(OUR HERO FINDS A STEADY JOB)
It was the summer of 1917 when Owd Bob came back to New York. Just at
that juncture I happened to hear that a certain publisher needed an
editorial man, and when Bob and I were at Browne's discussing the fate
of "Walking-Stick Papers" over a jug of shandygaff, I told him this
news. He hurried to the office in question through a drenching
rain-gust, and has been there ever since. The publisher performed an act
of perspicuity rare indeed. He not only accepted the manuscript, but its
author as well.
So that is the story of "Walking-Stick Papers," and it does not cause me
to droop if you say I talk of matters of not such great moment. What a
joy it would have been if some friend had jotted down memoranda of this
sort concerning some of Elia's doings. The book is a garner of some of
the most racy, vigorous and genuinely flavored essays that this country
has produced for some time. Dear to me, every one of them, as clean-cut
blazes by a sincere workman along a trail full of perplexity and
struggle, as Grub Street always will be for the man who dips an honest
pen that will not stoop to conquer. And if you should require an
accurate portrait of their author I cannot do better than quote what
Grote said of Socrates:
Nothing could be more public, perpetual, and indiscriminate as to
persons than his conversation. But as it was engaging, curious, and
instructive to hear, certain persons made it their habit to attend
him as companions and listeners.
Owd Bob has long been the object of extreme attachment and high spirits
among his intimates. The earlier books have been followed by "Broome
Street Straws" and "Peeps at People," vividly personal collections that
will arouse immediate affection and amusement among his readers. And of
these books will be said (once more in Grote's words about Socrates):
Not only his conversation reached the minds of a much wider circle,
but he became more abundantly known as a person.
Let us add, then, our final memorandum:
Fifth Memo--These essays are the sort of thing you cannot afford to
miss. In them you sit down to warm your wits at the glow of a droll,
delightful, unique mind.
So much (at the moment) for Bob Holliday.
THE APPLE THAT NO ONE ATE
[Illustration]
The other evening we went to dinner with a gentleman whom it pleases our
fancy to call the Caliph.
Now a Caliph, according to our notion, is a Haroun-al-Raschid kind of
person; one who governs a large empire of hearts with a genial and
whimsical sway; circulating secretly among his fellow-men, doing
kindnesses often not even suspected by their beneficiaries. He is the
sort of person of whom the trained observer may think, when he hears an
unexpected kindness-grenade exploding somewhere down the line, "I'll bet
that came from the Caliph's dugout!" A Caliph's heart is not surrounded
by barbed wire entanglements or a strip of No Man's Land. Also, and
rightly, he is stern to malefactors and fakers of all sorts.
It would have been sad if any one so un-Caliphlike as William
Hohenzollern had got his eisenbahn through to Bagdad, the city sacred to
the memory of a genial despot who spent his cabarabian nights in an
excellent fashion. That, however, has nothing to do with the story.
Mr. and Mrs. Caliph are people so delightful that they leave in one's
mind a warm afterglow of benevolent sociability. They have an infinite
interest and curiosity in the hubbub of human moods and crotchets that
surrounds us all. And when one leaves their doorsill one has a genial
momentum of the spirit that carries one on rapidly and cheerfully. One
has an irresistible impulse to give something away, to stroke the noses
of horses, to write a kind letter to the fuel administrator or do almost
anything gentle and gratuitous. The Caliphs of the world don't know it,
but that is the effect they produce on their subjects.
As we left, Mr. and Mrs. Caliph pressed upon us an apple. One of those
gorgeous apples that seem to grow wrapped up in tissue paper, and are
displayed behind plate glass windows. A huge apple, tinted with gold and
crimson and pale yellow shading off to pink. The kind of apple whose
colors are overlaid with a curious mist until you polish it on your
coat, when it gleams like a decanter of claret. An apple so large and
weighty that if it had dropped on Sir Isaac Newton it would have
fractured his skull. The kind of apple that would have made the garden
of Eden safe for democracy, because it is so beautiful no one would have
thought of eating it.
That was the kind of apple the Caliph gave us.
It was a cold night, and we walked down Chestnut street dangling that
apple, rubbing it on our sleeve, throwing it up and down and catching it
again. We stopped at a cigar store to buy some pipe tobacco. Still
running on Caliph, by which we mean still beguiled by his geniality, we
fell into talk with the tobacconist. "That's a fine apple you have
there," said he. For an instant we thought of giving it to him, but then
we reflected that a man whose days are spent surrounded by rich cigars
and smokables is dangerously felicitous already, and a sudden joy might
blast his blood vessels.
The shining of the street lamps was reflected on the polished skin of
our fruit as we went our way. As we held it in our arms it glowed like a
huge ruby. We passed a blind man selling pencils, and thought of giving
it to him. Then we reflected that a blind man would lose half the
pleasure of the adventure because he couldn't see the colors. We bought
a pencil instead. Still running on Caliph, you see.
In our excitement we did what we always do in moments of stress--went
into a restaurant and ordered a piece of hot mince pie. Then we
remembered that we had just dined. Never mind, we sat there and
contemplated the apple as it lay ruddily on the white porcelain
tabletop. Should we give it to the waitress? No, because apples were a
commonplace to her. The window of the restaurant held a great pyramid of
beauties. To her, an apple was merely something to be eaten, instead of
the symbol of a grand escapade. Instead, we gave her a little medallion
of a buffalo that happened to be in our pocket.
Already the best possible destination for that apple had come to our
mind. Hastening zealously up a long flight of stairs in a certain large
building we went to a corner where sits a friend of ours, a night
watchman. Under a drop light he sits through long and tedious hours,
beguiling his vigil with a book. He is a great reader. He eats books
alive. Lately he has become much absorbed in Saint Francis of Assisi,
and was deep in the "Little Flowers" when we found him.
"We've brought you something," we said, and held the apple where the
electric light brought out all its brilliance.
He was delighted and his gentle elderly face shone with awe at the
amazing vividness of the fruit.
"I tell you what I'll do," he said. "That apple's much too fine for me.
I'll take it home to the wife."
Of course his wife will say the same thing. She will be embarrassed by
the surpassing splendor of that apple and will give it to some friend of
hers whom she thinks more worthy than herself. And that friend will give
it to some one else, and so it will go rolling on down the ages, passing
from hand to hand, conferring delight, and never getting eaten.
Ultimately some one, trying to think of a recipient really worthy of its
deliciousness, will give it to Mr. and Mrs. Caliph. And they, blessed
innocents, will innocently exclaim, "Why we never saw such a magnificent
apple in all our lives."
And it will be true, for by that time the apple will gleam with an
unearthly brightness, enhanced and burnished by all the kind thoughts
that have surrounded it for so long.
As we walked homeward under a frosty sparkle of sky we mused upon all
the different kinds of apples we have encountered. There are big glossy
green apples and bright red apples and yellow apples and also that
particularly delicious kind (whose name we forget) that is the palest
possible cream color--almost white. We have seen apples of strange
shapes, something like a pear (sheepnoses, they call them), and the
Maiden Blush apples with their delicate shading of yellow and debutante
pink. And what a poetry in the names--Winesap, Pippin, Northern Spy,
Baldwin, Ben Davis, York Imperial, Wolf River, Jonathan, Smokehouse,
Summer Rambo, Rome Beauty, Golden Grimes, Shenango Strawberry, Benoni!
