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Search-Light Letters
BY
_Robert Grant_
New York
_Charles Scribner's Sons_
MDCCCXCIX
_Copyright, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons_
_Contents_
To _A Young Man or Woman_ in Search of the Ideal
Letter I 1
Letter II 15
Letter III 32
Letter IV 45
To _A Modern Woman_ with Social Ambitions
Letter I 59
Letter II 72
Letter III 89
Letter IV 105
To _A Young Man_ wishing to be an American
Letter I 125
Letter II 135
Letter III 152
Letter IV 169
To _A Political Optimist_
Letter I 173
Letter II 191
Letter III 214
To _A Young Man or Woman_ in Search of the Ideal. I.
I shall assume certain things to begin with. If a young man, that the
dividing-line between mine and thine is so clearly defined to your own
consciousness that you are never tempted to cross it. For instance,
that it is your invariable practice to keep the funds of others in a
separate bank-account from the money which belongs to you, and not to
mix them. That you will not lie to escape the consequences of your own
or others' actions. That you are not afraid to stand up and be shot at
if necessary. That you do not use your knife to carry food to your
mouth; say "How?" for "What?" or hold the young lady whom you are
courting or to whom you are engaged by the crook of her elbow and
shove her along the street as though she were a perambulator. If a
young woman, that you are so pure in thought that you do not feel
obliged to read diseased fiction in order to enlighten yourself as to
what is immorality. That you do not bear false witness against your
neighbor by telling every unpleasant story you hear to the next person
you meet. That you do not repeat to an acquaintance, on the plea of
duty, the disagreeable remarks or criticisms which others have made to
you regarding her. That you try to be unselfish, sympathetic, and
amiable in spite of everything. That you neither chew gum nor use
pigments. And that you do not treat young men as demigods, before whom
you must abase yourself in order to be exalted.
I take it for granted that you have reached the moral and social plane
which this assumption implies. Manners are, indeed, a secondary
consideration as compared with ethics. A man who eats with his knife
may, nevertheless, be a hero. And yet, it is not always easy to fix
where manners and ethics begin. Many a finished young woman who
stealthily heightens the hue of her complexion and blackens her
eyebrows with paint probably regards the girl who chews gum with
superior scorn. Yet tradition associates paint rather than gum with
the scarlet woman. To avoid introducing the subtleties of discussion
where all is so clear, it is simpler to exclude the use of either as a
possible characteristic of fine womanhood. The homely adage that you
cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear is full of meaning for
democracy. Manners must go hand in hand with morals, or character will
show no more lustre than the uncut and unpolished diamond, whose
latent brilliancy is marred by uncouthness, so that it may readily be
mistaken for a vulgar stone.
I assume, then, that you possess honesty, purity, and courage, the
intention to be unselfish and sympathetic, and an appreciation of the
stigma of vulgarity. If you are seeking the ideal, you will try to be,
in the first place, an uncommon person. A common person is one who is
content to be just like every one else in his or her own walk of life.
The laws on our statute-books are made for the benefit of common
people; that is to say, they are tempered to the necessities of the
weak and erring. If you stop short there you will keep out of jail,
but you will be a very ordinary member of society. This sounds trite,
but the application of the principle involved is progressive. It is
easy to be ordinary in the higher walks of civilization and yet pass
for a rather superior person. It is only necessary to be content to
"do as every one else does," and accept the bare limit of the social
code under which you live as the guide of conduct.
[_Note_.--I am reminded here by my wife, Josephine, that, though the
statute-laws are broken by few of our friends, there is one law which
women who claim to be highly civilized and exceedingly superior are
constantly breaking--the statute which forbids them to smuggle.]
¶ _Scene: An Ocean Steamship._ Two sea-chairs side by side.
¶ _Dramatis Personae: A Refined and Gifted Instructress of Youth on the
home passage from a summer's vacation abroad, and your Philosopher. A
perfect sea and sky, which beget confidences._
_Refined and Gifted Instructress of Youth._ It's rather a bother to
have friends ask you to bring in things.
_The Philosopher._ I always say "Certainly; but I shall be obliged to
declare them." That ends it.
_Refined and Gifted._ My friends wouldn't like that at all. It would
offend them. You mustn't tell, but I have as commissions a dress, two
packages of gloves, and a large French doll, in my trunk.
_The Philosopher._ Yet you will be obliged to sign a paper that you
have nothing dutiable and that everything you have is yours.
_Refined and Gifted._ If I were to declare the things, the duties
would all have to come out of my own pocket. I shouldn't have the face
to collect it from my friends.
_The Philosopher._ They expect you to fib, of course. You prefer,
then, to cheat the Government rather than disappoint persons who made
use of you in order to accomplish that very thing?
_Refined and Gifted._ You don't put it nicely at all, Mr. Philosopher.
Besides, the things are mine. I paid for them with my own money; and,
until I am paid back, the things belong to me. There, now, why
shouldn't I sign the paper?
_The Philosopher._ A shallow sophistry. A merchant who acted on that
theory would be sent to jail. Will a refined and gifted instructress
of youth, whose mission in life it is to lead the young in the paths
of virtue, evade the law by a subterfuge?
