Belloc. It was an ancestor of Mr. Belloc, Dr. Joseph Priestley (who died
in Pennsylvania, by the way) who discovered oxygen; and it is Mr. Belloc
himself who has discovered how to put oxygen into the modern English
essay. The gift, together with his love of good eating, probably came to
him from his mother, Bessie Rayner Parkes, who once partook of Samuel
Rogers's famous literary breakfasts. And this brings us back to our old
friend Crabb Robinson, another of the Rogers breakfast clan. Robinson is
never wildly exciting, but he gives a perfect panorama of his day. It is
not often that one finds a man who associated with such figures as
Goethe, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake, and Lamb. He had the true gift
for diarizing. What could be better, for instance, than this little
miniature picture of the rise and fall of teetotalism in one well-loved
person?--
Mary Lamb, I am glad to say, is just now very comfortable. She has
put herself under Doctor Tuthill, who has prescribed water. Charles,
in consequence, resolved to accommodate himself to her, and since
Lord-Mayor's day has abstained from all other liquor, as well as
from smoking. We shall all rejoice if this experiment succeeds....
His change of habit, though it, on the whole, improves his health,
yet when he is low-spirited, leaves him without a remedy or relief.
--LETTER OF HENRY CRABB ROBINSON To Miss WORDSWORTH, December 23,
1810.
Spent part of the evening with Charles Lamb (unwell) and his sister.
--ROBINSON'S DIARY, January 8, 1811.
Late in the evening Lamb called, to sit with me while he smoked his
pipe.
--ROBINSON'S DIARY, December 20, 1814.
Lamb was in a happy frame, and I can still recall to my mind the
look and tone with which he addressed Moore, when he could not
articulate very distinctly: "Mister Moore, will you drink a glass of
wine with me?"--suiting the action to the word, and hobnobbing.
--ROBINSON'S DIARY, April 4, 1823.
Now that, I maintain, is just the kind of stuff we need in a diary of
today. How fascinating that old book Peyrat's "Pastors of the Desert"
became when we learned that R.L.S. had a copy of the second volume of it
in his sleeping sack when he camped out with Modestine. Even so it may
be a matter of delicious interest to our grandsons to know what book Joe
Hergesheimer was reading when he came in town on the local from West
Chester recently, and who taught him to shoot craps. It is interesting
to know what Will and Stephen Benét (those skiey fraternals) eat when
they visit a Hartford Lunch; to know whether Gilbert Chesterton is
really fond of dogs (as "The Flying Inn" implies, if you remember
Quoodle), and whether Edwin Meade Robinson and Edwin Arlington Robinson,
_arcades ambo_, ever write to each other. It would be
interesting--indeed it would be highly entertaining--to compile a list
of the free meals Vachel Lindsay has received, and to ascertain the
number of times Harry Kemp has been "discovered." It would be
interesting to know how many people shudder with faint nausea (as I do)
when they pick up a Dowson playlet and find it beginning with a list of
characters including "A Moon Maiden" and "Pierrot," scene set in "a
glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon--a statue of Cupid--Pierrot enters
with his hands full of lilies." It would be interesting to resume the
number of brazen imitations of McCrae's "In Flanders Fields"--here is
the most striking, put out on a highly illuminated card by a New York
publishing firm:
Rest in peace, ye Flanders's dead,
The poppies still blow overhead,
The larks ye heard, still singing fly.
They sing of the cause which made thee die.
And they are heard far down below,
Our fight is ended with the foe.
The fight for right, which ye begun
And which ye died for, we have won.
Rest in peace.
The man who wrote that ought to be the first man mobilized for the next
war.
All such matters, with a plentiful bastinado for stupidity and swank,
are the privilege of the diarist. He may indulge himself in the
delightful luxury of making post-mortem enemies. He may wonder what the
average reviewer thinks he means by always referring to single
publishers in the plural. A note which we often see in the papers runs
like this: "Soon to be issued by the Dorans (or Knopfs or Huebsches),"
etc., etc. This is an echo of the old custom when there really were two
or more Harpers. But as long as there is only one Doran, one Huebsch,
one Knopf, it is simply idiotic.
