and I lost my opportunity. I refused one or two offers of marriage
that came to me in the first flush of my womanhood--and I have never
since received another! The young men of our town had always married
our home girls. With the exception of a few prodigals who left home
to see the world and who never returned, some going to jail and some
to congress, none of our young men sought their wives among strangers.
They were well content with what they found at home. How, then, could I
anticipate a sudden exodus of eligible young men? An exodus, I say! For
an exodus it was, and an exodus it has continued, year by year, ever
since that fatal day when Willie Titheridge Talbott went over to Ithaca
and married Minna Meyerbeer who won the Tompkins County beauty contest!
No sooner do our young men arrive at that age when they can don a
fuzzy hat and coax a mustache without exciting the ridicule of their
little brothers, than they shake the dust of this town from their
feet and set out to find a wife among those vampire beauties whose
portraits decorate the pages of our Sunday papers. As for our girls,
they are left as I was, to choose between frank spinsterhood at home,
or to follow the young men out into the world, there to become chorus
girls, manicures, stenographers--or to engage in some other similar
profession which exerts such a glamour and fascination over the men as
to make up for their lack of classical beauty.
And who, Sir, is to blame for this lamentable state of affairs? The
beauties? No, not altogether, for if they were not so exploited by the
newspapers, our young men would never suspect that they existed. For,
Sir, even if he were to meet her face to face, the ordinary young man
is so lacking in sentiment, so matter-of-fact, that he would never
suspect one of those beauties of being anything extraordinary if her
beauty were not vouched for by some newspaper. The young man who has
not been corrupted in this way, and who has not had fostered in him by
these newspapers the silly notion that he is a knight errant searching
the world for beauty in distress, is a docile creature, easily captured
and easily managed. He treats matrimony as he treats his meals, he
takes what is set before him and afterward grumbles as a matter of
course, but deep down in his heart he is very well satisfied. It is the
editors, Sir, who have caused all of the trouble; the editors with
their silly beauty contests and their simpering half-tone, half-world
women of the stage flaunting their coquettish graces and flirting with
our young men from the pages of the Sunday papers.
Now, Sir, I hope that you will not dismiss this letter as a matter of
no consequence and the peevish complaint of a disappointed spinster,
for I assure you the roots of this evil go deeper than appears at first
glance. Our magazines are asking, “Why do young men leave the farm?”
Our sociologists are asking why are our villages becoming depopulated?
Superficial observers often reply that the young men go to the city
for the sake of money-making. But I, Sir, know better. The young men
are leaving the farms and the villages to hunt for wives because the
newspapers, with their photographs, have made them dissatisfied with
what they find at home. And now that you know the cause of it, Mr.
_Idler_, is there no hope that you may devise some way to put a stop to
it?
I am, Sir,
SARAH SHELFWORN.
FROM ANNA PEST
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: Doubtless you are familiar with some of the newer schools
of poetry, as for instance, that one which has abandoned rhyme for
assonance, which has led an ignorant and prejudiced critic to say of it
that its poetry may be rich in assonance, but that he finds in it more
of asininity. Such is the treatment accorded all independent artists by
the hidebound adherents of outworn ideals!
Now, Mr. _Idler_, nobody is more convinced than I am that we need new
forms of poetry. I have been writing poems for a number of years and
I feel that I speak with authority when I say that the old classical
forms are entirely inadequate for modern poetic expression. I have
tried them all and I have found them all wanting, for though I have
written poems in the form of sonnets, lyrics, triolets, quatrains,
couplets, rondels--and even in blank verse--I was never able to produce
a decent poem in any of them. I therefore conclude that what every
modern poet needs is to shake off the shackles of poetic convention
and follow a form suited to his nature. I have been greatly encouraged
by the introduction of the _vers libre_ in France and I am heartily
in accord with the aims of those pioneers of the new poetry who are
laboring to educate the public taste to modern ideals, but I fear that
in one or two instances they have overshot the mark.