_Refined and Gifted._ It's an odious law. My family all believe in
free trade.
_The Philosopher._ Very possibly. But it is the law.
_Refined and Gifted (after a pause)._ I don't care. If I declare the
things they would never forgive me, and I can't afford to pay charges
on their things myself. I've only just enough money to get home,
anyway. Perhaps no one will ask me to sign it. By the way, how much
ought I to give the man if he passes everything nicely?
_The Philosopher._ Nothing. That would be bribery.
_Refined and Gifted._ Why, I thought all men did that.
_The Philosopher._ Chiefly women who try to smuggle. (_Silence of five
minutes._)
_Refined and Gifted._ I don't care. I shall sign it.
And she did.
Those whose office it is to utter the last word over the dead rarely
yield to the temptation to raise the mantle of charity and show the
man or woman in all his or her imperfections. Society prefers to err
on the side of mercy and forbearance, and to consign dust to dust with
beautiful generalizations of hope and congratulation, even though the
subject of the obsequies be a widely known sinner. However fitting it
may be to ignore the truth in the presence of death, there can be no
greater peril for one in your predicament than to cherish the
easy-going doctrine that you are willing to take your chance with the
rest of the world. The democratic proposition that every one is as
good as his neighbor is readily amended so as to read that, if you
are as good as your neighbor, everybody ought to be satisfied. A
philosopher has a right to take liberties with the dead which a
clergyman must deny himself. "Died at his late residence on the 5th
inst., Solomon Grundy, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. Friends
are kindly requested not to send flowers." Perhaps you saw it? Very
likely you knew him. If so, you may have attended the funeral and
heard read over his bier the beautiful words, "I heard a voice from
Heaven which said, write Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,"
and the hymn, which the family had requested, "Nearer, my God, to
Thee." The officiating clergyman was not to blame. Solomon Grundy had
worshipped at his church with regularity for twenty years, and had
been a fairly generous contributor to foreign and domestic missions,
in spite of the fact that he had the reputation down-town of being
close as the bark of a tree. The obituary notices in the newspapers
referred to him as "a leading merchant" and "a gentleman of the old
school." No wonder that the Rev. Peter Tyson, who is a brave man and
has been known to rear on occasions, felt that he could let himself go
without injury to his conscience. Besides, even so discriminating a
person as your Philosopher saw fit to attend the funeral, and
remembering that the old gentleman had given him a wedding present,
would probably have ordered a wreath but for the wishes of the family.
And yet the facts of Solomon Grundy's life, when examined in a
philosophic spirit, serve chiefly to point a moral for one who is in
search of the ideal. Read the itinerary of his earthly pilgrimage and
judge for yourself:
_Infancy (first six years)._--No reliable data except a cherubic
miniature, and the family tradition that he once threw into the fire
a necklace belonging to his grandmother. People who know all about
such matters will tell you that during these first six years the
foundations of character are laid. The miniature was always said to
bear a striking resemblance to his maternal grandfather, who was a man
of--nay, nay, this will never do. Those same people to whom I have
just referred will tell you that we inherit everything we are, and, if
I proceed on that theory, we are done with Solomon Grundy as soon as
he was born. Decidedly a young man or woman in search of the ideal
cannot afford to palm off on ancestors the responsibility for his or
her own conduct.
_Boyhood (six to sixteen)._--So-called highly respectable surroundings
and good educational advantages. Here we are brought face to face
again with those same persons whom I have already instanced. _They_
will assure you that Solomon's father and mother and his "environment"
were the responsible agents during this period, and that whatever
Solomon did not inherit or have settled for him before his sixth year
was settled for him by them without the knowledge of said Solomon.
This is rather discouraging as a study of Solomon as a conscious,
active _ego_, but it affords you an opportunity, if you are not in
search of the ideal, to make your parents and that comfortable phrase
your "environment" bear the burden of all your shortcomings until you
are sixteen, and serve as an excuse for your shortcomings in the
future.
_Youth (sixteen to twenty-one)._--Now we at least make progress.
Solomon enters college. Gets one or two conditions, but works them off
and stands erect. High spirits and corresponding consequences. Becomes
popular and idle. Subscribes to the faith that the object of going to
college is to study human nature, and is fascinated by his own acumen.
Sudden revulsion at beginning of senior year. The aims and
responsibilities of life unfold themselves in absorbing panorama, and
his soul is full of high resolve. The world is his oyster. Studies
hard for six months and graduates somewhat higher than had been
anticipated. (Curtain descends to inspiring music.) Solomon stands on
the threshold of life the image of virile youth, shading his brow and
looking at the promised land.
_Early Manhood (twenty-one to thirty)._--Solomon decides to go into
business. Reasons chiefly pecuniary. No special aptitude for anything
else. Is sent abroad to study more human nature, acquire breadth of
view and learn French. Does so in Paris. Returns with some of his high
resolve tarnished, and with only a smattering of the language in
question. Goes into the employ of a wholesale dry-goods merchant, and
begins at the lowest round of the ladder. Works hard and absorbedly.