Well, as we go sauntering along the sunny side of Grub Street,
meditating an essay on the Mustache in Literature (we have shaved off
our own since that man Murray Hill referred to it in the public prints
as "a young hay-wagon"), we are wondering whether any of the writing men
are keeping the kind of diary we should like our son to read, say in
1950. Perhaps Miss Daisy Ashford is keeping one. She has the seeing eye.
Alas that Miss Daisy at nine years old was a _puella unius libri_.
BURIAL SERVICE FOR A NEWSPAPER JOKE
_After the remains have been decently interred, the following remarks
shall be uttered by the presiding humorist:_
This joke has been our refuge from one generation to another:
Before the mountains were brought forth this joke was lusty and of good
repute:
In the life of this joke a thousand years are but as yesterday.
Blessed, therefore, is this joke, which now resteth from its labors.
But most of our jokes are of little continuance: though there be some so
strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their humor then but
labor and sorrow:
For a joke that is born of a humorist hath but a short time to live and
is full of misery. It cometh up and is cut down like a flower. It fleeth
as if it were a shadow and abideth but one edition.
It is sown in quotation, it is raised in misquotation: We therefore
commit this joke to the files of the country newspapers, where it shall
circulate forever, world without end.
ADVICE TO THOSE VISITING A BABY
Interview the baby alone if possible. If, however, both parents are
present, say, "It looks like its mother." And, as an afterthought, "I
think it has its father's elbows."
If uncertain as to the infant's sex, try some such formula as, "He looks
like her grandparents," or "She has his aunt's sweet disposition."
When the mother only is present, your situation is critical. Sigh deeply
and admiringly, to imply that you wish _you_ had a child like that.
Don't commit yourself at all until she gives a lead.
When the father only is present, you may be a little reckless. Give the
father a cigar and venture, "Good luck, old man; it looks like your
mother-in-law."
If possible, find out beforehand how old the child is. Call up the
Bureau of Vital Statistics. If it is two months old, say to the mother,
"Rather large for six months, isn't he?"
If the worst has happened and the child really does look like its
father, the most tactful thing is to say, "Children change as they grow
older." Or you may suggest that some mistake has been made at the
hospital and they have brought home the wrong baby.
If left alone in the room with the baby, throw a sound-proof rug over it
and escape.
ABOU BEN WOODROW
(IN PARIS)
[Illustration]
Abou Ben Woodrow (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, among the gifts piled on the floor
(Making the room look like a department store),
An Angel writing in a book of gold.
Now much applause had made Ben Woodrow bold
And to the Presence in the room said he,
"_Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça que tu ecris?"_
Or, in plain English, "May I not inquire
What writest thou?" The Angel did not tire
But kept on scribing. Then it turned its head
(All Europe could not turn Ben Woodrow's head!)
And with a voice almost as sweet as Creel's
Answered: "The names of those who grease the wheels
Of progress and have never, never blundered."
Ben Woodrow lay quite still, and sadly wondered.
"And is mine one?" he queried. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Woodrow spoke more low
But cheerly still, and in his May I notting
Fashion he said: "Of course you may be rotting,
But even if you are, may I not then
Be writ as one that loves his fellow men?
Do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely
And I am yours, cordially and sincerely."
The Angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse.
Next night returned (accompanied by House)
And showed the names whom love of Peace had blest.
And lo! Ben Woodrow's name led all the rest!
MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM
In these days when the streets are so perilous, every man who goes about
the city ought to be sure that his pockets are in good order, so that
when he is run down by a roaring motor-truck the police will have no
trouble in identifying him and communicating with his creditors.