We suppose there is hardly a man who has not an apple orchard tucked
away in his heart somewhere. There must be some deep reason for the old
suspicion that the Garden of Eden was an apple orchard. Why is it that a
man can sleep and smoke better under an apple tree than in any other
kind of shade? Sir Isaac Newton was a wise man, and he chose an apple
tree to sit beneath. (We have often wondered, by the way, how it is that
no one has ever named an apple the Woolsthorpe after Newton's home in
Lincolnshire, where the famous apple incident occurred.)
An apple orchard, if it is to fill the heart of man to the full with
affectionate satisfaction, should straggle down a hillside toward a lake
and a white road where the sun shines hotly. Some of its branches should
trail over an old, lichened and weather-stained stone wall, dropping
their fruit into the highway for thirsty pedestrians. There should be a
little path running athwart it, down toward the lake and the old
flat-bottomed boat, whose bilge is scattered with the black and
shriveled remains of angleworms used for bait. In warm August afternoons
the sweet savor of ripening drifts warmly on the air, and there rises
the drowsy hum of wasps exploring the windfalls that are already rotting
on the grass. There you may lie watching the sky through the chinks of
the leaves, and imagining the cool, golden tang of this autumn's cider
vats.
You see what it is to have Caliphs in the world.
AS TO RUMORS
MADRID, Jan. 17.--Nikolai Lenine was among the Russians who landed at
Barcelona recently, according to newspapers here.--News item.
It is rather important to understand the technique of rumors. The wise
man does not scoff at them, for while they are often absurd, they are
rarely baseless. People do not go about inventing rumors, except for
purposes of hoax; and even a practical joke is never (to parody the
proverb) hoax et præterea nihil. There is always a reason for wanting to
perpetrate the hoax, or a reason for believing it will be believed.
Rumors are a kind of exhalation or intellectual perfume thrown off by
the news of the day. Some events are more aromatic than others; they can
be detected by the trained pointer long before they happen. When things
are going on that have a strong vibration--what foreign correspondents
love to call a "repercussion"--they cause a good deal of mind-quaking.
An event getting ready to happen is one of the most interesting things
to watch. By a sort of mental radiation it fills men's minds with
surmises and conjectures. Curiously enough, due perhaps to the innate
perversity of man, most of the rumors suggest the exact opposite of what
is going to happen. Yet a rumor, while it may be wholly misleading as to
fact, is always a proof that something is going to happen. For instance,
last summer when the news was full of repeated reports of Hindenburg's
death, any sane man could foresee that what these reports really meant
was not necessarily Hindenburg's death at all, but Germany's approaching
military collapse. Some German prisoners had probably said "Hindenburg
ist kaput," meaning "Hindenburg is done for," i.e., "The great offensive
has failed." This was taken to mean that he was literally dead.
In the same way, while probably no one seriously believes that Lenine is
in Barcelona, the mere fact that Madrid thinks it possible shows very
plainly that something is going on. It shows either that the Bolshevik
experiment in Petrograd has been such a gorgeous success that Lenine can
turn his attention to foreign campaigning, or that it has been such a
gorgeous failure that he has had to skip. It does not prove, since the
rumor is "unconfirmed," that Lenine has gone anywhere yet; but it
certainly does prove that he is going somewhere soon, even if only to
the fortress of Peter and Paul. There may be some very simple
explanation of the rumor. "You go to Barcelona!" may be a jocular
Muscovite catchword, similar to our old saying about going to Halifax,
and Trotzky may have said it to Lenine. At any rate it shows that the
gold dust twins are not inseparable. It shows that Bolshevism in Russia
is either very strong or very near downfall.
When we were told not long ago that Berlin was strangely gay for the
capital of a prostrate nation and that all the cafés were crowded with
dancers at night, many readers were amazed and tried to console their
sense of probability by remarking that the Germans are crazy anyway. And
yet this rumor of the dancing mania was an authentic premonition of the
bloodier dance of death led by the Spartacus group. If Berlin did dance
it was a cotillon of despair, caused by infinite war weariness, infinite
hunger to forget humiliation for a few moments, and foreboding of
troubles to come. Whether true or not, no one read the news without
thinking it an ominous whisper.
Coming events cast their rumors before. From a careful study of rumors
the discerning may learn a good deal, providing always that they never
take them at face value but try to read beneath the surface. People
sometimes criticize the newspapers for printing rumors, but it is an
essential part of their function to do so, provided they plainly mark
them as such. Shakespeare speaks of rumors as "stuffing the ears of men
with false reports," yet if so this is not the fault of the rumor
itself, but of the too credible listener. The prosperity of a rumor is
in the ear that hears it. The sagacious listener will take the trouble
to sift and winnow his rumors, set them in perspective with what he
knows of the facts and from them he will then deduce exceedingly
valuable considerations. Rumor is the living atmosphere of men's minds,
the most fascinating and significant problem with which we have to deal.
The Fact, the Truth, may shine like the sun, but after all it is the
clouds that make the sunset beautiful. Keep your eye on the rumors, for
a sufficient number of rumors can compel an event to happen, even
against its will.
No one can set down any hard and fast rules for reading the rumors. The
process is partly instinctive and partly the result of trained
observation. It is as complicated as the calculation by which a woman
tells time by her watch which she knows to be wrong--she adds seventeen
minutes, subtracts three, divides by two and then looks at the church
steeple. It is as exhilarating as trying to deduce what there is going
to be for supper by the pervasive fragrance of onions in the front hall.
And sometimes a very small event, like a very small onion, can cast its
rumors a long way. Destiny is unlike the hen in that she cackles before
she lays the egg.
The first rule to observe about rumors is that they are often exactly
opposite in tendency to the coming fact. For instance, the rumors of
secrecy at the Peace Conference were the one thing necessary to
guarantee complete publicity. Just before any important event occurs it
seems to discharge both positive and negative currents, just as a magnet
is polarized by an electric coil. Some people by mental habit catch the
negative vibrations, others the positive. Every one can remember the
military critics last March who were so certain that there would be no
German offensive. Their very certainty was to many others a proof that
the offensive was likely. They were full of the negative vibrations.
An interesting case of positive vibrations was the repeated rumor of the
Kaiser's abdication. The fact that those rumors were premature was
insignificant compared with the fact that they were current at all. The
fact that there were such rumors showed that it was only a matter of
time.
It is entertaining, if disconcerting, to watch a rumor on its travels.
A classic example of this during the recent war is exhibited by the
following clippings which were collected, I believe, by Norman Hapgood:
From the _Koelnische-Zeitung_:
"When the fall of Antwerp became known the church bells were rung."
(Meaning in Germany.)
[Illustration]
From the Paris _Matin_:
"According to the _Koelnische-Zeitung_, the clergy of Antwerp were
compelled to ring the church bells when the fortress was taken."
From the London _Times_:
"According to what the _Matin_ has heard from Cologne, the Belgian
priests, who refused to ring the church bells when Antwerp was taken,
have been driven away from their places."
From the _Corriere Della Sera_, of Milan:
"According to what the _Times_ has heard from Cologne, via Paris, the
unfortunate Belgian priests, who refused to ring the church bells when
Antwerp was taken, have been sentenced to hard labor."