Very little leisure. Devotes what he has to social diversion. Develops
a pleasing talent for private theatricals, in the exercise of which
falls in love with a pretty but impecunious young woman. (Slow and
sentimental music.) Yearns to marry, but is advised by elderly
business friends that he cannot afford it. Dejected winter in bachelor
apartments. Takes up with Schopenhauer. Spirits slightly restored by
first rise on ladder. Eschews society and private theatricals. Forms
relations, which recall Paris, with sympathetic, nomadic young person.
Gets another rise on the ladder, and is spoken of among his
contemporaries as doing well.
_Manhood (thirty-one to forty)._--Works steadily and makes several
fortunate investments. Joins one or two clubs, and gains eight pounds
in weight. Grows side-whiskers or a goatee. Gets another rise, and the
following year is taken into the firm. Complains of dyspepsia, and at
advice of physician buys saddle-horse. Contributes fifty dollars to
charity, joins a book-club and attends two political caucuses. Thinks
of taking an active interest in politics, but is advised by elderly
business friends that it would interfere with his business prospects.
Owing to the death of a member of the firm, becomes second in command.
Thinks of changing bachelor rooms and wonders why he shouldn't marry
instead. Goes into society a little and looks about. Gains five extra
pounds and makes more fortunate investments. Picks out good-looking,
sensible girl eight years younger than himself, with a tidy property
in her own right. Is conscious of being enraptured in her presence,
and deems himself very much in love. (Orchestra plays waltz by
Strauss.) Offers himself and is accepted. Burns everything in his
bachelor rooms and sells out all his speculative investments. Regrets
to observe that he is growing bald. Impressive ceremony and large
wedding-cake.
_Manhood--Middle Age (forty to fifty-five)._--Conservative attitude
toward domestic expenses. Works hard from what he calls "new
incentive." Delights in the peacefulness of the domestic hearth.
Blissful mental condition. (Religious music.) Buys pew in Rev. Peter
Tyson's church. Buys baby-wagon. Increasing profits in dry-goods
business. Almost bald. Gives two hundred dollars to foreign missions.
Is proud of his wife's appearance and entertains in moderation.
Becomes head of firm. Buys gold-headed cane and gains five more
pounds. Goes to Europe for six months, with his wife, and conducts
himself with propriety, visiting cathedrals and historical monuments.
Shows her Paris. Foresees financial complications and turns ship
accordingly. Increasing family expenses and depressing conditions in
dry-goods trade. Completely bald. First attack of gout. Absorbed in
business and in real-estate investments. On return of commercial
prosperity, reaps the reward of foresight and sagacity. Is chosen
director of two railroads and a trust company. Is elected president of
his club. Gives five hundred dollars to domestic missions. Buys new
house and a barouche for his wife. Gives large evening entertainment.
Second attack of gout. Goes to Carlsbad for treatment. (Toccata by
Galuppi.)
_Old Age--(fifty-five to sixty-seven)._--Addresses Christian
association on "How to Succeed in Life." Is appointed trustee of a
hospital and an art museum. Votes conservatively on every question. Is
referred to in newspapers as "Hon. Solomon Grundy." Slight attack of
paralysis. Becomes somewhat venerable in appearance. Deplores
degeneracy of modern ideas. Retires from active business. More
venerable in appearance. Second attack of paralysis and death.
And that was the end of Solomon Grundy. A highly respectable
representative of a second-class man. The term suggests an idea. We
have here no first, second, and third-class railway carriages, as are
found in England and other countries. But it would be interesting,
from a philosophical point of view, to invent such a train for the
occasion, and bestow our friends and acquaintances, and, indeed,
society at large, according to their qualifications. You, of course,
are desirous to know who are the persons entitled to travel
first-class, in order that you may be introduced to them and avoid
intimacy with the others, so far as is consistent with Christian
charity and the mutual obligations of social beings. But let me first
dip my pen in the ink again.
To _A Young Man or Woman_ in Search of the Ideal. II.
Abracadabra. Presto! Behold the train. The gates are opened and the
people press in. There will not be much trouble with the third-class
passengers. See how they take their proper places of their own accord.
Some of them deserve to ride second-class quite as much as many who
will be affronted at not being allowed to go first-class. Do you see
that man? He is a commercial traveller, or drummer, and, naturally,
early on the ground. He doesn't hesitate or examine his ticket, but
gets directly into a second-class smoking-car, settles himself, and
puts on a silk cap. He knows that it is useless to ask for a
first-class seat, and he is going to make the best of it (which is
good philosophy). Very likely if you were sitting next to him he would
utter some such cheery remark as, "It will be all the same a hundred
years hence," and tell you a pat story to illustrate the situation.
Did you happen to notice, though, the longing look he cast at the
first-class coaches as he went by? I feel sure that down in his heart
he is ready to admit that there are such things as ideals, after all,
and he is making resolutions as to what he would do if he could live
his life over again.