I have always been very proud of my pocket system. As others may wish to
install it, I will describe it briefly. If I am found prostrate and
lifeless on the paving, I can quickly be identified by the following
arrangement of my private affairs:
In my right-hand trouser leg is a large hole, partially surrounded by
pocket.
In my left-hand trouser pocket is a complicated bunch of keys. I am not
quite sure what they all belong to, as I rarely lock anything. They are
very useful, however, as when I walk rapidly they evolve a shrill
jingling which often conveys the impression of minted coinage. One of
them, I think, unlocks the coffer where I secretly preserve the pair of
spats I bought when I became engaged.
My right-hand hip pocket is used, in summer, for the handkerchief
reserves (hayfever sufferers, please notice); and, in winter, for
stamps. It is tapestried with a sheet of three-cent engravings that got
in there by mistake last July, and adhered.
My left-hand hip pocket holds my memorandum book, which contains only
one entry: _Remember not to forget anything_.
The left-hand upper waistcoat pocket holds a pencil, a commutation
ticket and a pipe cleaner.
The left-hand lower waistcoat pocket contains what the ignorant will
esteem scraps of paper. This, however, is the hub and nerve center of my
mnemonic system. When I want to remember anything I write it down on a
small slip of paper and stick it in that pocket. Before going to bed I
clean out the pocket and see how many things I have forgotten during the
day. This promotes tranquil rest.
The right-hand upper waistcoat pocket is used for wall-paper samples.
Here I keep clippings of all the wallpapers at home, so that when buying
shirts, ties, socks or books I can be sure to get something that will
harmonize. My taste in these matters has sometimes been aspersed, so I
am playing safe.
The right-hand lower waistcoat pocket is used for small change. This is
a one-way pocket; exit only.
The inner pocket of my coat is used for railroad timetables, most of
which have since been changed. Also a selected assortment of unanswered
letters and slips of paper saying, "Call Mr. So-and-so before noon." The
first thing to be done by my heirs after collecting the remains must be
to communicate with the writers of those letters, to assure them that I
was struck down in the fullness of my powers while on the way to the
post office to mail an answer.
My right-hand coat pocket is for pipes.
Left-hand coat pocket for tobacco and matches.
The little tin cup strapped in my left armpit is for Swedish matches
that failed to ignite. It is an invention of my own.
I once intended to allocate a pocket especially for greenbacks, but
found it unnecessary.
LETTERS TO CYNTHIA
I. IN PRAISE OF BOOBS
_Dear Sir--What is a Boob? Will you please discuss the subject a
little? Perhaps I'm a boob for asking--but I'd like to know_.
CYNTHIA.
[Illustration]
BE FRIENDLY WITH BOOBS
The Boob, my dear Cynthia, is Nature's device for mitigating the
quaintly blended infelicities of existence. Never be too bitter about
the Boob. The Boob is you and me and the man in the elevator.
THE BOOB IS HUMANITY'S HOPE
As long as the Boob ratio remains high, humanity is safe. The Boob is
the last repository of the stalwart virtues. The Boob is faith, hope and
charity. The Boob is the hope of conservatives, the terror of radicals
and the meal check of cynics. If you are run over on Market Street and
left groaning under the mailed fist of a flivver, the Bolsheviki and
I.W.W. will be watching the shop windows. It will be the Boob who will
come to your aid, even before the cop gets there.
1653 BOOBS
If you were to dig a deep and terrible pit in the middle of Chestnut
Street, and illuminate it with signs and red lights and placards
reading, _DO NOT WALK INTO THIS PIT_, 1653 Boobs would tumble into it
during the course of the day. Boobs have faith. They are eager to plunge
in where an angel wouldn't even show his periscope.
THE BOOB RATIO
But that does not prove anything creditable to human nature. For though
1653 people would fall into our pit (which any Rapid Transit Company
will dig for us free of charge) 26,448 would cautiously and
suspiciously and contemptuously avoid it. The Boob ratio is just about 1
to 16.
