know whence they are derived. We know that we are born of woman and
fathered of man. We can trace to the one or the other this feature
or that, this trait or the other, but there are yet to be accounted
for those strange whims and fancies, those impulses and ideals which
come neither from the father nor the mother, and which, in very truth,
_make_ us ourselves, make us to be different from our sisters and our
brothers, and without which all the offspring of the same parents
would be as like as so many peas in a pod. And it is these things which
convince us that we have within us another Ego, another Self which
comes to us from some unknown place, to guard and to guide us upon the
perilous path of life. We may sometimes close our ears to his counsel,
but he never suffers us to go wrong unadvised. Is it to be wondered
at, then, that we grow to feel for ourselves an affection which is not
wholly selfish, and to take in ourselves a pride which is not wholly
egotistic? I do not feel under any obligation to the man who wears my
face and bears my name; he has made me ridiculous too often for that.
But I do feel a duty to that other _Me_, the _Me_ that is not wholly of
my own choosing. And so, I am convinced, do most men.
As I was saying, or about to say, the keenest shame we ever feel is
the shame we feel for ourselves. Shame for others may be tempered with
forgiveness, but it is very difficult to forgive one’s self. There is
no question there of giving the accused the benefit of the doubt.
There is no doubt. I feel a certain shame for the young man that I
once was because I naturally feel a tenderness for him. I can forgive
him much more readily than I could forgive myself as I am to-day. Yet
I would not, if I could, change places with him. My taste in Selves,
as in other things, has changed as I have grown older. I blush for the
weak-mindedness of that youth who was the Me of twenty years ago; yet I
feel, in a way, relieved from the sense of direct responsibility, for
am I not, in fact, another and a different person from the man I was?
As the delightful Holmes once expressed it, that youthful self is
like a son to me. A bit of a cub, but on the whole, not at all a bad
fellow. He is related to me, but he is not me. And he _never was_
the man that I now am. He wore my body for a time, that was all. We
were never the same, for I was not born until he had ceased to be. I
am no more that young man of twenty years ago than I am that other
young man who interrupts me now--(No, I haven’t. Can’t you see I’m
busy?)--to borrow a match to set his ugly bulldog pipe alight. A vile
habit--pipe-smoking! Unsanitary and beastly annoying to those who have
better sense. That young man we were speaking of--not the one who
asked for the match, you know, but the one who had the impudence to
pass himself off for me twenty years ago--_he_ used to smoke a bulldog
pipe. I stopped it some time ago myself. Bad for the heart, the doctor
said, and--well, I’m getting on and I can see for myself the folly of
it. Decidedly, I should not like to exchange my own calm judgment for
his youthful carelessness and addiction to tobacco. Unless--well, say,
unless for twenty minutes after dinner!
I am, Sir,
OLIVER OLDFELLOW.
THE LITERARY LIFE
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: I have read a great many references, at one time or another,
to something which is known as “the literary life”. I have read of it
in novels, in essays, in criticisms and in the reports of the daily
newspapers. Everybody seems to know of it, and everybody speaks of it
as of something to be taken for granted; but though I have made an
earnest effort to discover just what it is and where and by whom it
is lived, I have been quite unable to do so. I had been a newspaper
writer for several years when I first began to take an interest in this
curiously illusive sort of existence. It was in a novel, I think, that
I had read it upon the occasion when my curiosity aroused me to action.
“There it is again,” I said to myself. “What is this literary life,
anyway? Who lives it and in what does the living of it consist? How
does one go about finding out the secret of it?”
So I set out on my quest. As all good reporters should do, I first took
stock of my possible sources of information, and having done so, I did
what reporters usually do when they wish to find out anything--I asked
the city editor.
“How the devil do I know?” said he in his unliterary way. “You’re a
reporter, ain’t you? Get busy and find out. If you get anything worth
writing, make a story of it.” That is the way with city editors; they
have no thought for anything but “stories”, no thirst for knowledge
that is not in the way of business, no soul for the higher things in
life.