From the _Matin_ again:
"According to information received by the _Corriere Della Sera_, from
Cologne, via London, it is confirmed that the barbaric conquerors of
Antwerp punished the unfortunate Belgian priests for their heroic
refusal to ring the church bells by hanging them as living clappers to
the bells with their heads down."
Be hospitable to rumors, for however grotesque they are, they always
have some reason for existence. The Sixth Sense is the sense of news,
the sense that something is going to happen. And just as every orchestra
utters queer and discordant sounds while it is tuning up its
instruments, so does the great orchestra of Human Events (in other
words, The News) offer shrill and perhaps misleading notes before the
conductor waves his baton and leads off the concerted crash of Truth.
Keep your senses alert to examine the odd scraps of hearsay that you
will often see in the news, for it is in just those eavesdroppings at
the heart of humanity that the press often fulfills its highest
function.
OUR MOTHERS
[Illustration]
When one becomes a father, then first one becomes a son. Standing by the
crib of one's own baby, with that world-old pang of compassion and
protectiveness toward this so little creature that has all its course to
run, the heart flies back in yearning and gratitude to those who felt
just so toward one's self. Then for the first time one understands the
homely succession of sacrifices and pains by which life is transmitted
and fostered down the stumbling generations of men.
Every man is privileged to believe all his life that his own mother is
the best and dearest that a child ever had. By some strange racial
instinct of taciturnity and repression most of us lack utterance to say
our thoughts in this close matter. A man's mother is so tissued and
woven into his life and brain that he can no more describe her than
describe the air and sunlight that bless his days. It is only when some
Barrie comes along that he can say for all of us what fills the eye with
instant tears of gentleness. Is there a mother, is there a son, who has
not read Barrie's "Margaret Ogilvy?" Turn to that first chapter, "How My
Mother Got Her Soft Face," and draw aside the veils that years and
perplexity weave over the inner sanctuaries of our hearts.
Our mothers understand us so well! Speech and companionship with them
are so easy, so unobstructed by the thousand teasing barriers that bar
soul from eager soul! To walk and talk with them is like slipping on an
old coat. To hear their voices is like the shake of music in a sober
evening hush.
There is a harmony and beauty in the life of mother and son that brims
the mind's cup of satisfaction. So well we remember when she was all in
all; strength, tenderness, law and life itself. Her arms were the world:
her soft cheek our sun and stars. And now it is we who are strong and
self-sufficing; it is she who leans on us. Is there anything so
precious, so complete, so that return of life's pendulum?
And it is as grandmothers that our mothers come into the fullness of
their grace. When a man's mother holds his child in her gladdened arms
he is aware (with some instinctive sense of propriety) of the roundness
of life's cycle; of the mystic harmony of life's ways. There speaks
humanity in its chord of three notes: its little capture of completeness
and joy, sounding for a moment against the silent flux of time. Then the
perfect span is shredded away and is but a holy memory.
The world, as we tread its puzzling paths, shows many profiles and
glimpses of wonder and loveliness; many shapes and symbols to entrance
and astound. Yet it will offer us nothing more beautiful than our
mother's face; no memory more dear than her encircling tenderness. The
mountain tops of her love rise as high in ether as any sun-stained alp.
Lakes are no deeper and no purer blue than her bottomless charity. We
need not fare further than her immortal eyes to know that life is good.
How strangely fragmentary our memories of her are, and yet (when we
piece them together) how they erect a comfortable background for all we
are and dream. She built the earth about us and arched us over with sky.
She created our world, taught us to dwell therein. The passion of her
love compelled the rude laws of life to stand back while we were soft
and helpless. She defied gravity that we might not fall. She set aside
hunger, sleep and fear that we might have plenty. She tamed her own
spirit and crushed her own weakness that we might be strong. And when we
passed down the laughing street of childhood and turned that corner that
all must pass, it was her hand that waved good-bye. Then, smothering the
ache, with one look into the secret corner where the old keepsakes lie
hid, she set about waiting the day when the long-lost baby would come
back anew. The grandchild--is he not her own boy returned to her arms?
Who can lean over a crib at night, marveling upon that infinite
innocence and candor swathed in the silk cocoon of childish sleep,
without guessing the throb of fierce gentleness that runs in maternal
blood? The earth is none too rich in compassion these days: let us be
grateful to the mothers for what remains. It was not they who filled the
world with spies and quakings. It was not a cabal of mothers that met to
decree blood and anguish for the races of men. They know that life is
built at too dear a price to be so lathered in corruption and woe. Those
who create life, who know its humility, its tender fabric and its
infinite price, who have cherished and warmed and fed it, do not lightly
cast it into the pit.
Mothers are great in the eyes of their sons because they are knit in
our minds with all the littlenesses of life, the unspeakably dear
trifles and odds of existence. The other day I found in my desk a little
strip of tape on which my name was marked a dozen times in drawing ink,
in my mother's familiar script. My mind ran back to the time when that
little band of humble linen was a kind of passport into manhood. It was
when I went away from home and she could no longer mark my garments with
my name, for the confusion of rapacious laundries. I was to cut off the
autographed sections of this tape and sew them on such new vestments as
came my way. Of course I did not do so; what boy would be faithful to so
feminine a trust? But now the little tape, soiled by a dozen years of
wandering, lies in my desk drawer as a symbol and souvenir of that
endless forethought and loving kindness.
They love us not wisely but too well, it is sometimes said. Ah, in a
world where so many love us not well but too wisely, how tremulously our
hearts turn back to bathe in that running river of their love and
ceaseless charm!
GREETING TO AMERICAN ANGLERS
_From Master Isaak Walton_
My Good Friends--As I have said afore time, sitting by a river's side is
the quietest and fittest place for contemplation, and being out and
along the bank of Styx with my tackle this sweet April morning, it came
into my humor to send a word of greeting to you American anglers. Some
of your fellows, who have come by this way these past years, tell me
notable tales of the sport that may he had in your bright streams,
whereof the name of Pocono lingers in my memory. Sad it is to me to
recall that when writing my little book on the recreation of a
contemplative man I had made no mention of your rivers as delightsome
places where our noble art might be carried to a brave perfection, but
indeed in that day when I wrote--more years ago than I like to think
on--your far country was esteemed a wild and wanton land. Some worthy
Pennsylvania anglers with whom I have fished this water of Styx have
even told me of thirty and forty-inch trouts they have brought to
basket in that same Pocono stream, from the which fables I know that the
manners of our ancient sport have altered not a whit. I myself could
tell you of a notable catch I had the other morning, when I took some
half dozen brace of trouts before breakfast, not one less than
twenty-two inches, with bellies as yellow as marigold and as white as a
lily in parts. That I account quite excellent taking for these times,
when this stream hath been so roiled and troubled by the passage of
Master Charon's barges, he having been so pressed with traffic that he
hath discarded his ancient vessel as incommodious and hasteneth to and
fro with a fleet of ferryboats.
[Illustration]
My Good Friends, I wish you all the comely sport that may be found along
those crystal rivers whereof your fellows have told me, and a good
honest alehouse wherein to take your civil cup of barley wine when there
ariseth too violent a shower of rain. I have ever believed that a pipe
of tobacco sweeteneth sport, and I was never above hiding a bottle of
somewhat in the hollow root of a sycamore against chilly seizures. But
come, what is this I hear that you honest anglers shall no longer pledge
fortune in a cup of mild beverage? Meseemeth this is an odd thing and
contrary to our tradition. I look for some explanation of the matter.