HE LOOKS FOR ANGELS
It does not pay to make fun of the Boob. There is no malice in him, no
insolence, no passion to thrive at the expense of his fellows. If he
sees some one on a street corner gazing open-mouthed at the sky, he will
do likewise, and stand there for half hour with his apple of Adam
expectantly vibrating. But is that a shameful trait? May not a Boob
expect to see angels in the shimmering blue of heaven? Is he more
disreputable than the knave who frisks his watch meanwhile? And suppose
he does see an angel, or even only a blue acre of sky--is that not worth
as much as the dial in his poke?
HE SEES THEM
It is the Boob who is always willing to look hopefully for angels who
will see them ultimately. And the man who is only looking for the Boob's
timepiece will do time of his own by and by.
HE BEARS NO MALICE
The Boob is convinced that the world is conducted on genteel and
friendly principles. He feels in his heart that even the law of gravity
will do him no harm. That is why he steps unabashed into our pit on
Chestnut Street; and finding himself sprawling in the bottom of it, he
bears no ill will to Sir Isaac Newton. He simply knows that the law of
gravity took him for some one else--a street-cleaning contractor,
perhaps.
A DEFINITION
A small boy once defined a Boob as one who always treats other people
better than he does himself.
HE IS UNSUSPICIOUS
The Boob is hopeful, cheery, more concerned over other people's troubles
than his own. He goes serenely unsuspicious of the brick under the silk
hat, even when the silk hat is on the head of a Mayor or City
Councilman. He will pull every trigger he meets, regardless that the
whole world is loaded and aimed at him. He will keep on running for the
5:42 train, even though the timetable was changed the day before
yesterday. He goes through the revolving doors the wrong way. He forgets
that the banks close at noon on Saturdays. He asks for oysters on the
first of June. He will wait for hours at the Chestnut Street door, even
though his wife told him to meet her at the ribbon counter.
HIS WIFE
Yes, he has a wife. But if he was not a Boob before marriage he will
never become so after. Women are the natural antidotes of Boobs.
RECEPTIVE
The Boob is not quarrelsome. He is willing to believe that you know more
about it than he does. He is always at home for ideas.
HE IS HAPPY
Of course, what bothers other people is that the Boob is so happy. He
enjoys himself. He falls into that Rapid Transit pit of ours and has
more fun out of the tumble than the sneering 26,448 who stand above
untumbled. The happy simp prefers a 4 per cent that pays to a 15 per
cent investment that returns only engraved prospectuses. He stands on
that street corner looking for an imaginary angel parachuting down, and
enjoys himself more than the Mephistopheles who is laughing up his
sleeve.
NATURE'S DARLING
Nature must love the Boob, because she is a good deal of a Boob herself.
How she has squandered herself upon mountain peaks that are useless
except for the Alpenstock Trust; upon violets that can't be eaten; upon
giraffes whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! Can it be that
the Boob is Nature's darling, that she intends him to outlive all the
rest?
A BRIEF MAXIM
Be sure you're a Boob, and then go ahead.
IN CONCLUSION
But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the Boob with the Poor Fish. The Poor
Fish, as an Emersonian thinker has observed, is the Boob gone wrong. The
Poor Fish is the cynical, sneering simpleton who, if he did see an
angel, would think it was only some one dressed up for the movies. The
Poor Fish is Why Boobs Leave Home.
II. SIMPLIFICATION
_Dear Sir--How can life be simplified? In the office where I work
the pressure of affairs is very exacting. Often I do not have a
moment to think over my own affairs before 4 p.m. There are a great
many matters that puzzle me, and I am afraid that if I go on working
so hard the sweetest hours of my youth may pass before I have given
them proper consideration. It is very irassible. Can you help me?_
CYNTHIA.
SALUTATION TO CYNTHIA
Cynthia, my child: How are you? It is very delightful to hear from you
again. During the recent months I have been very lonely indeed without
your comradeship and counsel with regard to the great matters which were
under consideration.