Did you notice that stout, fashionably dressed man who stopped and
looked at me with a grin? He was trying it on, so to speak. He knew
just as well as Tom Johnson, the drummer, that he had no right to
travel first-class, but he thought I might admit him on the score of
social prestige. He is one of the kindest-hearted of fellows--just the
man to whom a friend would apply in a tight place, and I rather think
he would be apt to help an enemy, unless it happened that something he
had eaten for supper the night before had disagreed with him. He has
the digestion of an ostrich, and he needs it, for his skin is full of
oil, and whiskey, and tortured goose-liver, and canvas-back ducks, and
pepper-sauce, and ripe Camembert cheese, and truffles, and Burgundy,
and many other rich and kindred delicacies. He could tell four
different vintages of champagne apart with his eyes shut, and he has
honor at his club on account of it. His name is Howard Vincent. An
illustrious-sounding name, isn't it? He inherits gout from both sides
of the family. He does not know Tom Johnson, the drummer. They have
moved in different social strata. But they belong to the same order of
human beings. There! you notice, he asks Tom for a light, and they
have begun to talk together. They are laughing now, and Tom is
winking. I shouldn't wonder if they were making fun of the first-class
passengers. Vincent has read more or less in his day, and he rather
prides himself on what he calls keeping abreast of the times in the
line of thought. See, they have opened the window, and are beckoning
to me. Let us hear what they have to say.
_Drummer._ Ah, there, philosopher! You wouldn't let us in, and I guess
you know your business. We've had a good time in life, anyhow. If the
religious folk are right, we shall be in it up to our necks. If
they're wrong, they've been wasting a lot of valuable time.
_Howard Vincent._ We've ridden straight, at all events. (Vincent is an
authority on sporting matters.) We haven't pretended to be something
we were not. We've never cheated anybody, and we've never lied to
anybody, and each, according to his light (this last qualification was
for Tom's benefit), has been a gentleman. We've been men of the world,
and we have found the world a reasonably satisfactory place. We're in
no haste to leave it.
_The Philosopher._ And may I add, gentlemen, that each of you has a
kind and generous heart?
Did you observe how pleased they looked when I said that? It was a
little weak of me to say it, but I could not help it. Somehow, it is
very difficult to be sufficiently severe to such easy-going,
pleasant-natured fellows, who are content to take the world as they
find it, laugh and grow fat. Moreover, Tom Johnson has for twenty
years supported his old mother and invalid sister, and remained single
as a consequence; and Howard Vincent has a habit of giving away
delightful sums on Christmas Day without advertising the fact. How
often, on the occasion of death, do we hear the aphorism that
everything counts for nothing save the kindly deeds of the deceased,
until one is tempted to believe that a genial commercial traveller,
like our friend, with a benignant soul is more admirable and inspiring
than a highly sensitive gentleman and scholar. Indisputably this is so
if the gentleman and scholar lacks the humanity for which the other is
conspicuous; but, nevertheless, it behooves the soul in search of the
ideal to beware of the slough of mere warm-heartedness. It is an
attribute which, if relied on too exclusively as a leavening force, is
readily made to subserve very ordinary purposes. The two Falstaffian
men in the second-class car belong there, even though you might find
their kindly ways and their stories attractive up to a certain point.
They are of the class of men who, more signally perhaps than any
other, bar the path of the world's progress toward the stars by means
of the argument that what has been must be, and that what is is good
enough. They are of the men who shrug their shoulders when the hope is
expressed that the abuse of liquor may be lessened and finally
controlled; who sneer at the efforts of the police authorities to shut
up all the houses of ill-repute, on the ground that prostitution has
always existed and must always exist. (That it will never become
"unpopular," as the drummer would tell you in his breezy way.)
Assuredly, you need to be on your guard against infatuation with those
big, genial and (usually) pot-bellied personages whose large hearts
and abundant charity and splendid appetites allow them to discard as
unworthy of a sensible man's regard everything but honesty, reading,
spelling and arithmetic (add, in the case of Howard Vincent, a dash of
accomplishments and agnostic philosophy), Worcestershire sauce and
jests of custom-made humor. Blessed be humor. The man or woman without
it is like a loaf of stale bread or a cup of brackish water. But to be
content with the mere workaday world and its ways is like travelling
perpetually with a grip-sack. When we open the grip-sack, what do we
find? The barest necessaries of life, without a trace of anything
which inspires or refines. I have no desire to betray the private
affairs of any commercial traveller, or to imply that the Bible and
Shakespeare are not occasionally to be found both in the kit of the
travelling man and the English leather trunk of the more elegant man
of fashion. I am simply cautioning you, my male correspondents, to
beware of accepting as final your world as you find it. Nothing is
more sure to make you a second-class person. Mere good-natured
common-sense ("horse-sense," as our drummer would call it) is a useful
virtue, but it would keep civilization ordinary to the crack of doom.
Ah! now we are likely to have trouble. Notice, please, the lady coming
this way. How graceful and elegant she is. A delicate, refined face
and bearing. See how she sidles off from the third and second-class
passengers with an expression of distaste for them which suggests
pain. She cannot bear coarse people. She believes herself to be an
intellectual woman with serious tastes. She aims to be a spiritual
person and she reads many essays--by Emerson, Matthew Arnold, Pater,
and others. She is fond of history and politics; not of this country,
because she claims that it is vulgar and lacks picturesqueness. But
she can tell you all about the governments of Europe, and who is prime
minister of or in authority in each of them. Democracy does not
interest her. It seems to her to concern the affairs of dirty or
common people; and she cares nothing for the great social questions of
the age. They appear to her to clash with personal spirituality and
culture. She is very sensitive. She has made a study of music,
especially Wagner. She is very particular as to what she has to eat,
but the grossness of men, as she calls it, offends her seriously. She
believes herself to be not very strong physically, and she is nervous
on the subject of arsenic in wall-papers and germs in drinking-water.
