SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SOUL EASEMENT AND WISDOM
INCIDENTALLY.
The Sons of Melchizedek are a most peculiar people.
So far as I know the Society for Psychic Research has not yet taken up
the subject of these men who are without beginning of days or end of
time. Yet surely it is a most vital theme. These beings who were never
born and cannot die form a tribe that obeys no natural edict—they are a
law unto themselves. They appear and disappear, like Clangingharp, to
reappear again. Like vagrant comets, their orbit cannot be determined.
They are visible only under peculiar and extraordinary conditions. They
materialize at will and disappear without explanation. After a lecture I
have seen one of them rush forward and greet the speaker with a glow that
must have gladdened the orator’s heart for months. In fact, your son of
Melchizedek is an orator himself and therefore knows the orator’s need
for a fervent word of appreciation after his “effort.”
Once at a Methodist love feast, when there was a lull in the program and
the minister asked “And is there not just one more who is willing to
add a word of testimony?” I felt a slight cold feeling go over me and
knew at once that the Unknown was rising to his feet behind. I heard him
clear his throat and begin with “My friends, I have been thinking while
sitting here,” in a low, musical voice—a voice all a-tremble with fervor.
He spoke for fully fifteen minutes—spoke with ease, and to the point. At
first there was a craning of necks and whispered questions as to who he
was; but this was soon lost in admiration. After the service he shook
hands with many, then disappeared, none knew where.
This mysterious being often helps to carry in the piano, and in crowded
street cars he has been known to supply the necessary nickle when ladies
could not find their pockets. When old gentlemen fall in a fit on the
street, he is on hand. Should a woman faint in church, he gently carries
her out. He opens the windows in cars, and looks after the ventilator at
all times, and at barbecues and outdoor public meetings he calls up the
stranger to the feast, introducing shy countrymen to others still more
shy, thus thawing the social ice and making all secure.
When church debts are to be raised he sometimes arises in his seat and
subscribes a large amount. At mass meetings where volunteers are called
for to pass the hat he always responds. He greets you cordially on the
railway train, shaking hands as he passes; asks after the wife and babies
and shames you into smirking idiocy because you cannot call him by name,
and as he departs he waves his hand and charges you thus: “Take care
yourself, old man!”
He is always large, usually stout, and the true type has a dun colored
chin whisker. At least he should have.
He carries a glow of good nature that warms like wine; he is never cast
down, nor is his heart dismayed. At country funerals he often appears,
consoles the friends, takes care of the flowers, and arranges the chairs
in a column circle against the wall. At the churchyard he walks with
uncovered head by the side of the clergyman, fetches the reins from the
nearest team to lower the coffin, and handles the shovel with an unction
that savors of joy.
Surely, the Sons of Melchizedek, although not Philistines, are Peculiar
Persons.
* * * * *
SHE—“Don’t you think him rather thick-headed?”
HE—(Who has lately been presented with a book of Familiar Quotations)
“Yes, indeed: his head is as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.”
* * * * *
The most biting bit of irony that passes as a current coin is that
reference to Boston as a city of culture—or it would be, were it not for
the insight shown in _Paragraphs_.
* * * * *
There were two Ballestiers. The good one, beloved of the gods (and men),
died young; but the one that resides near Brattleboro will probably
live to be a hundred. Rudyard benefitted the man and as a sure result
got his enmity. He is just literary enough in his instincts to read his
brother-in-law’s books for gibes and jeers at himself. He imagines that
every villain in the Kipling books is a black attempt to paint a Beatty
Ballestier portrait: not knowing that an author (like Diety) creates
in his own image. So the Ballestier reads and rages and cuts hickory
clubs and lies in wait for Mowgli, who dares not venture out of sight of
the bungalow except after dark. Has Rudyard Kipling written the best he
ever will? is a question that the bad Ballestier proposes to answer by
sending the soul of Kipling to join that of Tomlinson. Some folks are
saying “Good hunting to you, Kaa Ballestier,” but Kipling in the meantime
has had the rogue elephant put under bonds to keep the peace, this as
preliminary to the killing, should the rogue continue to fool around the
’rickshaw.
* * * * *
In the story of “Kate Carnegie,” now running in _The Bookman_, Ian
Maclaren uses the exclamation “Dod!” about three times to a page. This is
understood to be a little advertising scheme suggested by Mr. MacArthur.
Your Scot is a very thrifty person.
* * * * *
Mr. Percival Pollard who fights in the Commissariat, and once received
a red badge, by being bumbasted with a pie (although he swears ’twas
a tart) is uttering rank heresy in the _New York Journal_ concerning
Stephen Crane. The statement is made that Crane is only a producer
of “Bloomingdale symbolistic hash.” But now behold Mr. Pollard has
discovered Nankivell “King of Colorists and Past Master of all living
Draughtsmen”—bless my soul! when up pops a writer in the _Art Amateur_
and declares that the only fit man to illustrate The _Black Riders_ is
this same Nankivell.
* * * * *
They do say that ’Enery James has resolved to write a novel with an
incident. Gosh!