Mayhap I have been misled by some waggishness. In my days along my
beloved little river Dove, where my friend Mr. Cotton erected his
fishing house, we were wont to take our pleasure on the bowling green of
an evening, with a cup of ale handy. And our sheets used to smell
passing sweet of lavender, which is a pleasant fragrance, indeed.
One matter lies somewhat heavy on my heart and damps my mirth, that in
my little book I said of our noble fish the trout that his name was of a
German offspring. I am happy to confess to you that I was at fault, for
my good friend Master Charon (who doth sometimes lighten his labors with
a little casting and trolling from the poop of his vessel) hath
explained to me that the name trout deriveth from the antique Latin word
_tructa_, signifying a gnawer. This is a gladsome thing for me to know,
and moreover I am bounden to tell you that the house committee of our
little angling club along Styx hath blackballed all German members
henceforward. These riparian pleasures are justly to be reserved for
gentles of the true sportsman blood, and not such as have defiled the
fair rivers of France.
And so, good friends, my love and blessing upon all such as love
quietness and go angling.
IZAAK WALTON.
MRS. IZAAK WALTON WRITES A LETTER TO HER MOTHER
CHANCERY LANE, LONDON, April 28, 1639.
My Dearest Mother: Matters indeed pass from badd to worse, and I fear
mee that with Izaak spending all hys tyme angling along riversydes and
neglecting the millinery shoppe (wych is our onlie supporte, for can
bodye and soule be keppt in one by a few paltrie brace of trouts a
weeke?) wee shall soone come to a sorrye ende. How many tymes, deare
Mother, have I bewailed my follye in wedding this creature who seemeth
to mee more a fysh than a man, not mearly by reason of hys madnesse for
the gracelesse practice of water-dabbling, but eke for hys passion for
swimming in barley wine, ale, malmsey and other infuriatyng liquours.
What manner of companye doth this dotard keepe on his fyshing pastimes,
God wot! Lo he is wonte to come home at some grievous houre of ye
nyghte, bearing but a smalle catche but plentyful aroma of drinke, and
ofttimes alsoe hys rybalde freinds do accompany hym. Nothing will serve
but they must arouse our kytchen-maide and have some paltry chubb or
gudgeon fryed in greese, filling ye house wyth nauseous odoures, and
wyth their ill prattle of fyshing tackle, not to say the comely
milke-maides they have seen along some wanton meadowside, soe that I am
moste distraught. You knowe, my deare, I never colde abyde fyssche being
colde clammy cretures, and loe onlye last nyghte this Monster dyd come
to my beddside where I laye asleepyng and wake me fromm a sweet drowse
by dangling a string of loathsome queasy trouts, still dryppinge,
against my nose. Lo, says he, are these not beuties? And his reek of
barley wine did fille the chamber. Worste of alle, deare Mother, this
all-advised wretche doth spend alle his vacant houres in compiling a
booke on the art (as he calleth it) of angling, surely a trifling petty
wanton taske that will
[Illustration]
make hym the laughing-stocke of all sober men. God forbidd that oure
littel son sholde be brought uppe in this nastye squanderinge of tyme,
wych doth breede nought (meseems) but ale-bibbing and ye disregarde of
truth. Oure house, wych is but small as thou knowest, is all cluttered
wyth his slimye tackle, and loe but yesterdaye I loste a customer fromm
ye millinery shoppe, shee averring (and I trow ryghtly) that ye shoppe
dyd stinke of fysshe. Ande soe if thys thyng do continue longer I shall
ripp uppe and leave, for I thoght to wed a man and not a paddler of
dytches. O howe I longe for those happy dayes with thee, before I ever
knew such a thyng as a fysshe existed! Sad too it is that he doth
justifye his vain idle wanton pasttyme by misquoting scriptures. Saint
Peter, and soe on. Three kytchen maides have lefte us latelye for
barbyng themselves upon hydden hookes that doe scatter our shelves and
drawers.
Thy persecuted daughter, ANNE WALTON.
TRUTH
Our mind is dreadfully active sometimes, and the other day we began to
speculate on Truth.
Our friends are still avoiding us.
Every man knows what Truth is, but it is impossible to utter it. The
face of your listener, his eyes mirthful or sorry, his eager expectance
or his churlish disdain insensibly distort your message. You find
yourself saying what you know he expects you to say, or (more often)
what he expects you not to say. You may not be aware of this, but that
is what happens. In order that the world may go on and human beings
thrive, nature has contrived that the Truth may not often be uttered.
And how is one to know what is Truth? He thinks one thing before lunch;
after a stirring bout with corned beef and onions the shining vision is
strangely altered. Which is Truth?
Truth can only be attained by those whose systems are untainted by
secret influences, such as love, envy, ambition, food, college education
and moonlight in spring.
If a man lived in a desert for six months without food, drink or
companionship he would be reasonably free from prejudice and would be in
a condition to enunciate great truths.
But even then his vision of reality would have been warped by so much
sand and so many sunsets.
Even if he survived and brought us his Truth with all the gravity and
long night-gown of a Hindu faker, as soon as any one listened to him his
message would no longer be Truth. The complexion of his audience, the
very shape of their noses, would subtly undermine his magnificent
aloofness.
Women have learned the secret. Truth must never be uttered, and never be
listened to.
Truth is the ricochet of a prejudice bouncing off a fact.
Truth is what every man sees lurking at the bottom of his own soul, like
the oyster shell housewives put in the kitchen kettle to collect the
lime from the water. By and by each man's iridescent oyster shell of
Truth becomes coated with the lime of prejudice and hearsay.
All the above is probably untrue.
THE TRAGEDY OF WASHINGTON SQUARE
One of our favorite amusements at lunch-time is to walk down to Henry
Rosa's pastry shop, and buy a slab of cinnamon bun. Then we walk round
Washington Square, musing, and gradually walking round and engulfing the
cinnamon bun at the same time. It is surprising what a large
circumference those buns of Henry's have. By the time we have gnashed
our way through one of those warm and mystic phenomena we don't want to
eat again for a month.
The real reason for the cinnamon bun is to fortify us for the
contemplation and onslaught upon a tragic problem that Washington Square
presents to our pondering soul.
Washington Square is a delightful place. There are trees there, and
publishing houses and warm green grass and a fire engine station. There
are children playing about on the broad pavements that criss-cross the
sward; there is a fine roof of blue sky, kept from falling down by the
enormous building at the north side of the Square. But these things
present no problems. To our simple philosophy a tree is a vegetable, a
child is an animal, a building is a mineral and this classification
needs no further scrutiny or analysis. But there is one thing in
Washington Square that embodies an intellectual problem, a grappling of
the soul, a matter for continual anguish and decision.
On the west side of the Square is the Swiss consulate, and, it is this
that weighs upon our brooding spirit. How many times we have paused
before that quiet little house and gazed upon the little red cross, a
Maltese Cross, or a Cross of St. Hieronymus; or whatever the heraldic
term is, that represents and symbolizes the diplomatic and spiritual
presence of the Swiss republic. We have stood there and thought about
William Tell and the Berne Convention and the St. Gothard Tunnel and St.