She has retained her maidenly instincts to the last.
What is that you ask, madam? A seat in a first-class carriage. Excuse
me, you cannot go in there. You belong in the second-class section of
the train. Mistake? There is no mistake. I understand perfectly. I'm
ready to take your word for it that you have read Dante in the
original, and I know that you are
_Chaste as the icicle
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple._
(Doubtless you recall the quotation.) But you must stay out. Your
ticket reads "Personal culture and individual salvation," and it
entitles you to ride in any of those second-class cars. You don't like
the passengers? I am very sorry, I'm sure, but my instructions are
explicit. I was told to keep out all ladies of your kind, who think
that the ideal is to be attained by hugging themselves to themselves
(excuse the coarseness of the metaphor, madam) all their days in a
hot-house atmosphere, and playing bo-peep with their own souls. You
intend to write a letter about it to the Boston _Evening_----? Oh,
very well. You will have to ride second-class, all the same.
Enter a clergyman. This seems more promising.
_Clergyman._ Is this the first-class section? I think my seat must be
in here.
_Philosopher._ First-class here, sir. Tickets, please. (_Aside to
correspondent._) A modest gentleman, forsooth.
_Clergyman_ (_stops fumbling in his pocket for his tickets and sniffs
suspiciously_). I smell tobacco. Is there a smoking-car on the
first-class train?
_Philosopher._ There is for those who smoke.
_Clergyman._ An outrage, sir. An unchristian outrage. I suppose next
that you will tell me that intoxicating fluids are sold there.
_Philosopher._ Yes, sir, to those who use them. All the first-class
passengers understand the use of such things in moderation. They are
not injured by them.
_Clergyman._ A flimsy argument, sir. Think of the example. I repeat
it, sir; think of the example. I protest against it, sir, as a crime
against our highest civilization. I--I will have you removed from
office. You are not fit to hold your position. I will see the governor
about it immediately. I--I----
_Philosopher_ (_to correspondent_). He fancies that he is arguing on
the liquor question before a board of police commissioners. (_To
clergyman._) The gentleman will come to order.
_Clergyman._ I insist on having the smoking and drinking car detached,
or I will not ride on the train.
_Philosopher._ You will not ride in the first-class portion of it, in
any event. Your ticket reads "Well-intentioned but overbearing
visionary enthusiast." Come, sir, pass on, or, in spite of your cloth,
I shall be obliged to put you in charge of an officer for disturbing
the peace.
I was interrupted here by my wife, Josephine. "Of course I
understand," said she, "that he was very overbearing, and I have heard
you say before that clergymen are more apt to lose their temper before
committees than most other people. But the poor man was desperately in
earnest. The whole thing means so much to him. He believes that the
world will never be redeemed until liquor and tobacco are no longer
used in it. Do you mean that you really think this will never come to
pass?"
"Never is a long time, my dear," said I.
"But you were discussing the ideal."
"To be sure. Have you ever considered the matter from the
moderate-drinker and smoker's point of view? Brain-weary, muscle-tired
men have, from generation to generation, found a glass of wine or
spirit and a cigar a refreshment and a comfort. Neither agrees with
some, and many abuse the use of both. Drunkenness among the poor and
tippling among the rich are, perhaps, the greatest enemies of
civilization; and, consequently, there is a corps of many women and
some men who cry out upon the use of alcohol as incompatible with the
world's progress. This sentiment at the polls expresses itself chiefly
in very small minorities, unless the voters are reasonably near to
some large city or town. The failure of the movement to make important
headway might be ascribed to the fact that the mass of people are
still unenlightened, were there any signs that the intelligent workers
of the world are disposed to side with the wearers of the white
ribbon. The use of champagne, claret, brandy, and whiskey continues
unabated over the civilized world, if one is to judge by economic
statistics and trade circulars. They are quaffed on state and festal
occasions, generally with moderation, by lords and ladies, statesmen,
lawyers, doctors, bankers, soldiers, poets, artists, and often by
bishops and clergymen. At ninety-nine out of every hundred formal
dinner-parties in London, Paris, Berlin, or New York, alcohol is
offered in some form to the guests as a stimulus to conversation, and,
were it not so, there would be ninety-nine grumblers to every one man
or woman who, at present, turns his or her glasses down with an
ill-bred, virtuous air."
"And yet," said Josephine, "I have heard you say constantly that it
would be no particular deprivation to you to give up wine."