Much as I admire the courage of Monsieur Alexandre Mercereau, who has,
with splendid audacity, forsaken verse altogether and determined to
write all of his poetry in prose, I do not believe it advisable to
attempt to accomplish the poetic revolution at one step. I am more in
sympathy with those who have abandoned rhyme, but retained rhythm.
For my own part, I have invented a form which I think better than
either. I believe that this form is as superior to the sonnet as the
sonnet is to the limerick. I call this form the _duocapet_ because
it is, in a sense, double-headed, having two rhyming words in every
line--one at each end. I have discarded rhythm but retained rhyme. I
had good reasons for adopting this course. I regard meter as a useless
encumbrance. It is meter, not rhyme, which hampers the true poet. The
poet should be free--free as the air--free as the birds. It is a crime
against art to bind him with silly meaningless meters and rhythms
which distract his attention from his theme and serve only to furnish
critics with an excuse for picking flaws. I hope that the happy day
will soon arrive when laymen will leave to the poets the settling of
all questions of form, but in the present state of public ignorance and
prejudice I think it advisable to concede them something in order that
they may realize that we are writing poetry. Later, when the public is
sufficiently educated to recognize poetry without any of its ancient
ear-marks, I may discard rhyme also.
For the present I think the _duocapet_ is the most logical and
artistic of existing forms. Writing in the _duocapet_, the poet has
only one rule to observe--that the first word of every line shall rhyme
with the last. I have, in fact, reduced the couplet to a single line,
making the two rhyming words come one at each end of that line, where
they logically belong, one opening and one closing the line, instead
of placing them one under the other in the manner of Pope. Standing
in this position they may be likened to two sentries that guard the
thought of the poet. It is as if the rhyme at the first end of the
line called out, “Who goes there?” and the other responds, “A friend!”
In the _duocapet_ the poet may make his lines short or long as best
pleases him without regard for the length of lines that go before or
that follow.
This poetry is produced as all true poetry should be produced, a line
at a time. No whole can be perfect which is defective in any part.
In the _duocapet_ every line is a perfect poem, complete in itself,
every line contains a distinct thought, and though the sentence may
sometimes extend from one line to another, this is never necessary and
rests with the discretion of the poet. Should he choose, he might write
a whole poem consisting of nothing but complete sentences, a sentence a
line, with a period at the end of each. The poem can be made ten lines
in length or ten thousand, and asterisks and italics can be introduced
at will. With the exception of the rhyme, the poet is as free in this
form as in any form of _vers libre_. I append an example of _duocapet_
which should give you a good idea of the possibilities of this form:
MIDNIGHT
Gone is the day and I look out upon
Night bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...
Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;
Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...
_See! Underneath that weeping-willow tree
Prone lies a figure on a bench alone!_
Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?
Is there no home he can call his?
Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...
Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,
Chill with the bitter winds that fill
All of the Park from wall to wall.
Slinks then away in search of drinks.
Soon he will be in a saloon.
Still as I lean upon the sill
And see the sky on every hand
Sprinkled with those same stars that twinkled
Bright on that blessed Christmas night
When angels sang good-will to men ...
Sore is my heart unto the core!
Sick is my soul unto the quick!
Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!
I hope that you will publish this poem and letter in the interest of
Poetic Art, and in order that the world may know that we poets of
America are almost, if not quite, as progressive as those of France.
I am, Sir,
ANNA PEST.
FROM SETH SHIRTLESS
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: I am the victim of a most peculiar affliction. I am
suffering from what appears to be a sort of disease and which can not
be classified. As I am not able to find the true explanation of this
matter myself and as physicians seem to be equally at a loss in regard
to it, I have decided to appeal to the public at large in the hope that
some one who reads my communication will be able to suggest a cure or
at least some method of alleviation.