Bernard dogs and winter sports and alpenstocks and edelweiss and the
Jungfrau and all the other trappings and trappists that make Switzerland
notable. We have mused upon the Swiss military system, which is so
perfect that it has never had to be tested by war; and we have wondered
what is the name of the President of Switzerland and how he keeps it out
of the papers so successfully. One day we lugged an encyclopedia and the
Statesman's Year Book out to the Square with us and sat down on a bench
facing the consulate and read up about the Swiss cabinet and the
national bank of Switzerland and her child labor problems. Accidentally
we discovered the name of the Swiss President, but as he has kept it so
dark we are not going to give away his secret.
Our dilemma is quite simple. Where there is a consulate there must be a
consul, and it seems to us a dreadful thing that inside that building
there lurks a Swiss envoy who does not know that we, here, we who are
walking round the Square with our mouth full of Henry Rosa's bun, once
spent a night in Switzerland. We want him to know that; we think he
ought to know it; we think it is part of his diplomatic duty to know it.
And yet how can we burst in on him and tell him that apparently
irrelevant piece of information?
We have thought of various ways of breaking it to him, or should we say
breaking him to it?
Should we rush in and say the Swiss national debt is $----, or ----
kopecks, and then lead on to other topics such as the comparative
heights of mountain peaks, letting the consul gradually grasp the fact
that we have been in Switzerland? Or should we call him up on the
telephone and make a mysterious appointment with him, when we could
blurt it out brutally?
We are a modest and diffident man, and this little problem, which would
be so trifling to many, presents inscrutable hardships to us.
Another aspect of the matter is this. We think the consul ought to know
that we spent one night in Switzerland once; we think he ought to know
what we were doing that night; but we also think he ought to know just
why it was that we spent only one night in his beautiful country. We
don't want him to think we hurried away because we were annoyed by
anything, or because the national debt was so many rupees or piasters,
or because child labor in Switzerland is----. It is the thought that the
consul and all his staff are in total ignorance of our existence that
galls us. Here we are, walking round and round the Square, bursting with
information and enthusiasm about Swiss republicanism, and the consul
never heard of us. How can we summon up courage enough to tell him the
truth? That is the tragedy of Washington Square.
It was a dark, rainy night when we bicycled into Basel. We hid been
riding all day long, coming down from the dark clefts of the Black
Forest, and we and our knapsack were wet through. We had been bicycling
for six weeks with no more luggage than a rucksack could hold. We never
saw such rain as fell that day we slithered and sloshed on the rugged
slopes that tumble down to the Rhine at Basel. (The annual rainfall in
Switzerland is----.) When we got to the little hotel at Basel we sat in
the dining room with water running off us in trickles, until the head
waiter glared. And so all we saw of Switzerland was the interior of the
tobacconist's where we tried, unsuccessfully, to get some English baccy.
Then he went to bed while our garments were dried. We stayed in bed for
ten hours, reading, fairy tales and smoking and answering modestly
through the transom when any one asked us questions.
The next morning we overhauled our wardrobe. We will not particularize,
but we decided that one change of duds, after six weeks' bicycling, was
not enough of a wardrobe to face the Jungfrau and the national debt and
the child-labor problenm, not to speak of the anonymous President and
the other sights that matter (such as the Matterhorn). Also, our stock
of tobacco had run out, and German or French tobacco we simply cannot
smoke. Even if we could get along on substitute fumigants the issue of
garments was imperative. The nearest place where we could get any
clothes of the kind that we are accustomed to, the kind of clothes that
are familiarly symbolized by three well-known initials, was London. And
the only way we had to get to London was on our bicycle. We thought we
had better get busy. It's a long bike ride from Basel to London. So we
just went as far as the Basel Cathedral, so as not to seem too
unappreciative of all the treasures that Switzerland had been saving for
us for countless centuries; then we got on board our patient steed and
trundled off through Alsace.
That was in August, 1912, and we firmly intended to go back to
Switzerland the next year to have another look at, the rainfall and the
rest of the statistics and status quos. But the opportunity has not
come.
So that is why we wander disconsolately about Washington Square, trying
to make up our mind to unburden our bosom to the Swiss consul and tell
him the worst. But how can one go and interrupt a consul to tell him
that sort of thing? Perhaps he wouldn't understand it at all; he would
misunderstand our pathetic little story and be angry that we took up his
time. He wouldn't think that a shortage of tobacco and clothing was a
sufficient excuse for slighting William Tell and the Jungfrau. He
wouldn't appreciate the frustrated emotion and longing with which we
watch the little red cross at his front door, and think of all it means
to us and all it might have meant.
We took another turn around Washington Square, trying to embolden
ourself enough to go in and tell the consul all this. And then our heart
failed us. We decided to write a piece for the paper about it, and if
the consul ever sees it he will be generous and understand. He will know
why, behind the humble façade of his consulate on Washington Square, we
see the heaven-piercing summits of Switzerland rising like a dream, blue
and silvery and tantalizing.
P.S. Since the above we have definitely decided not to go to call on the
Swiss consul. Suppose he were only a vice-consul, a Philadelphia Swiss,
who had never been to Switzerland in his life!
IF MR. WILSON WERE THE WEATHER MAN
My Fellow Citizens: It is very delightful to be here, if I may be
permitted to say so, and I consider it a distinguished privilege to open
the discussion as to the probable weather to-morrow not only, but during
the days to come. I can easily conceive that many of our forecasts will
need subsequent reconsideration, for if I may judge by my own study of
these matters, the climate is not susceptible of confident judgments at
present.
An overwhelming majority of the American people is in favor of fine
weather. This underlying community of purpose warms my heart. If we do
not guarantee them fine weather, cannot you see the picture of what
would come to pass? Your hearts have instructed you where the rain
falls. It falls upon senators and congressmen not only--and for that we
need not feel so much chagrin--it falls upon humble homes everywhere,
upon plain men, and women, and children. If I were to disappoint the
united expectation of my fellow citizens for fine weather to-morrow I
would incur their merited scorn.
I suppose no more delicate task is given any man than to interpret the
feelings and purposes of a great climate. It is not a task in which any
man can find much exhilaration, and I confess I have been puzzled by
some of the criticisms leveled at my office. But they do not make any
impression on me, because I know that the sentiment of the country at
large will be more generous. I call my fellow countrymen to witness that
at no stage of the recent period of low barometric pressure have I
judged the purposes of the climate intemperately. I should be ashamed to
use the weak language of vindictive protest.
I have tried once and again, my fellow citizens, to say to you in all
frankness what seems to be the prospect of fine weather. There is a
compulsion upon one in my position to exercise every effort to see that
as little as possible of the hope of mankind is disappointed. Yet this
is a hope which cannot, in the very nature of things, be realized in its
perfection. The utmost that can be done by way of accommodation and
compromise has been performed without stint or limit. I am sure it will
not be necessary to remind you that you cannot throw off the habits of
the climate immediately, any more than you can throw off the habits of
the individual immediately. But however unpromising the immediate
outlook may be, I am the more happy to offer my observations on the
state of the weather for to-morrow because this is not a party issue.
What a delightful thought that is! Whatever the condition of sunshine or
precipitation vouchsafed to us, may I not hope that we shall all meet it
with quickened temper and purpose, happy in the thought that it is our
common fortune?