"No more it would. In this country, with its stimulating climate, most
nervous people are better for a very little if any alcohol, and many
men are apt to find that it is simpler not to drink at all. But,
remember, we are considering the question whether there is any reason
why the man or woman in perfect health, and in search of the ideal,
should be a teetotaler, and if there is any probability that the world
will banish alcohol and cigars from the dignified occasions of the
future. In other words, when the world has learned not to drink and
smoke too much, will it cease to drink and smoke altogether? I know
that the advocates of total-abstinence argue about the serenity and
sane joy of a cold-water banquet, and it may be that we are a trifle
hysterical in our declarations that conversation must lag until one
has had a glass of champagne; but is not much of the light, masculine
laughter of life associated with the fruit of the grape and the aroma
of tobacco? Have you ever tried to picture to yourself a world as it
would be if there were well-enforced, rigid prohibition everywhere,
and the tobacco-plant were no more?"
Josephine gave a little laugh. "You say the masculine laughter of the
world. I assure you that much of the masculine laughter which you
associate with the fruit of the grape is associated in the feminine
mind with conjugal or maternal tears. I quite understand your appeal
to the imagination from the masculine point of view. That is, I
suppose the words wine and tobacco bring in their train for man many
pleasing and even inspiriting images; that under their influence the
soldier believes himself more brave and wins battles in anticipation;
that the artist gets a glimpse of his great picture, and that the
tired husband and father sees evolve from the bottom of his beer-mug a
transfigured reflection of his wife and children. But we women, who,
as a sex, have always done without wine and tobacco, know from
experience that, however lofty and delightful your visions at such
times, there is always a reaction after alcohol, and that we generally
get the full benefit of the reaction. If, now, inspiring visions never
came to us and other total-abstainers, there would seem to be some
reason why we should be willing to bear the brunt of man's inebrieties
a little longer; but really, my dear philosopher, is there any reason
to believe that we do not entertain visions quite as inspiring and
delightful as yours? We drink only tea--too much of it for our nerves,
I dare say--but we will gladly give that up if you will abjure alcohol
and cigars. There certainly is no poetry in the aroma of tobacco in
the curtains, next day, and we pass the morning with it when you have
gone down-town. Don't you think there is a great deal of humbug in the
notion that in order to laugh lightly and remember gladly men need to
be titillated either by wine or tobacco? I'm glad you wouldn't allow
that bumptious clergyman to ride in a first-class car, but I don't see
why the world should not be just as gay, and many women twice as
happy, if there were no wine or tobacco. Only think how light-hearted
woman would be if the incubus of man's drunkenness, under which she
has staggered for hundreds of years, should be lifted off forever! She
would be so bubbling over with happiness that, even though as a
consequence man were in the dumps and without visions, she would make
him merry in spite of himself."
"Very likely, Josephine. I am disposed to agree with you that the jest
and merriment of masculine youth would not be entirely and hopelessly
repressed. But you do not take sufficiently into consideration--and in
this you imitate the bumptious clergyman who was going to have me
removed--the world's cravings and necessities as a world. If, pardon
me, men were all women in their appetites, and life were one grand
pastoral _a la_ Puvis de Chavannes--if, in short, the world were
not the bustling, feverish, perplexing, exhausting, crushing, cruel
world, men would not crave stimulants to help them to do their work or
to forget it. If there were no alcohol or cigars, would not those who
now use either to excess have recourse to some other form of stimulant
or fatigue and pain disguiser instead? Why should those who have
learned the great lesson of life, self-control, renounce the enjoyment
of being artificially strengthened or cheered because others let their
appetites run away with them and make beasts of them? I have, indeed,
already suggested that it is a dangerous argument to instance an
existing state of affairs as a reason against change; but I beg to
call your attention to the fact that the world seems to pay very
little heed to the lamentations of the teetotalers, so far as
total-abstinence is concerned. There has been a change of temper among
all classes in the direction of moderation in the use of liquor and
wine, and legislation regulating and restricting licenses is becoming
popular. But if the wearers of the white ribbon were to make inquiries
of the dealers in glass-ware, they would find that no fewer newly
married couples, among the educated and well-to-do in every country,
buy wine-glasses as a necessary table article, in order to provide
wine or beer for those whom they expect to entertain. There are
certainly no signs that society, in the best sense, has any intention
of adopting prohibition as a cardinal virtue, but many signs that it
is seriously determined to make warfare on inebriety, and no longer to
proffer it the cloak of social protection when the offenders happen to
be what the world used to call gentlemen. One's ideal should not be
too remote from probable human conclusions, and it does not seem
likely, from present indications, that man, unless he be persuaded
that the moderate use of stimulants is seriously injurious to his
health, will ever be willing to banish them from the markets of the
world because a certain portion of the community has not the necessary
intelligence or self-control to use them with discretion. As for
tobacco, it is a long cry from now to the millennium, but a
philosopher cannot afford, at this stage of the itinerary, to cut off
the smoking-car from the first-class portion of the train, for by so
doing he might confound even archbishops and other exemplary
personages."
To _A Young Man or Woman_ in Search of the Ideal. III.
I was interrupted at this point in my letter by the loud ringing of
the front door bell. Glancing at the clock, I observed that it was
eleven. Consequently, the servants must have gone to bed. Under
these circumstances, a philosopher has to open the front door
himself, or submit to a prolonged tintinnabulation. "Ting-a-ling-a,
ling-a-ling-a-ling" went the bell again.