There is an old saying, Mr. _Idler_, borrowed from some author, if I
mistake not, that “the apparel oft proclaims the man.” This I consider
a true saying aptly put; but I believe, Sir, that apparel sometimes
does more than proclaim the man--that it sometimes actually _makes_
the man. It is well known that men are often affected by the clothes
they wear. Good clothing has a tendency to inspire confidence in the
breast of the wearer, while poor clothing robs a man of his assurance,
if not of his self-respect. That all men are more or less subject to
the influence of their garments, there can be no doubt, but I, Sir,
am peculiarly susceptible to it. It has been so all my life. Even in
childhood I became supercilious and insolent with pride when clad in
my best, and most envious and depressed the moment I had changed to my
every-day wear.
Since I have come to manhood, I have felt this weakness growing upon me
despite my most earnest efforts to resist it, until now, Mr. _Idler_,
my character and my wardrobe are so inextricably mixed together that
I may be said to change my nature with my clothing. When I am richly
dressed I _feel_ rich, and my thoughts and sentiments are those of a
wealthy person. At such times I am a firm believer in all measures
for the protection of property and vested rights. I am a hearty
adherent of the established order and I am distinctly suspicious of all
so-called reforms and innovations in governmental machinery. When,
on the other hand, I am dressed shabbily, my views and my feelings
undergo a complete change. I am no longer a believer in the sacredness
of property rights. Indeed, I look upon all rich men as so many
robbers who have seized upon the land and the natural resources which
should, of right, be the common property of all mankind. I feel that
I have been defrauded of everything they have which I have not. Their
insolence vexes me and their display drives me into a very fury of
rage which is partly inspired by just indignation and partly by simple
envy. At these times I am fiercely radical in politics. No measure of
reform can be too revolutionary for my taste. My dearest wish is that
the whole social fabric may be rent to shreds and rewoven in a pattern
after my democratic heart.
To such extremes of sentiment do my clothes carry me. When I am
fashionably clad a Socialistic pamphlet irritates me as a red rag
enrages a bull. But when I am poorly dressed and shod, _I write such
pamphlets_. Write them, and, Sir, incredible as it may seem, leave
them lying about my quarters for the very purpose of irritating
myself, and well knowing that when my eyes light on them while in my
conservative frame of mind I shall fall upon them and tear them to
tatters. I, Sir, am as a house divided against itself--I am a man at
war with his own soul!
You have heard, I doubt not, of the celebrated case of Doctor Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde, and of other instances of double personality, where men,
by reason of contending spirits within them, have been forced to lead
double lives. I do not hesitate to say that such are blessed when their
lot is compared to my own unhappy state, for I lead, not a double,
but a _treble_ existence. In addition to these two personalities,
which I term for want of a better nomenclature my Aristocratic and my
Proletarian selves, I am also possessed of a Normal self which is in
evidence only when I am completely disrobed.
Can you fancy, Sir, what this means to me? Can you imagine in what
straits a man must be who can think clearly and logically only
when he is naked, and who, before he can decide upon any matter of
importance, must hurry home and throw off his clothes lest he be led
astray by rabid prejudice or blind enthusiasm? That, Sir, is precisely
my situation. When I awake in the morning I am compelled to make a
choice between my two antagonistic personalities. My wardrobe stares
me in the face as if asking the eternal question, “Which is it to be
to-day--Aristocrat or Proletariat?” Always, upon falling asleep at
night, I am haunted by the specter of the ordeal which awaits me in the
morning.
In addition to this, my Aristocratic and my Proletarian selves have
recently conceived a violent dislike for each other and they have begun
to vent their spite in many petty ways, much to the disgust of my
Normal self who has small use for either of them. For example, about a
fortnight ago, my Proletarian self indulged himself freely in gin, a
drink which is loathsome to my Aristocratic self. He stayed in this
condition for a matter of four days and upon his return to my--perhaps
I should say _our_ chambers, he wantonly destroyed a new top hat which
my Aristocratic self had carelessly left lying upon the hall table. By
way of retaliation, my Aristocratic self seized some overalls belonging
to my Proletarian self and flung them into the ash-barrel. Altogether,
they behave, Sir, in a fashion to make me thoroughly ashamed of them
both.