For to-morrow there is every prospect of heavy and continuous rain.
SYNTAX FOR CYNICS
A GRAMMAR OF THE FEMININE LANGUAGE
The feminine language consists of words placed one after another with
extreme rapidity, with intervals for matinees. The purpose of this
language is (1) to conceal, and (2) to induce, thought. Very often,
after the use of a deal of language, a thought will appear in the
speaker's mind. This, while desirable, is by no means necessary.
[Illustration]
THOUGHT cannot be defined, but it is instinctively recognized even by
those unaccustomed to it.
PARTS OF SPEECH: There are five parts of feminine speech--noun,
pronoun, adjective, verb and interjection.
THE NOUN is the name of something to wear, or somebody who furnishes
something to wear, or a place where something is to be worn. E.g., _hat,
husband, opera_. Feminine nouns are always singular.
THE PRONOUN is _I_.
ADJECTIVES: There are only four feminine adjectives--_adorable, cute,
sweet, horrid_. These are all modified on occasion by the adverb
_perfectly_.
THE VERBS are of two kinds--active and passive. Active verbs express
action; passive verbs express passion. All feminine verbs are irregular
and imperative.
INTERJECTIONS: There are two interjections--_Heavens_! and _Gracious_!
The masculine language is much richer in interjections.
DECLENSION: There are three ways of feminine declining, (1) to say No;
(2) to say Yes and mean No; (3) to say nothing.
CONJUGATION: This is what happens to a verb in the course of
conversation or shopping. A verb begins the day quite innocently, as the
verb _go_ in the phrase _to go to town_. When it gets to the city this
verb becomes _look_, as, for instance, to _look at the shop windows._
Thereafter its descent is rapid into the form _purchase_ or _charge_.
This conjugation is often assisted by the auxiliary expression _a
bargain_. About the first of the following month the verb reappears in
the masculine vocabulary in a parallel or perverted form, modified by an
interjection.
CONVERSATION in the feminine language consists of language rapidly
vibrating or oscillating between two persons. The object of any
conversation is always accusative, e.g., "_Mrs. Edwards has no taste in
hats_." Most conversations consist of an indeterminate number of
sentences, but sometimes it is difficult to tell where one sentence ends
and the next begins. It is even possible for two sentences to overlap.
When this occurs the conversation is known as a dialogue. A sentence may
be of any length, and is concluded only by the physiological necessity
of taking breath.
SENTENCES: A sentence may be defined as a group of words, uttered in
sequence, but without logical connection, to express an opinion or an
emotion. A number of sentences if emitted without interruption becomes a
conversation. A conversation prolonged over an hour or more becomes a
gossip. A gossip, when shared by several persons, is known as a secret.
A secret is anything known by a large and constantly increasing number
of persons.
LETTERS: The feminine language, when committed to paper, with a stub pen
and backhanded chirography, is known as a letter. A letter should if
possible, be written on rose or lemon colored paper of a rough and
flannely texture, with scalloped edges and initials embossed in gilt. It
should be written with great rapidity, containing not less than ten
exclamation points per page and three underlined adjectives per
paragraph. The verb may be reserved until the postscript.
Generally speaking, students of the feminine language are agreed that
rules of grammar and syntax are subject to individual caprice and whim,
and it is very difficult to lay down fixed canons. The extreme rapidity
with which the language is used and the charm and personal magnetism of
its users have disconcerted even the most careful and scientific
observers. A glossary of technical terms and idioms in the feminine
language would be a work of great value to the whole husband world, but
it is doubtful if any such volume will ever be published.
THE TRUTH AT LAST
AN EXTRACT FROM MARTHA WASHINGTON'S DIARY
[Illustration]
Feb. 22, 1772. A grate Company of Guests assembled at Mt Vernon to
celebrate Gen'l Washington's Birthdaye. In the Morning the Gentlemenn
went a Fox hunting, but their Sport was marred by the Pertinacity of
some Motion Picture menn who persewd them to take Fillums and catchd the
General falling off his Horse at a Ditch. In the Evening some of the
Companye tooke Occasion to rally the General upon the old Fable of the
Cherrye Tree, w'ch hath ever been imputed an Evidence of hys exceeding
Veracity, though to saye sooth I never did believe the legend my self.
"Well," sayes the General with a Twinkle, "it wolde not be Politick to
denye a Romance w'ch is soe profitable to my Reputation, but to be
Candid, Gentlemenn, I have no certain recollection of the Affaire. My
Brother Lawrence was wont to say that the Tree or Shrubb in question was
no Cherrye but a Bitter Persimmon; moreover he told me that I stoutly
denyed any Attacke upon it; but being caught with the Goods (as Tully
saith) I was soundly Flogged, and walked stiffly for three dayes."
I was glad to heare the Truth in this matter as I have never seen any
Corroboration of this surpassing Virtue in George's private Life. The
evening broke up in some Disorder as Col Fairfax and others hadd Drunk
too freely of the Cock's Taile as they dub the new and very biting Toddy
introduced by the military. Wee hadd to call a chirurgeon to lett Blood
for some of the Guests before they coulde be gott to Bedd, whither they
were conveyed on stretchers.
FIXED IDEAS
It is said that a Fixed Idea is the beginning of madness.
Yet we are often worried because we have so few Fixed Ideas. We do not
seem to have any really definite Theory about Life.
* * * * *
We find, on the other hand, that a great many of those we know have some
Guiding Principle that excuses and explains all their conduct.
* * * * *
If you have some Theory about Life, and are thoroughly devoted to it,
you may come to a bad end, but you will enjoy yourself heartily.
* * * * *
These theories may be of many different kinds. One of our friends rests
his career and hope of salvation on the doctrine that eating plenty of
fish and going without an overcoat whenever possible constitute supreme
happiness.
* * * * *
Another prides himself on not being able to roll a cigarette. If he were
forced, at the point of the bayonet, to roll a fag, it would wreck his
life.
* * * * *
Another is convinced that the Lost and Found ads in the papers all
contain anarchist code messages, and sits up late at night trying to
unriddle them.
* * * * *
How delightful it must be to be possessed by one of these Theories! All
the experiences of the theorist's life tend to confirm his Theory. This
is always so. Did you ever hear of a Theory being confuted?
* * * * *
Facts are quite helpless in the face of Theories. For after all, most
Facts are insufficiently encouraged with applause. When a Fact comes
along, the people in charge are generally looking the other way. This is
what is meant by Not Facing the Facts.
* * * * *
Therefore all argument is quite useless, for it only results in
stiffening your friend's belief in his (presumably wrong) Theory.
* * * * *
When any one tries to argue with you, say, "You are nothing if not
accurate, and you are not accurate." Then escape from the room.
* * * * *
When we hear our friends diligently expounding the ideas which Explain
Everything, we are wistful. We go off and say to ourself, We really must
dig up some kind of Theory about Life.
* * * * *
We read once of a great man that he never said, "Well, possibly so."
This gave us an uneasy pang.
* * * * *
It is a mistake to be Open to Conviction on so many topics, because all
one's friends try to convince one. This is very painful.