With this source of information closed to me, I turned to the staff. I
knew I could learn nothing from the books where I had found the term
used. The books merely referred to “literary life” just as we say
“prison life” or “army life” and expect every one to understand what we
mean. The first man I asked about it simply laughed and said, “That’s a
good one!” The second man told me to go away and stop bothering him.
He was writing an interesting article about the price of onions. The
third man asked me if I thought I was funny. That nearly discouraged
me. I tried one or two others without success, and then I determined to
try a more subtle method of investigation.
I had failed to gather my desired information as a reporter; I would
try my hand as a detective. I took to following the members of the
staff home from the office. It was an afternoon newspaper and that
was easy to do. The result of my shadowing was that I learned much
of the habits of these men, but little of what I wanted to know. The
police reporter went from the office direct to the butcher shop. There
he made a purchase which he tucked under his arm and went home. He
stayed at home every night that I watched him. The court reporter
spent his evenings in a little saloon on a side street playing poker
with a particular friend of his who was a boilermaker. The hotel
reporter covered the same ground every evening that he had covered
during the day. He went from one hotel to another, playing pool or
billiards and shaking dice with traveling men. After about a fortnight
of investigation I gave up trying to learn anything about the literary
life from newspaper men. I looked up a few magazine writers and the
result was the same: _No two of these men lived the same life at all!_
I was astonished. I asked myself how it came about that these men had
overlooked their obvious duty of living the literary life. If literary
men knew nothing of the literary life, then who would? I resolved that
I would solve that problem if it took me a year. From the magazine
writers I went on to the novelists who seemed to have even less in
common than the two former classes had. The publishers were so widely
scattered in so many different suburbs that I had not the courage to
seek them out.
After a conscientious search which covered a period of six months or
more, I began to think that the literary life might be one of those
traditions handed down from another age; one of those things which
continue to be spoken of in books long after they cease to have any
real existence. Perhaps the authors of other days had lived the
literary life, even if the authors of my own time did not. I would see.
I began to read biography. In Johnson’s _Lives of the Poets_ I found
that:
Abraham Cowley was the son of a grocer. He showed early signs of
genius; he was expelled from Cambridge. He was, for a time, private
secretary to Lord Falkland. Afterward he spent some time in jail as a
political prisoner. Upon emerging from prison he became a doctor, and
thinking a knowledge of botany necessary to one of his profession, he
retired into the country to study that science. For some reason, he
abandoned botany for poetry and from that time on he wrote poetry. He
died peacefully of rheumatism.
Edmund Waller was the son of a country gentleman. He attended Cambridge
and was sent to Parliament before he was twenty. Rich by birth, he
added to his wealth by marrying an heiress who died young and left him
free to marry again, which he did. He lived among people of fashion
and wealth, and though he was sent into exile for a short time because
of a treasonable conspiracy in which he engaged, he was soon restored
to general favor. He died in good circumstances of old age.
Thomas Otway was the son of a rector. He left college without a
degree. He went into gay society and mingled his literary labor with
dissipation. He was, for a short time, an officer in the army. He fell
upon evil days, and when threatened with starvation, borrowed a guinea
from a total stranger. With this he bought himself a roll, but he was
so ravenous that he attempted to bolt it at one mouthful and so choked
himself to death.
Which one of these men might properly be said to have led the literary
life?
You need not be surprised to find in your paper some morning an
advertisement to this effect: “Wanted--Some definite information
concerning the character and habitat of the Literary Life.” But if you
know anything about it, don’t wait for the advertisement, but send on
your information at once. I think maybe I would be willing to try it
myself. Certainly _somebody_ ought to live it.
I am, Sir,
A. J. PENN.
THE POETIC LICENSE
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: Your recent strictures upon a certain poem by John
Masefield, and the general tenor of several other volumes of verse
recently published, have moved me to address you upon a subject which
holds considerable interest for me; and that, Sir, is the scope and
legitimacy of what is commonly called “the poetic license”. To what
does this license extend and by whom is it granted? Is there no way in
which it may be regulated by law?