Possibly you are wondering how it comes that I am in the habit of
changing my clothing so frequently and varying the quality of my
dress in this way. I may as well tell you that for many years I was a
professional politician, much in demand as an orator, and that I was
called to speak before audiences of widely different character, so that
I sometimes found it expedient to dress in evening clothes and at other
times it was necessary for me to appear a workingman. My constantly
changing political convictions made it impossible for me to continue
in this work, but by the time I gave it up I had come to know these
two personalities so well that I was unwilling to trust myself for long
in the hands of either of them. I have thought of purchasing a decent
outfit of ready-to-wear clothing, but I realize that the result of such
a step would be to render me hopelessly middle-class, a condition I
have hitherto escaped. I have no desire to add a fourth personality to
those I already possess.
I have consulted my tailor without good result, and the best that my
physician has been able to do for me was to suggest a period of rest
in the country. I am now very comfortably lodged in a quiet house in
the suburbs, where I came upon the advice of my doctor and two of his
colleagues with whom I discussed my trouble.
I am very well content here for a man who is virtually a prisoner. Not
that I am confined by force, Sir, but I have determined never to put on
another suit of clothes until I have solved the problem which confronts
me, and I can not leave my room without dressing; the landlord of this
place objects to my doing so. Here, then, I expect to remain until I
hit upon some solution of my difficulty or until some other person is
good enough to suggest a way out of my dilemma. I am, Sir,
SETH SHIRTLESS.
SARTOR-PSYCHOLOGY
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: I am a social worker, and it is in this capacity that
I address you upon a subject which appears to me to be of vital
importance to all classes of society. I have, Sir, hit upon a plan
which will, if generally adopted, work the greatest reform that has
ever been effected, and which will, I am convinced, completely do away
with the necessity for long-term sentences to imprisonment. In simple
honesty I must admit that this idea is not entirely my own. It was
suggested to me by the extraordinary and very interesting communication
from Mr. Seth Shirtless which appeared in your January issue.
The influence of clothing upon character has long been recognized,
but I do not remember ever to have heard of another case so well
illustrating that influence as the case of Mr. Shirtless. His story of
his experiences was profoundly interesting from a psychological point
of view, and while reading it I conceived the plan of which I spoke
just now. It occurred to me that the influence of dress might be of
great use in reforming men of evil habit and temperament. It is well
known to all social workers that many criminals cherish a spirit of
bitter animosity toward society at large, and that not a few habitual
criminals have embarked upon a career of crime urged on by the mistaken
belief that the hand of every man was against them. Having once plunged
into evil ways, these misguided creatures come to be more and more of
the opinion that they are not as other men; that they have lost for all
time to come any hope of being treated with respect and that they must
live and die outside the pale of respectability.
It must be confessed that the treatment now accorded them, both in jail
and after their release, lends some color of truth to this conviction.
To win these men back to a useful way of life it is only necessary to
show them that they are wrong; that a temporary fall from grace does
not involve an eternal and perpetual atonement. They must be made to
feel that they are still members of the Brotherhood of Man and that
they may again become members in good standing. Once they are convinced
of this, they will certainly mend their ways and gladly conform to
right standards of living. Society is coming to realize, as it never
did before, that the true purpose of imprisonment is to reform, and not
to punish; that our criminals and law-breakers are susceptible to the
same methods as our children, and that our proceedings against them
should be corrective, rather than retaliatory. These men are sick, sick
in mind if not in body, and it is the duty of the state to reclaim them.
In consequence of this awakening to the real purpose of imprisonment,
many of our prisons have given up the hideous practise of dressing
convicts in the degrading and brutalizing uniforms which were formerly
so common as to be almost universal in penal institutions. Men have
pretty generally come to see that the use of the striped zebra-like
suit for prisoners was a mistake; an added infamy which served no good
purpose, but only deepened the convict’s sense of shame and resentment.