* * * * *
And it is embarrassing if, for the sake of a quiet life, one pretends to
be convinced. At the corner of Tenth and Chestnut we allowed ourself to
agree with A.B., who said that the German colonies should be
internationalized. Then we had to turn down Ninth Street because we saw
C.D. coming, with whom we had previously agreed that Great Britain
should have German Africa. And in a moment we had to dodge into Sansom
Street to avoid E.F., having already assented to his proposition that
the German colonies should have self-determination. This kind of thing
makes it impossible to see one's friends more than one at a time.
* * * * *
Perhaps our Fixed Idea is that we have no Fixed Ideas.
Well, possibly so.
TRIALS OF A PRESIDENT TRAVELING ABROAD
10 a.m.--Arrive at railway station. Welcomed by King and Queen. Hat on
head. Umbrella left hand. Gloves on.
10:01--Right glove off (hastily) into left hand. Hat off (right hand).
Umbrella hanging on left arm.
10:02--Right glove into left pocket. Hat to left hand. Shake hands with
King.
10:03--Shake hands with Queen. Left glove off to receive flowers.
Umbrella to right hand.
10:04--Shake hands with Prime Minister. Left glove in left hand.
Umbrella back to left hand. Flowers in left hand. Hat in left hand.
10:05--Enter King's carriage. Try to drop flowers under carriage
unobserved. Foreign Minister picks them up with gallant remark.
10:06--Shake hands with Foreign Minister. In his emotional foreign
manner he insists on taking both hands. Quick work: Umbrella to right
elbow, gloves left pocket, hat under right arm, flowers to right pocket.
10:08--Received by Lord Mayor, who offers freedom of the city in golden
casket. Casket in left hand, Lord Mayor in right hand Queen on left arm,
umbrella on right arm flowers and gloves bursting from pockets hat
(momentarily) on head.
10:10--Delegation of statesmen. Statesmen in right hand. Hat, umbrella,
gloves, King, flowers, casket in left hand. Situation getting
complicated.
10:15--Ceremonial reception by Queen Mother. Getting confused. Queen
Mother in left pocket, umbrella on head, gloves on right hand, hat in
left hand, King on head, flowers in trousers pocket. Casket under left
arm.
10:17--Complete collapse. Failure of the League of Nations.
DIARY OF A PUBLISHER'S OFFICE BOY
Jan. 7, 1600. Thys daye ye Bosse bade mee remaine in ye Outer Office to
keepe Callers from Hinderyng Hym in Hys affaires. There came an olde
Bumme (ye same wch hath beene heare before) wth ye Scrypte of a Playe,
dubbed Roumio ande Julia. Hys name was Shake a Speare or somethynge lyke
thatt. Ye Bosse bade mee reade ye maunuscripp myselfe, as hee was Bussy.
I dyd. Ande of alle foulishnesse, thys playe dyd beare away ye prize.
Conceive ye Absuerditye of laying ye Sceane in Italy, it ys welle knowne
that Awdiences will not abear nothyng that is not sett neare at Home.
Butt woarse stille, thys fellowe presumes to kille offe Boath Heroe ande
Heroine in ye Laste Acte, wch is Intolerabble toe ye Publicke. Suerley
noe chaunce of Success in thys. Ye awthour dyd reappeare in ye
aufternoone, and dyd seeke to borrowe a crowne from mee, but I sente hym
packing. Ye Bosse hath heartilye given me Styx forr admitting such
Vagabones to ye Office. I tolde maister Shake a Speare that unlesse hee
colde learne to wryte Beste Sellers such as Master Spenser's Faerye
Quene (wch wee have put through six editions) there was suerly noe Hope
for hym. Hee tooke thys advyse in goode parte, and wente. Hys jerkin
wolde have beene ye better for a patchinge.
THE DOG'S COMMANDMENTS
[Illustration]
From a witless puppy I brought thee up: gave thee fire and food, and
taught thee the self-respect of an honest dog. Hear, then, my
commandments:
I am thy master: thou shalt have no other masters before me. Where I go,
shalt thou follow; where I abide, tarry thou also.
My house is thy castle; thou shalt honor it; guard it with thy life if
need be.
By daylight, suffer all that approach peaceably to enter without
protest. But after nightfall thou shalt give tongue when men draw near.
Use not thy teeth on any man without good cause and intolerable
provocation; and never on women or children.
Honor thy master and thy mistress, that thy days may be long in the
land.
Thou shalt not consort with mongrels, nor with dogs that are common or
unclean.
Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not feed upon refuse or stray bits: thy
meat waits thee regularly in the kitchen.
Thou shalt not bury bones in the flower beds.
Cats are to be chased, but in sport only; seek not to devour them: their
teeth and claws are deadly.
Thou shalt not snap at my neighbor, nor at his wife, nor his child, nor
his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor do
harm to aught that is his.
The drawing-room rug is not for thee, nor the sofa, nor the best
armchair. Thou hast the porch and thy own kennel. But for the love I
bear thee, there is always a corner for thee by the winter fire.
Meditate on these commandments day and night; so shalt thou be a dog of
good breeding and an honor to thy master.
THE VALUE OF CRITICISM
Our friend Dove Dulcet, the well-known sub-caliber poet, has recently
issued a slender volume of verses called _Peanut Butter_. He thinks we
may be interested to see the comment of the press on his book. We don't
know why he should think so, but anyway here are some of the reviews:
Buffalo _Lens_: Mr. Dulcet is a sweet singer, and we could only wish
there were twice as many of these delicately rhymed fancies. There is
not a poem in the book that does not exhibit a tender grasp of the
beautiful homely emotions. Perhaps the least successful, however, is
that entitled "On Losing a Latchkey."
Syracuse _Hammer and Tongs_: This little book of savage satires will
rather dismay the simple-minded reader. Into the acid vials of his song
Mr. Dulcet has poured a bitter cynicism. He seems to us to be an
irremediable pessimist, a man of brutal and embittered life. In one
poem, however, he does soar to a very fine imaginative height. This is
the ode "On Losing a Latchkey," which is worth all the rest of the
pieces put together.
New York _Reaping Hook_: It is odd that Mr. Dove Dulcet, of Philadelphia
we believe should have been able to find a publisher for this volume.
These queer little doggerels have an instinctive affinity for oblivion,
and they will soon coalesce with the driftwood of the literary Sargasso
Sea. Among many bad things we can hardly remember ever to have seen
anything worse than "On Losing a Latchkey."
Philadelphia _Prism_: Our gifted fellow townsman, Mr. Dove Dulcet, has
once more demonstrated his ability to set humble themes in entrancing
measures. He calls his book _Peanut Butter_. A title chosen with rare
discernment, for the little volume has all the savor and nourishing
properties of that palatable delicacy. We wish there were space to quote
"On Losing a Latchkey," for it expresses a common human experience in
language of haunting melody and witty brevity. How rare it is to find a
poet with such metrical skill who is content to handle the minor themes
of life in this mood of delicious pleasantry. The only failure in the
book is the banal sonnet entitled "On Raiding the Ice Box." This we
would be content to forego.
Pittsburgh _Cylinder_: It is a relief to meet one poet who deals with
really exalted themes. We are profoundly weary of the myriad versifiers
who strum the so-called lowly and domestic themes. Mr. Dulcet, however,
in his superb free verse, has scaled olympian heights, disdaining the
customary twaddling topics of the rhymesters. Such an amazing allegory
as "On Raiding the Ice Box," which deals, of course, with the experience
of a man who attempts to explore the mind of an elderly Boston spinster,
marks this powerful poet as a man of unusual satirical and philosophical
depth.