"It must be a telegram," said Josephine. "I wonder what has happened?"
"Or a dinner-invitation which the servant was told to deliver this
morning," I answered. "One would suppose that, after turning out the
gas in the hall, one could work without callers."
Having lighted up, and having unbolted the inner door, I beheld,
through the glass window of the outer, a young man in a slouch hat.
Evidently he was not a telegraph-messenger or a domestic. Nor did he
have exactly the aspect of a midnight marauder. Nevertheless, I opened
the door merely a crack and inquired, gruffly:
"What do you wish?"
Said a blithe, friendly voice: "I saw your light, and I took the
liberty of ringing. Can't you give me three thousand words on the
death of the Czar of Russia?"
Before he had finished this sentence, he had backed me, by his
persuasive manner, from the vestibule into the hall, and I remembered
vaguely that I had seen him somewhere.
"I'm the local correspondent of the New York _Despatch_," he said, to
refresh my memory.
I recollected then that he had tried to interview me six months before
on my domestic interior, and that I had politely declined the honor.
He was a lean, alert, bright-eyed man of thirty-five with a pleasant
smile.
"Isn't it rather late to ring my door-bell?" I inquired, with dignity.
(My mental language was, "What do you mean, you infernal young
reprobate, by ringing my door-bell at this hour of the night on such
an impudent errand?" But, in the presence of the press, even a
philosopher is disposed to be diplomatic.)
"I needed you, badly," was the reply. "I've got to wire to New York
to-night three thousand words on the death of the Czar."
"What do I know about the Czar of Russia? Why don't you go to the
historians or politicians? There are several in the neighborhood. I'm
a philosopher."
"I've tried them," he said, with a patient smile. "They were out or in
bed. Then I thought of you. Anything you would say on the subject
would be read with great interest."
"Pshaw!" I answered.
By this time he had backed me into the dining-room, and, under the
influence of diplomacy, I searched for a box of cigars. I had no
intention of giving him a single word on the deceased ruler of all the
Russias, but I wished to let myself down easy, so to speak, and retain
his good-will.
"Ah!" he said, settling in a chair, with a Cabana, "this is the first
restful moment I have had to-day." He was pensive during a few puffs,
then he added: "A reporter's life is not all strawberry ice-cream. Do
you suppose I enjoy rousing a man at this hour of the night? It makes
me shiver whenever I do it."
"I should think it might," I answered, in spite of myself. "Some men
would be apt to resent it."
"You misunderstand me. I do not shiver from physical fear, but because
my sense of propriety is wounded. I dare say," he continued, looking
at me narrowly, "that you think I take no interest in the ideal; that
you suppose me to be a materialistic Philistine."
You will appreciate that this was startling and especially interesting
to me under the circumstances. I, in my turn, examined my visitor more
carefully. There were evidences in his countenance of a sensitive
soul, and of refined intelligence. The thought occurred to me that
here was an opportunity to obtain testimony. "I think that every
thoughtful man must take an interest in the ideal," I answered, "and,
in spite of the lateness of the hour, I had not set you down as an
exception to the rule. Curiously enough, however, I was busy when the
bell rang answering a letter from several correspondents in search of
the ideal. I will read it to you, if you like, as far as I have got."
Perhaps I hoped that in submitting he would appear slightly
crest-fallen. But, on the contrary, he showed obvious enthusiasm at
the suggestion, and begged me to fetch my manuscript at once.
Josephine met me at the top of the stairs, and whispered that she had
been dying with curiosity to know who it was.
"A reporter," I whispered, in reply.
"What does he wish for?"
"Three thousand words on the death of the Czar of Russia," I said,
mysteriously; then I picked up my letter and glided away with my
finger on my lips. "If he stays too long, dear, you may come down, as
a gentle hint."
I began to read, and, as I read, my heart warmed toward my visitor on
account of the absorbed attention he paid to my philosophy. "And now,"
said I, when I had finished, "pray tell what is your ideal? You have
told me that you were interested in one."
He shook his head sadly. "No matter about me. It's too late. I can
only shiver and go on. But I'm interested in what you're trying to do,
and, if you like, I'm willing to throw in a word now and then while
you work it out. I'm glad," he added, "that you hit the back numbers a
rap."
I told him that he was not exactly intelligible.
"I mean the old familiar aspirants; in particular the lady interested
in culture and personal salvation. There was no question about the man
of the world and the drummer; one might feel kindly toward them, but
of course they must ride second-class, and most newspaper men would
ride with them--and some of the editors would have to go third.
Easy-going commonness is the curse of democracy, even if I, who am a
democrat of the democrats, do say it. But what I like most--and it's
the nub of the whole matter--is that you knew enough to throw out that
woman; she might equally well have been a man, for there are plenty of
the same sort. If you'll excuse my saying so," he said, biting his
cigar fiercely, "I shouldn't have expected it of a philosopher like
you, and I honor your intelligence because of it. The man or woman of
to-day in search of the ideal comes plumb up against sweating,
bleeding, yearning democracy, and whoever funks, or shirks the
situation has no first-class soul--be he or she ever so delicate, or
cultured, or learned."