This matter of the poetic license is a source of continual annoyance to
me. I find it invoked upon all occasions. I find that it is considered
a sufficient answer to any criticisms or charges that may be brought
against a poet. I am curious to know if there is any real authority
for it; if it is not, in fact, a mere figment of the imagination, a
polite fiction of letters invented by men of letters for the purpose of
confounding the layman and depriving him of his natural right to pass
an opinion upon all that he reads?
I confess I am no poet. This being so, I may be lacking in sympathy for
the art, as some of my poetic acquaintances have averred. But I protest
that a man need not be a poet to be a judge of poetry, any more than
he need be a vintner to be a judge of wines, or a cook to be a judge
of preserves. I may lack the finer ear of the poet when it comes to a
question of complicated rhythms, but I am not lacking in an elementary
knowledge of grammar, as some of our poets appear to be. I never could
see any reason why a poet’s grammatical or orthographical errors should
be condoned merely because he chooses to write in verse. We do not
condone such defects in a prose writer, why then in a poet? It may be
urged that the poet has a harder task than the prose writer; that it
is more difficult to express one’s self in verse than in prose. No
doubt it is, but is that any reason why incompetent writers should be
excused their errors? Or their laxness? Or their laziness? Why write
poetry at all if they can not write it properly? Why not choose prose
for a medium? There are men, no doubt, who find prose as difficult as
most men find poetry, but do we therefore overlook their mistakes or
their vagaries?
Sir, it appears to me that the leniency shown to verse writers in
this respect has worked a great injury to the art of poetry. It has
encouraged men to write verses, who were in no way fitted to write
verses. It has led tyros to choose poetry rather than prose because in
the former they feel more secure from the well-merited censure of their
readers. It has degraded really good poetry to the level of very poor
poetry by allowing virtue where there was none and by holding verses
full of defects to be equal in merit with verses marred by no such
violations of the common rules of grammar and orthography.
All this, Sir, was bad enough, but I was prepared to pass over it since
it is a practise inaugurated and upheld by professional critics who
will allow us laymen no word at all in the matter. But, Sir, when these
poets attempt to extend their poetic license to clothing, to manners
and to morals, I think they go too far.
Not long since, I ventured some remarks, not altogether complimentary,
upon the personal appearance of a certain poet, or poetaster, as I
prefer to call him, in the presence of a literary woman. “Oh, yes,”
she replied. “There’s no denying it--he _is_ a sloven. But really
one of his spirituality could hardly be expected to be finicky about
his clothing and that sort of thing.” Upon another occasion, I spoke
harshly with regard to the manners of a well-known versifier, and I was
rebuked for my hasty judgment with the assurance that the oddity of
his conduct ought not to be ascribed to boorishness or rudeness, but
to his poetic temperament. And, Sir, only yesterday, when I condemned
the unbridled license and immorality of a recent book of poetry, I was
informed that a poet could not be expected to view a moral question
from the same angle as an ordinary uninspired mortal.
Sir, if these scribblers of verse are to be allowed any license, why
should they not qualify for it as do pedlers, saloon-keepers and the
like? Why not require them to prove their fitness for the business
of writing poetry? Let them secure their license from the civil
authorities, and let those licenses be revoked at the first indication
of abuse of privilege.
As affairs now stand, any one who chances to possess a pen, a windsor
tie and a wide-awake hat can pass himself off for a poet and can claim
indulgence for his bad verse, bad manners and bad morals upon the
plea of poetic temperament. Therefore, to insure the public against
such imposture, I suggest that every poet be compelled, like every
chauffeur, to wear his license in a conspicuous place, and that if he
fail to comply with this requirement, he be immediately impounded.
This arrangement, I think, would operate as an effective check upon the
too exuberant poetic temperament, and would also be an excellent thing
for the public, for, Sir, if every poet were required, like every dog,
to wear his license attached to a collar, the pound would soon be full
of poets.
