and our outcasts in bed, we shall have them out of
the streets, out of the parks, out of the gambling hells, out of the
brothels and out of mischief!
The state plays the father in chastising disobedient citizens; let the
state also play the mother in tucking them into bed. Go look upon them
when every face is wiped clean of frown and leer; go look upon them
when every face is smooth and quiet as the resting soul within
“And on their lids
The baby Sleep is pillowed ...”
and I warrant you, you shall find them, not outcasts and outlaws, but
poor tired children whom you can not forbear to wish, as I now wish you,
Good night, and happy dreams!
CADWALLADER COVERLET.
IS CHESTERTON A MAN ALIVE?
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: If I were a writer of biographical sketches, I should begin
these remarks with the statement that Gilbert Keith Chesterton was
born in the year 1874; but I am not a writer of biographical sketches.
On the contrary, Sir, I am one who aims to tell the truth as often
as it is possible to tell the truth without appearing eccentric. I
do not begin these remarks in the fashion I have suggested because
I am restrained by scruples which would never trouble a writer of
biographies. The fact of the matter is, I do not know that Gilbert
Keith Chesterton was born in 1874. I do not know that he was ever born
at all--at most I only suspect it. I suspect it because I never knew a
man who had never been born to attract so much attention. His books may
be urged as evidence of his birth, but they are by no means conclusive
evidence. So far as my personal information goes, he may be nothing
more than a name, like _Bertha M. Clay_. Perhaps he is only a creature
of the imagination, like _Innocent Smith_, created by some author who
chooses to write under the name, “Gilbert Chesterton.” I do not suggest
these things as probabilities, but only as possibilities. And yet, what
could be more improbable than Chesterton himself? Is it not, after all,
more probable that he has been evolved from pen and ink, than from the
clay of Adam?
We come now to the question which I borrow from the title of this
paper: Is Gilbert Keith Chesterton a man alive? Is he not, rather, a
very amusing conception of what a man might be? Let us consider the
matter.
Of course the fact that you and I have no positive proof of his having
been born does not argue that he is not a living man. Every day we
meet men who are unquestionably as real as ourselves (providing we do
not lean to the theory of Bishop Berkeley, that we can be sure of no
existence but our own), yet we know little or nothing of the origin
of these men. They may have been born, or they may not. If you were to
ask them, they would probably insist that they were born at one time
or another. They believe this because they can not account for their
existence upon any other hypothesis. But they believe it on hearsay
evidence. Not one of them really remembers anything at all about it.
People sometimes grow up to learn that they are changelings; that
they are not at all the people they had thought they were. Is it not
possible, then, that here and there may live a man who was never born
at all? I should not be so bold as to deny the possibility. There have
always been legends of men who can not die--men who live on in spite
of age and accident. I see no reason why one man should not escape
birth if another may escape death. I do not, therefore, insist that Mr.
Chesterton prove himself to have been born. It is only that I find it
hard to believe that he really exists in the flesh.
Now, Mr. Chesterton, in all his works, dwells upon the subject of
madness or insanity. Does this prove that Mr. Chesterton is mad? By
no means. As he himself has said, the man who is really mad seldom
suspects that he is unbalanced; it is the man who fears madness who
finds madness a fascinating subject. Sir, Mr. Chesterton is not mad,
but I think he fears madness. It is almost impossible to find one of
his essays in which there is no mention of madness. I think it fair to
assume that he writes of madness because he has a fear--not necessarily
a terror, you understand, but still a fear--that some day he may be
afflicted with this malady. Mr. Chesterton also writes a whole book
upon the subject of being alive. Are we to assume, because of this,
that he _is_ alive? By no means. It is quite possible that he only
fears he may some day come alive; that he may some day cease to be the
whimsical creation of some author’s fancy and become a real man of
flesh and blood.
Do you see no reason why he should fear such a metamorphosis? Surely
you must. From time immemorial, men have shuddered at the thought of
becoming a spirit, an infinite being composed chiefly of memory; a
purely intellectual organism having nothing material in its make-up.
Now if men are disturbed, as they are, at the prospect of becoming
ideas, why should not ideas be disturbed at the prospect of becoming
men? Is it likely that an idea, immune from all the evils of mortal
existence, superior to the weaknesses of the flesh and possessing, at
least, a potential immortality, would be pleased with the prospect of
becoming mere man? Would an idea willingly abandon the clear atmosphere
of a purely intellectual plane for the muggy mists and murky fogs of
London? Assuredly not.
Lucretius, ridiculing the theory of reincarnation in his work, _De
Rerum Natura_, drew a ludicrous picture of disembodied spirits eagerly
awaiting their turn to enter a vacant human tenement. Lucretius was
thoroughly appreciative of the absurdity of his picture. He knew that
no disembodied spirit would be so foolish as to desire imprisonment
in a mortal frame. And as it is with spirits, so we may suppose it to
be with ideas. It is one thing to be put into a book; it is quite
another to be put into a body. No matter how often an idea may be put
into a book, it can not be confined therein. It is still free to travel
where it lists. It can leap from London to Overroads in the twinkling
of an eye--or it can be in both places at one and the same time. It
may appear to a dozen different men in a dozen different aspects. It
possesses the Protean faculty of being all things to all men. But
confine that idea in a human body; transform that idea into a human
being--and what is the result? Why, the result is an immediate loss of
liberty. The man, who was formerly an idea, can no longer flit about
with lightning-like rapidity. If he wishes to travel from Overroads
to London, he must go by train or motor-car. He can by no ingenuity
contrive to be in both places at the same time. He must wear the same
face wherever or in whatever company he may be. Whether the body which
he inhabits is known to its neighbors as Smith or Chesterton, the
result is the same--he has lost his liberty. And what has he gained? He
has gained the ability to prove his mortal existence--the right to say
that he has been born.