I could not but feel gratified at his fervor, nor did I mind his
bringing his hand down on the table with the last word by way of
emphasis, for he had grasped my meaning precisely. Evidently, too, he
had taken the bit between his teeth and meant to have his say, for, as
he lighted another cigar, his nostrils dilated with suppressed
earnestness and his eye gleamed significantly.
"I'm not a man of culture," he continued. "I have the effrontery, from
the necessities of my trade, to ring at your door-bell at midnight,
and I know my own limitations, but I know what culture is. When I
stand on the cliff and watch the waves hurl themselves against the
shore--when on a peaceful summer's night I view the heavens in their
glory, I realize in my own behalf something of what those who have had
more opportunities than I are able to feel, and I know that I am
illiterate and common as compared with many. But, Mr. Philosopher,
what has been the philosophy of beauty and art and intellect and
elegance through all the centuries until lately? Individual seclusion,
appropriation, and arrogance. The admirable soul, the admirable
genius, the admirable refinement was that which gloried in its
superiority to the rest of the world and claimed the right of
aloofness. The monk and the nun lived apart from the common life, and
were thought to walk nearer heaven because of it. That idea of the
priesthood has nearly passed away, but aloofness and arrogance are
still too typical of the mental and the social aristocrats. They glory
in their own superiority and delicacy, lift their skirts if they're
women, hold their noses if they're men, and thank heaven they are not
as the masses are. They are charitable, they are sometimes generous,
and invariably didactic, but they hold aloof from the common herd.
They refuse to open the gates of sympathy, and sometimes it seems as
though the gates will never be opened until they are broken down by
the masses."
My visitor suddenly stopped, and started to rise from his chair.
Turning to investigate the cause of the interruption, I encountered my
wife, Josephine, armed with a tray containing a brazier and the
essentials for a midnight repast.
"You will be able to talk better if you have something to eat," she
exclaimed, affably.
The ceremony of introduction having been performed successfully
without causing our guest to notice that we did not know his name, I
begged him to continue his address.
"Yes, do," said Josephine, "while I cook the oysters. I could not help
overhearing a little of your conversation, so I know the general
drift."
[_Note._--That means she had been leaning over the banisters,
listening.]
"A lunch will taste very good," said the reporter.
[_Note._--Here he ran up against one of my pet prejudices, and for a
moment I almost forgot that I was doing the honors of my own house. I
almost said: "Speaking of democracy and culture, my dear sir, I should
like to inquire if you have any authority for your use of the word
'lunch'? As employed by the appropriating and the arrogant it has long
meant a meal or a bite between breakfast and dinner; but, as used by
democracy, it seems to apply to afternoon tea or late supper equally
well."]
"We were speaking of the ideal," he continued, addressing my wife,
"and I was just saying that only recently had the world of noblest
thought and aims begun to recognize that an ideal life must
necessarily include interest in and sympathy for common humanity, and
that the mere aristocrat of religion, of culture, or of manners, has
ceased to be the Sir Galahad of civilization."
"Indeed it must be so," said Josephine, "and the idea is rapidly
gaining ground. People used to be satisfied with making charitable
donations; now they investigate facts and conditions and give
themselves. But it isn't always easy for those who love beauty to
avoid shrinking from people and things not beautiful. There is nothing
which freezes a sensitive, artistic nature more quickly than dirt and
ugliness, and yet the ideal modern soul does not turn away, but seeks
to sympathize and to share. Might you not, dear (Josephine was now
addressing me, not the reporter), say that the key-note of the ideal
life is refined sympathy?"
"It certainly is an indispensable attribute of it," I answered.
"How much easier it is," mused Josephine, as she stirred the oysters
in the melting butter, "to wrap one's self in one's own aesthetic
aspirations and to let the common world shift for itself. It was
possible, once, to do that and believe one's self a saint, but that
day has passed forever. It's very hard, though, sometimes, Mr.
Reporter. Constant contact with the common world is liable to make one
terribly discouraged unless one has abiding faith in the future of
democracy."
"I know it; I know it," he replied, eagerly. "We're a depressing
lot--many of us. Don't you suppose I understand how the sensitive soul
must suffer when it has to deal with some of us? Take the cheap,
ignorant, mercenary, city politician, such as disgraces the aldermanic
chair of our large cities--there's a discouraging monster for you.
There is a host of others; the shallow, self-sufficient, impertinent
type of shop-girl, whose sole concern is her finery and her 'fellow';
the small dealer of a certain sort, who adulterates his wares, lies to
maintain his cause, and will not hesitate to burn his stock in order
to obtain the insurance money; the sordid number who seek to break the
wills of their relations who have devised the property to others; the
many, too, who make a mess of marriage, and leave wife or husband on
the paltriest pleas. I know them well; they are the people, they are
humanity, and they can no longer be ignored and loftily set aside as
'the uneducated mass' by those whose finer instincts cause them to
live free from these sins. Hard? Of course it's hard, but the best
hope for the improvement of society lies in the education and
enlightenment of that mass; and this can be compassed only through the
efforts and sympathy of the intelligent and refined."