I am, Sir,
P. ROSE.
THE NECESSITY FOR BEGGARS
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: It is with alarm that I observe the increasing activity
of our charitable organizations and the consequent disappearance
of beggars from our city streets. I, who was formerly constantly
importuned for alms whenever I stirred abroad, have not now been
approached by one of those needy tatterdemalions for a period of six
months or more. This fact has, for me, a deep significance. It means
nothing less than that the ancient fraternity of street beggars is
rapidly dying out. Surely you must have noticed that yourself. Where
are the old blue-spectacled men one used to see standing upon the
corners, bearing the once-familiar placard, “I am Blind”? Where are the
legless men who used to wring discords from little squatty hand-organs?
Where are the street-singers, the match venders, the orphans, the lost
children, the paralytics? Where, even, is the Italian organ-grinder
with his begging monkey? These charitable organizations, Sir, have
spirited them away, and now instead of being approached by the beggars
themselves, we are visited by the agents of the societies.
Now, Sir, my regret at the passing of the beggar is not altogether
sentimental, like Charles Lamb’s complaint in _The Decay of Beggars in
the Metropolis_. There may be a certain amount of sentiment in it, for
certainly in the loss of beggars we not only lose a picturesque class
of people, but we also suffer a spiritual loss. The spiritual glow
which came of personal giving is entirely, or almost entirely, absent
in making checks for these beggars by proxy. But, Sir, I am a practical
man and I can plainly see that the beggar, so far from being a mere
nuisance and eyesore, as charity-workers would have you believe, is a
very useful and necessary member of the social order.
Beggars, Mr. _Idler_, are the natural scavengers of the human race.
They live upon the scraps we throw from our tables; they dress in our
cast-off garments. In short, Sir, they make to serve a useful purpose,
that which would otherwise be sheer waste. These humble people are
the economists of humanity. They save what we squander. Every time
one of them goes without a meal, there is that much more food left in
the world for the rest of us. James Howell wrote of the Spaniard in
1623, “He hath another commendable quality, that when he giveth alms
he pulls off his hat and puts it in the beggar’s hand with a great
deal of humility.” Let us say, rather, with a great deal of respect
and gratitude. Truly the Spanish grandee had reason to be grateful and
respectful to the beggar who made possible his own magnificence.
Now, Sir, what are these charitable organizations trying to do? I
will tell you--they are trying to teach the beggar that he wants the
comforts of life. They are trying to teach him to desire good clothes
and good food. They are trying to awaken in him that selfish desire to
appear better than his fellows, which we call “self-respect”. _They are
even trying to teach him to work!_ What folly!
“But,” you say, “it would be an excellent thing if all of these
vagabonds could be induced to work, for heretofore they have been
mere idlers and parasites.” To which I answer, “You are wrong, it
would _not_ be a good thing.” Is it not perfectly clear that, once
these beggars become workers, they will immediately demand the means
to enable them to maintain a higher standard of living? Which do you
think costs you the more, the beggar who begs perhaps a dollar a week,
which he has not earned, or the bricklayer who charges you six dollars
a day, of which he has earned only a part? It has been some years now
since the notorious Coxey led his army of unemployed to Washington,
and since that time the number of unemployed workers has been steadily
increasing. Do you think, then, that we need more laborers? Have we
so much wealth that we must force it on those who were content to be
without it?
Why, Sir, I tell you this corruption of beggars should be put down with
a firm hand. These charitable organizations should be legislated out of
existence before they do an irreparable mischief.
I am, Sir,
HENRY HARDHEAD.
THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY
_To the Editor of The Idler._
DEAR SIR: In the course of a long and not uneventful life, I have, upon
more than one occasion, looked upon adversity in its various forms,
and I have, therefore, given the subject some attention, both in the
light of my own experience and in the light of the opinions of others.
I have heard a great deal of the “uses of adversity”; that adversity is
like a great training-school for character which brings out whatever
strength and resolution there may be in a man, and much talk of a like
character. But I must confess that I have not often seen adversity, nor
its lessons, put to any good use whatever, while I have often seen it
abused most shamefully.