But though the old garb for prisoners is rapidly becoming obsolete,
all reform of this character has, so far, been negative in its nature.
The method which I propose is positive. Why should we be content with
relieving the convicts of their shameful uniforms? Why not go a step
further and institute a constructive reform in their dress? Why not
array them in such a fashion that their self-respect must be reawakened
and their sense of responsibility quickened into life? Why not bring
to bear upon their characters the influence of clean linen and a
respectable wardrobe?
What I propose, Mr. _Idler_, is just this: Let every convict and
prisoner be clad in clothing suitable for a substantial citizen and
a respected member of the community. Let every inmate of our prisons
and penitentiaries be supplied each week with a liberal allowance of
clean linen and underwear. Let every man of them be furnished with a
decent wardrobe; say, two or three business suits of good quality and
correct cut, a walking-coat or frock for afternoon wear, evening dress,
a silk hat and a dinner coat. We already provide for them good books to
elevate their minds; let us now give them such attire as will increase
their respect for their persons.
Now, there is no denying that a well-dressed man makes a better
impression upon strangers than a sloven; and if this is true of
strangers, what shall we say of the effect upon the man himself? While
few of us are so strongly affected as Mr. Shirtless, yet we are all
of us, I think, affected in some degree. A pleasing image in a mirror
increases our self-respect, but when we see ourselves unkempt and
ill-clad we are ashamed. When we have made our prisoners presentable,
I believe we should give them the satisfaction of seeing how much they
are improved, and I therefore suggest that a mirror be placed in each
cell where the inmate can see himself at full length. Thus, if in spite
of his new outfit he occasionally feels a disposition to backslide, he
has only to glance into the glass to be restored to respectability. In
this way he can be led to see the possibilities within him. Let a man
look into a looking-glass and see there a reflection which might well
be that of a statesman, and his subconsciousness will at once inquire
_why not_? The inspiring sight will reawaken his ambition.
Though it will be a great step forward to dress these convicts
like decent citizens, yet this is hardly enough. There must be a
corresponding reform in their occupations and employments. There is
certainly something incongruous in the thought of a man clad in a
frock coat and silk hat breaking stones with a hammer. Such a thing
must appear bizarre even to the dullest of these unfortunates. To keep
them at such labor would seem as if we were making sport of them. It
will therefore be advisable to devise for each inmate of our prisons
some employment which will be in keeping with his clothes and, at the
same time, congenial and respectable. Here is a man, let us say, who
has been convicted of larceny. We will make a promoter of him. Here
is another who has been sentenced for gambling. He would make a good
broker. A third, who has been an anarchist, will make a good magazine
editor. A fourth, confined for highway robbery, can be transformed into
a hotel proprietor. And so on down the list.
Of course it will be necessary to release some of them upon parole when
the time comes for them to begin the practise of their professions,
but by the time they have mastered the details of their new callings
this will probably be safe enough. If a carpenter has been sent to
prison for burglary, it is not reasonable to keep him employed at the
same trade while in confinement, for then he is released knowing no
more--and no better off--than he was when incarcerated. Perhaps it was
carpentry which drove him to crime. No, Mr. _Idler_, we should elevate
him.
As for those who are merely dissolute and idle, we will make gentlemen
of them. We will dress them in the latest fashion and establish for
them a club where they may follow their natural bent and continue in
their usual habits, only now with the sanction of society.
If the system I have outlined should be adopted in all of our prisons,
Sir, I see no reason why our convicts should not soon be a credit to
the community.
I am, Sir,
AL. TRUIST.
MR. BODY PROTESTS
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: It is with a feeling of dismay--nay, I may even say
terror--that I read in my morning paper the statement that during
last year there were made and sold in the United States no less than
8,644,537,090 cigarettes! Nearly nine billion of these devil’s torches,
or almost one hundred of them for every man, woman and child throughout
the country. And not only that, but an increase of 150,000,000 cigars
and 15,000,000 pounds of manufactured tobacco over the production of
the preceding year.