* * * * *
Is it true that a folio periodical issued in Philadelphia is to have a
serial story entitled, “People Who Have Bored Me,” and that the first
chapters will be written by Mr. Howells, with comments on Scott, Dickens,
Thackeray, Dumas, Shakespeare, Moses, Phidias, the critics of the daily
papers and Henry Clay?
* * * * *
“Algernon wondered vaguely if he had done right in leaving the
handkerchief where she had dropped it, on the center table. If only it
had been the arm chair, now, what a different complexion it would have
put upon this dilemma—if it was a dilemma—no, hardly a dilemma, rather
a quandary, or even a question. And she—did she, too, brood upon the
handkerchief? Did she justify herself in dropping it, in the way she did?
He arose, wearily. ‘I dunno,’ he said, defiantly, yet hopelessly, and sat
down.”—_Advance sheets from H. James._
* * * * *
That the Stage has fallen into a very bad way none dispute, and under
present conditions I cannot do better than to commend this ordinance,
passed in London in 1642, to the earnest consideration of His Honor, the
Mayor, and the Honorable Common Council of the City of New York:
Whereas the Acts of Stage-Plays, Interludes and Common Plays,
Condemned by Ancient Heathens, and much less to be tolerated
amongst Professors of the Christian Religion, is the occasion
of many and sundry great vices and disorders, tending to the
high provocation of God’s wrath and displeasure, and to the
disturbance of the peace:
Therefore, for the better suppression of the said Stage-Plays,
Interludes, and Common Plays, It is Ordered and Ordained by the
Lords and Commons in this present Parliament Assembled, and by
Authority of the same, That all Stage-Players, and Players of
Interludes, and common Plays, are hereby declared to be Rogues,
and punishable, within the Statutes of the thirty-ninth year
of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth, and the seventh year of the
Reign of King James, and liable unto the pains and penalties
therein contained, and proscribed against according to the said
Statutes.
And it is further Ordered and Ordained by the Authority
aforesaid, That the Lord Mayor, Justices of the peace, and
Sheriffs of the City of London and Westminster, and of the
Counties of Middlesex and Surrey, or any two or more of them,
shall, and may, and are hereby, Authorized and required to
pull down and demolish, or cause or procure to be pulled down
and demolished all Stage Galleries, Seats, and Boxes, erected
or used, or which shall be erected and used for the acting
or playing, or seeing acted or played, such Stage-Plays,
Interludes, and Plays aforesaid, within the said City of London
and Libertis thereof, and other places within their respective
jurisdictions; and all such common Players, and Actors of such
Plays and Interludes, or any one of them, or by Oath of two
Witnesses shall be proved before them to have acted or played
such Plays and Interludes as aforesaid at any time thereafter,
by their Warrant or Warrants under their hands and seals, to
cause to be apprehended, and openly and publicly given forty
lashes on the bare back, during the time of the said Market,
and also to cause such Offenders to enter into Recognizance
with two sufficient Sureties never to act or play any Plays or
Interludes any more, and shall return in the said Recognizance,
or Recognizances, into the Sizes or Sessions to be then next
holden for the said Counties and Cities respectively. And
in case any such person or persons so convicted of the said
offense, shall after again offend in the same kind, that then
the said person or persons offending, shall be and is hereby
declared to be, and be taken as an Incorrigible Rogue, and
shall be punished and dealt with as an Incorrigible Rogue ought
to be. And it is hereby further Ordered and Ordained, That all
and every sum and sums of Money gathered, Collected, and taken
by any person or persons, of such persons as shall come to see,
and be Spectators of the said Stage-Plays, and Interludes,
shall be forfeited and paid unto the Church-Wardens of the
Church of the Parish.
* * * * *
The _presciences_ of the Seventeenth Century often held morning
_conversazioni_, receiving their callers in bed. Like cyclones, fashions
have a spiral movement; and now the good old custom of the _presciences_
has returned, and like the cyclone, manifests itself in the West: a
Chicago woman giving a weekly “Thursday Morning.” The bed on which the
hostess languishes is a Louis the Fourteen Times—a gigantic four poster,
with curtains partially drawn. When each caller is announced a thin
blue-veined hand is held out from behind the curtains, and visions of a
snowy lace-trimmed, Marchale Field night gown swim before his eyes as the
thin hand is reverently kissed. The room is dimly lighted, the air is
heavy with strange mysterious perfumes and all the conversation is held
in undertone. It may not be amiss to state also that the coverlet of the
bed is a very modern crazy quilt that has been duly certified to by a
commission de lunatico enquirendo.
* * * * *
Certainly the people of Boston are a generous folk: in their walk and
conversation they even add an R to “banana,” and spell “law” with four
letters when three suffice—for hoi polloi.
* * * * *
The pink tea for Authors was a pretty failure. A Fictionist standing
behind a teacup with a pink tidy on his chest and pink bows on his legs
is a depressive sight, everywhere but in Philadelphia. But while five
o’clock tea does not work, eleven o’clock beer is a roaring success.