THINKING IT OVER
Well, Cynthia, when your inquiry reached me I propped my feet on the
desk, got out the corncob pipe and thought things over. How to simplify
life? How, indeed! It is a subject that interests me strangely. Of
course, the easiest method is to let one's ancestors do it for one. If
you have been lucky enough to choose a simple-minded, quiet-natured
quartet of grandparents, frugal, thrifty and foresighted, who had the
good sense to buy property in an improving neighborhood and keep their
money compounding at a fair rate of interest, the problem is greatly
clarified. If they have hung on to the old farmstead, with its
huckleberry pasture and cowbells tankling homeward at sunset and a
bright brown brook cascading down over ledges of rock into a swimming
hole, then again your problem has possible solutions. Just go out to the
farm, with a copy of Matthew Arnold's "Scholar Gipsy" (you remember the
poem, in which he praises the guy who had sense enough to leave town and
live in the suburbs where the Bolsheviki wouldn't bother him), and don't
leave any forwarding address with the postoffice. But if, as I fear from
an examination of your pink-scalloped notepaper with its exhalation of
lilac essence, the vortex of modern jazz life has swept you in, the
crisis is far more intricate.
TAKE THE MATTER IN YOUR OWN HANDS
Of course, my dear Cynthia, it is better to simplify your own life than
to have some one else do it for you. The Kaiser, for instance, has had
his career greatly simplified, but hardly in a way he himself would have
chosen. The first thing to do is to come to a clear understanding of
(and to let your employer know you understand) the two principles that
underlie modern business. There are only two kinds of affairs that are
attended to in an office. First, things that absolutely must be done.
These are often numerous; but remember, that since they _have_ to be
done, if you don't do them some one else will. Second, things that don't
have to be done. And since they don't have to be done, why do them? This
will simplify matters a great deal.
FURTHER SUGGESTIONS
The next thing to do is to stop answering letters. Even the firm's most
persistent customers will cease troubling you by and bye if you persist.
Then, stop answering the telephone. A pair of office shears can sever a
telephone wire much faster than any mechanician can keep it repaired. If
the matter is really urgent, let the other people telegraph. While you
are perfecting this scheme look about, in a dignified way, for another
job. Don't take the first thing that offers itself, but wait until
something really congenial appears. It is a good thing to choose some
occupation that will keep you a great deal in the open air, preferably
something that involves looking at shop windows and frequent visits to
the receiving teller at the bank. It is nice to have a job in a tall
building overlooking the sea, with office hours from 3 to 5 p.m.
HOW EASY, AFTER ALL!
Many people, dear Cynthia, are harassed because they do not realize how
easy it is to get out of a job which involves severe and concentrated
effort. My child, you must not allow yourself to become discouraged.
Almost any job can be shaken off in time and with perseverance. Looking
out of the window is a great help. There are very few businesses where
what goes on in the office is half as interesting as what is happening
on the street outside. If your desk does not happen to be near a window,
so much the better. You can watch the sunset admirably from the window
of the advertising manager's office. Call his attention to the rosy
tints in the afterglow or the glorious pallor of the clouds. Advertising
managers are apt to be insufficiently appreciative of these things.
Sometimes, when they are closeted with the Boss in conference, open the
ground-glass door and say, "I think it is going to rain shortly." Carry
your love of the beautiful into your office life. This will inevitably
pave the way to simplification.
ENVELOPES WITH LOOP HOLES
And never open envelopes with little transparent panes of isinglass in
their fronts. Never keep copies of your correspondence. For, if your
letters are correct, no copy will be necessary. And, if incorrect, it is
far better not to have a copy. If you were to tell me the exact nature
of your work I could offer many more specific hints.