So far from learning useful lessons from ill-fortune, it seems to
me that most men are inclined to turn misfortune to the basest of
uses, making it serve as an excuse for shirking, for moral lapses,
for dishonesty and for an utter lack of charity toward others. I find
that many people boast of their misfortunes as if they were actually
entitled to some credit because they have befallen them, wearing woe
like a feather in the cap and holding themselves somewhat better than
their fellows because they appear to have excited the wrath of the
Goddess of Fortune. It is as if they said: “See, we are the Unfortunate
Ones who are of sufficient importance to be singled out from among
men to receive Sorrows which you are unfit to bear. Look upon our
afflictions and reflect upon the happiness of your own lot, and do
not forget to do us honor for the fortitude with which we bear our
miseries.”
I count among my friends and acquaintances a number of these habitual
boasters of misfortune, who are always ready, day or night, to relate
their trials and tribulations with a conscious air of distinction and
superiority.
There is an old fellow of my acquaintance who suffers, or so he
declares, the torments of the damned, by reason of his gout, a disease
which has held him in its grip for the last twenty years. There is no
manner of doubt that he has himself to blame for this painful malady,
which is, without question, the result of his injudicious and riotous
manner of life in his youth. Yet this old man is as proud of his
infirmity as many another man is of physical soundness, and he relates
his pangs and twinges with the greatest relish in the world. Nor does
the fact that he has suffered from the disease for nearly a quarter of
a century have any effect upon the eagerness with which he always turns
the conversation upon his favorite topic. Despite the fact that he has
told and retold his pains and symptoms ten thousand times, the subject
never seems to lose its novelty for him, and to-day he discusses his
infirmity with as much gusto as he did when I first met him ten years
or more ago. It makes no difference what may be the subject of the
company’s discourse, this man can not bear to go twenty minutes without
intruding the matter of his lame foot.
Politics, business, history, music, literature, art or the drama--all
these are but verbal stepping-stones to his one supreme subject. Does
some one speak of Napoleon at the foot of the great Pyramids, the mere
mention of the word “foot” is enough to set him discoursing of the
inflammation in his great toe. Does some one call attention to the
flaming crimson of the sunset, he swears that it is not so red as his
own instep. He never enters a conversation, in short, but to put his
foot in it, and so persistently does he dwell upon this malformed pedal
extremity as to render him fit company for none but chiropodists. He
has no interest in life but his gout, and he is forever talking of the
pain it causes him, though I dare say it has never caused him a tenth
part of the misery that it has caused his friends and acquaintances.
Another person whom I have the misfortune to know is a widow lady
of some nine years’ standing, who has never put off her weeds and
who never tires of bewailing the loss of the dear departed. The bare
mention of death is a sufficient warrant for a flood of tears, and
the sight of a hearse sends her into hysterics which abate only
at the prospect of a sympathetic audience for the old story of her
bereavement. She goes about the neighborhood casting the shadow of
death upon all our innocent pleasures and brings with her into our
happy homes the gloom of the mortuary chamber. Her long-continued
mourning and complaint are the less deserving of patience and
sympathy when we reflect that her husband was already past the age
of seventy-five when he died, so that nobody but the most infatuated
mourner could speak, as she does, of his having been “cut off in his
prime.” One would think, to hear her speak of him, that other men
were in the habit of living to the age of Methuselah and that no
other woman in the world had cause to mourn her spouse. For my part,
I think the old man had small reason to complain of premature demise,
and I know that were I her husband I would ask nothing better. To
cast the slightest suspicion upon the genuineness of her grief or the
sufficiency of the cause thereof would be to lay one’s self open to a
tongue which can be most bitter when it chooses; so I fear we shall
have to bear her complaints and her mourning until she dissolves in
tears like Niobe, or until Death gives ear to her publicly expressed
desire to join her mate beyond the grave.