Boston _Penseroso_: We find Mr. Dove Dulcet's new book rather baffling.
We take his poem "On Raiding the Ice Box" to be a pæan in honor of the
discovery of the North Pole; but such a poem as "On Losing a Latchkey,"
is quite inscrutable. Our guess is that it is an intricate
psycho-analysis of a pathological case of amnesia. Our own taste is more
for the verse that deals with the gentler emotions of every day, but
there can be no doubt that Mr. Dulcet is an artist to be reckoned with.
A MARRIAGE SERVICE FOR COMMUTERS
(_Fill in railroad as required_)
[Illustration]
Wilt thou, Jack, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together
in so far as the ---- Railroad will allow? Wilt thou love her, comfort
her, honor and keep her, take her to the movies, prevent the furnace
from going out, and come home regularly on the 5:42 train?"
"I will."
"Wilt thou, Jill, have this commuter to thy wedded husband, bearing in
mind snowdrifts, washouts, lack of servants and all other penalties of
suburban life? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep
him, and let him smoke a corncob pipe in the house?"
"I will."
"I, Jack, take thee, Jill, to my wedded wife, from 6 P.M. until 8 A.M.,
as far as permitted by the ---- Railroad, schedule subject to change
without notice, for better, for worse, for later, for earlier, to love
and to cherish, and I promise to telephone you when I miss the train."
"I, Jill, take thee, Jack, to my wedded husband, subject to the
mutability of the suburban service, changing trains at----, to have and
to hold, save when the card club meets on Wednesday evenings, and
thereto I give thee my troth."
THE SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB STREET
[Illustration]
I often wonder how many present-day writers keep diaries. I wish _The
Bookman_ would conduct a questionnaire on the subject. I have a
suspicion that Charley Towne keeps one--probably a grim, tragic
parchment wherein that waggish soul sets down its secret musings. I dare
say Louis Untermeyer has one (morocco, tooled and goffered, with gilt
edges), and looks over its nipping paragraphs now and then with a
certain relish. It undoubtedly has a large portmanteau pocket with it,
to contain clippings of Mr. Untermeyer's letters to the papers taking
issue with the reviews of his books. There is no way for the reviewer to
escape that backfire. I knew one critic who was determined to review
one of Louis's books in such a way that the author would have no excuse
for writing to the _Times_ about it. He was overwhelmingly
complimentary. But along came the usual letter by return of post. Mr.
Untermeyer asked for enough space to "diverge from the critique at one
point." He said the review was too fulsome.
I wish Don Marquis kept a diary, but I am quite sure he doesn't. Don is
too--well, I was going to say he is too--but after all he has a perfect
right to be that way.
It's rather an important thing. Every one knows the fascination exerted
by personal details of authors' lives. Every one has hustled to the Café
de la Source in Paris because R.L.S. once frequented it, or to Allaire's
in New York because O. Henry wrote it up in one of his tales, and that
sort of thing. People like to know all the minutiæ concerning their
favorite author. It is not sufficient to know (let us say) that Murray
Hill or some one of that sort, once belonged to the Porrier's Corner
Club. One wants to know where the Porrier's Corner Club was, and who
were the members, and how he got there, and what he got there, and so
forth. One wants to know where Murray Hill (I take his name only as a
symbol) buys his cigars, and where he eats lunch, and what he eats,
whether pigeon potpie with iced tea or hamburg steak and "coffee with
plenty." It is all these intimate details that the public has thirst
for.
Now the point I want to make is this. Here, all around us, is fine
doings (as Murray Hill would put it), the jolliest literary hullabaloo
going. Some of the writers round about--Arthur Guiterman or Tom Masson
or Witter Bynner or Tom Daly, or some of these chaps now sitting down to
combination-plate luncheons and getting off all manner of merry quips
and confidential matters--some of these chaps may be famous some day
(posterity is so undiscriminating) and all that savory personal stuff
will have evaporated from our memories. The world of bookmen is in great
need of a new crop of intimists, or whatever you call them. Barbellion
chaps. Henry Ryecrofts. We need a chiel taking notes somewhere.
Now if you really jot down the merry gossip, and make bright little pen
portraits, and tell just what happens, it will not only afford you a
deal of discreet amusement, but the diary you keep will reciprocate. In
your older years it will keep you. _Harper's Magazine_ will undoubtedly
want to publish it, forty years from now. If that is too late to keep
you, it will help to keep your descendants. So I wish some of the
authors would confess and let us know which of them are doing it. It
would be jolly to know to whom we might confide the genial little items
of what-not and don't-let-this-go-farther that come the rounds. The
inside story of the literature of any epoch is best told in the diaries.
I'll bet Brander Matthews kept one, and James Huneker. It's a pity
Professor Matthews's was a bit tedious. Crabb Robinson was the man for
my money.
The diarists I would choose for the present generation on Grub Street
would be Heywood Broun, Franklin Adams, Bob Holliday, William McFee, and
maybe Ben De Casseres (if he would promise not to mention Don Marquis
and Walt Whitman more than once per page). McFee might be let off the
job by reason of his ambrosial letters. But it just occurs to me that of
course one must not know who is keeping the diary. If it were known, he
would be deluged with letters from people wanting to get their names
into it. And the really worthwhile folks would be on their guard.
But if all the writers wait until they are eighty years old and can
write their memoirs with the beautifully gnarled and chalky old hands
Joyce Kilmer loved to contemplate, they will have forgotten the comical
pith of a lot of it. If you want to reproduce the colors and collisions
along the sunny side of Grub Street, you've got to jot down your data
before they fade. I wish I had time to be diarist of such matters. How
candid I'd be! I'd put down all about the two young novelists who used
to meet every day in City Hall Park to compare notes while they were
hunting for jobs, and make wagers as to whose pair of trousers would
last longer. (Quite a desirable essay could he written, by the way, on
the influence of trousers on the fortunes of Grub Street, with the three
stages of the Grub Street trouser, viz.: 1, baggy; 2, shiny; 3, trousers
that must not be stooped in on any account.) There is an uproarious tale
about a pair of trousers and a very well-known writer and a lecture at
Vassar College, but these things have to be reserved for posterity, the
legatee of all really amusing matters.
But then there are other topics, too, such as the question whether
Ibáñez always wears a polo shirt, as the photos lead one to believe. The
secret Philip Gibbs told me about the kind of typewriter he used on the
western front. I would be enormously candid (if I were a diarist). I'd
put down that I never can remember whether Vida Scudder is a man or a
woman. I'd tell what A. Edward Newton said when he came rushing into the
office to show me the Severn death-bed portrait of Keats, which he had
just bought from Rosenbach. I'd tell the story of the unpublished letter
of R.L.S. which a young man sold to buy a wedding present, which has
since vanished (the R.L.S. letter). I'd tell the amazing story of how a
piece of Walt Whitman manuscript was lost in Philadelphia on the
memorable night of June 30, 1919. I'd tell just how Vachel Lindsay
behaves when he's off duty. I'd even forsake everything to travel over
to England with Vachel on his forthcoming lecture tour, as I'm convinced
that England's comments on Vachel will be worth listening to.