YOUR INQUIRY, CHILD, TOUCHES MY HEART
I am intimately interested in your problem, my child, for I am a great
believer in simplification. It is hard to follow out one's own precepts;
but the root of happiness is never to contradict any one and never agree
with any one. For if you contradict people, they will try to convince
you; and if you agree with them, they will enlarge upon their views
until they say something you will feel bound to contradict. Let me hear
from you again.
TO AN UNKNOWN DAMSEL
On Fifth Street, in a small café,
Upstairs (our tables were adjacent),
I saw you lunching yesterday,
And felt a secret thrill complacent.
You sat, and, waiting for your meal,
You read a book. As I was eating,
Dear me, how keen you made me feel
To give you just a word of greeting!
And as your hand the pages turned,
I watched you, dumbly contemplating--
O how exceedingly I yearned
To ask the girl to keep you waiting.
I wished that I could be the maid
To serve your meal or crumb your cloth, or
Beguile some hazard to my aid
To know your verdict on that author!
And still you read. You dropped your purse,
And yet, adorably unheeding,
You turned the pages, verse by verse,--
I watched, and worshiped you for reading!
You know not what restraint it took
To mind my etiquette, nor flout it
By telling you I know that book,
And asking what you thought about it.
I cursed myself for being shy--
I longed to make polite advances;
Alas! I let the time go by,
And Fortune gives no second chances.
You read, but still your face was calm--
(I scanned it closely, wretched sinner!)
You showed no sign---I felt a qualm--
And then the waitress brought your dinner.
Those modest rhymes, you thought them fair?
And will you sometimes praise or quote them?
And do you ask why I should care?
Oh, Lady, it was I who wrote them!
THOUGHTS ON SETTING AN ALARM CLOCK
Mark the monitory dial,
Set the gong for six a.m.--
Then, until the hour of trial,
Clock a little sleep, pro tem.
As I crank the dread alarum
Stern resolve I try to fix:
My ideals, shall I mar 'em
When the awful moment ticks?
Heaven strengthen my intention,
Grant me grace my vow to keep:
Would the law enforced Prevention
Of such Cruelty to Sleep!
SONGS IN A SHOWER BATH
[Illustration]
HOT WATER
Gently, while the drenching dribble
Courses down my sweltered form,
I am basking like a sybil,
Lazy, languorous and warm.
I am unambitious, flaccid,
Well content to drowse and dream:
How I hate life's bitter acid--
Leave me here to stew and steam.
Underneath this jet so torrid
I forget the world's sad wrath:
O activity is horrid!
Leave me in my shower-bath!
COLD WATER
But when I turn the crank
O Zeus!
A silver ecstasy thrills me!
I caper and slap my chilled thighs,
I plan to make a card index of all my ideas
And feel like an efficiency expert.
I tweak Fate by the nose
And know I could succeed in _anything_.
I throw up my head
And glut myself with icy splatter...
To-day I will really
Begin my career!
ON DEDICATING A NEW TEAPOT
Boiling water now is poured,
Pouches filled with fresh tobacco,
Round the hospitable board
Fragrant steams Ceylon or Pekoe.
Bread and butter is cut thin,
Cream and sugar, yes, bring them on;
Ginger cookies in their tin,
And the dainty slice of lemon.
Let the marmalade be brought,
Buns of cinnamon adhesive;
And, to catch the leaves, you ought
To be sure to have the tea-sieve.
But, before the cups be filled--
Cups that cause no ebriation--
Let a genial wish be willed
Just by way of dedication.
Here's your fortune, gentle pot:
To our thirst you offer slakeage;
Bright blue china, may I not
Hope no maid will cause you breakage.
Kindest ministrant to man,
Long be jocund years before you,
And no meaner fortune than
Helen's gracious hand to pour you!
THE UNFORGIVABLE SYNTAX
A certain young man never knew
Just when to say _whom_ and when _who_;
"The question of choosing,"
He said, "is confusing;
I wonder if _which_ wouldn't do?"
Nothing is so illegitimate
As a noun when his verbs do not fit him; it
Makes him disturbed
If not properly verbed--
If he asks for the plural, why git him it!
_Lie_ and _lay_ offer slips to the pen
That have bothered most excellent men:
You can say that you lay
In bed--yesterday;
If you do it to-day, you're a hen!
A person we met at a play
Was cruel to pronouns all day:
She would frequently cry
"Between you and I,
If only us girls had our way--!"
VISITING POETS
We were giving a young English poet a taste of Philadelphia, trying to
show him one or two of the simple beauties that make life agreeable to
us. Having just been photographed, he was in high good humor.
"What a pity," he said, "that you in America have no literature that
reflects the amazing energy, the humor, the raciness of your life! I
woke up last night at the hotel and heard a motor fire engine thunder
by. There's a symbol of the extraordinary vitality of America! My, if I
could only live over here a couple of years, how I'd like to try my hand
at it. It's a pity that no one over here is putting down the humor of
your life."
"Have you read O. Henry?" we suggested.
"Extraordinary country," he went on. "Somebody turned me loose on Mr.
Morgan's library in New York. There was a librarian there, but I didn't
let her bother me. I wanted to see that manuscript of 'Endymion' they
have there. I supposed they would take me up to a glass case and let me
gaze at it. Not at all. They put it right in my hands and I spent three
quarters of an hour over it. Wonderful stuff. You know, the first
edition of my book is selling at a double premium in London. It's been
out only eighteen months."
"How do you fellows get away with it?" we asked humbly.
"I hope Pond isn't going to book me up for too many lectures," he said.
"I've got to get back to England in the spring. There's a painter over
there waiting to do my portrait. But there are so many places I've got
to lecture--everybody seems to want to hear about the young English
poets."
"I hear Philip Gibbs is just arriving in New York," we said.
"Is that so? Dear me, he'll quite take the wind out of my sails, won't
he? Nice chap, Gibbs. He sent me an awfully cheery note when I went out
to the front as a war correspondent. Said he liked my stuff about the
sodgers. He'll make a pot of money over here, won't he?"
We skipped across City Hall Square abreast of some trolley cars.
"I say, these trams keep one moving, don't they?" he said. "You know, I
was tremendously bucked by that department store you took me to see.
That's the sort of place one has to go to see the real art of America.
Those paintings in there, by the elevators, they were done by a young
English girl. Friend of mine--in fact, she did the pictures for my first
book. Pity you have so few poets over here. You mustn't make me lose my
train; I've got a date with Vachel Lindsay and Edgar Lee Masters in New
York to-night. Vachel's an amusing bird. I must get him over to England
and get him started. I've written to Edmund Gosse about him, and I'm
going to write again. What a pity Irvin Cobb doesn't write poetry! He's
a great writer. What vivacity, what a rich vocabulary!"
"Have you read Mark Twain?" we quavered.
"Oh, Mark's grand when he's serious; but when he tries to be funny, you
know, it's too obvious. I can always see him feeling for the joke. No,
it doesn't come off. You know an artist simply doesn't exist for me
unless he has something to say. That's what makes me so annoyed with
R.L.S. In 'Weir of Hermiston' and the 'New Arabian Nights' he really had
something to say; the rest of the time he was playing the fool on some
one else's instrument. You know style isn't something you can borrow
from some one else; it's the unconscious revelation of a man's own
personality."
We agreed.
"I wonder if there aren't some clubs around here that would like to hear
me talk?" he said. "You know, I'd like to come back to Philadelphia if I
could get some dates of that sort. Just put me wise, old man, if you
hear of anything. I was telling some of your poets in New York about the
lectures I've been giving. Those chaps are fearfully rough with one. You
know, they'll just ride over one roughshod if you give them a chance.
They hate to see a fellow a success. Awful tripe some of them are
writing. They don't seem to be expressing the spirit, the fine
exhilaration, of American life at all. If I had my way, I'd make every
one in America read Rabelais and Madame Bovary. Then they ought to study
some of the old English poets, like Marvell, to give them precision.
It's lots of fun telling them these things. They respond famously. Now
over in my country we poets are all so reserved, so shy, so taciturn.
"You know Pond, the lecture man in New York, was telling me a quaint
story about Masefield. Great friend of mine, old Jan Masefield. He
turned up in New York to talk at some show Pond was running. Had on some
horrible old trench boots. There was only about twenty minutes before
the show began. 'Well,' says Pond, hoping Jan was going to change his
clothes, 'are you all ready?' 'Oh, yes,' says Jan. Pond was graveled;
didn't know just what to do. So he says, hoping to give Jan a hint,
'Well, I've just got to get my boots polished.' Of course, they didn't
need it--Americans' boots never do--but Pond sits down on a
boot-polishing stand and the boy begins to polish for dear life. Jan
sits down by him, deep in some little book or other, paying no
attention. Pond whispers to the boy, 'Quick, polish his boots while he's
reading.' Jan was deep in his book, never knew what was going on. Then
they went off to the lecture, Jan in his jolly old sack suit."
We went up to a private gallery on Walnut Street, where some of the most
remarkable literary treasures in the world are stored, such as the
original copy of Elia given by Charles Lamb to the lady he wanted to
marry, Fanny Kelly. There we also saw some remarkable first editions of
Shelley.
"You know," he said, "Mrs. L---- in New York--I had an introduction to
her from Jan--wanted to give me a first edition of Shelley, but I
wouldn't let her."
"How do you fellows get away with it?" we said again humbly.
"Well, old man," he said, "I must be going. Mustn't keep Vachel waiting.
Is this where I train? What a ripping station! Some day I must write a
poem about all this. What a pity you have so few poets ..."
A GOOD HOME IN THE SUBURBS
There are a number of empty apartments in the suburbs of our mind that
we shall be glad to rent to any well-behaved ideas.
These apartments (unfurnished) all have southern exposure and are
reasonably well lighted. They have emergency exits.
We prefer middle-aged, reasonable ideas that have outgrown the diseases
of infancy. No ideas need apply that will lie awake at night and disturb
the neighbors, or will come home very late and wake the other tenants.
This is an orderly mind, and no gambling, loud laughter and carnival or
Pomeranian dogs will be admitted.
If necessary, the premises can be improved to suit high-class tenants.
No lease longer than six months can be given to any one idea, unless it
can furnish positive guarantees of good conduct, no bolshevik
affiliations and no children.
We have an orphanage annex where homeless juvenile ideas may be
accommodated until they grow up.
The southwestern section of our mind, where these apartments are
available, is some distance from the bustle and traffic, but all the
central points can be reached without difficulty. Middle-aged,
unsophisticated ideas of domestic tastes will find the surroundings
almost ideal.
For terms and blue prints apply janitor on the premises.
WALT WHITMAN MINIATURES
I
A decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that one should
have some excuse for being away from the office on a working afternoon.
September sunshine and trembling blue air are not sufficient reasons, it
seems. Therefore, if any one should brutally ask what I was doing the
other day dangling down Chestnut Street toward the river, I should have
to reply, "Looking for the _Wenonah_." The _Wenonah_, you will
immediately conclude, is a moving picture theater. But be patient a
moment.
Lower Chestnut Street is a delightful place for one who does not get
down there very often. The face of wholesale trade, dingier than the
glitter of uptown shops, is far more exciting and romantic. Pavements
are cumbered with vast packing cases; whiffs of tea and spice well up
from cool cellars. Below Second Street I found a row of enormous sacks
across the curb, with bright red and green wool pushing through holes
in the burlap. Such signs as WOOL, NOILS AND WASTE are frequent. I
wonder what noils are? A big sign on Front Street proclaims TEA CADDIES,
which has a pleasant grandmotherly flavor. A little brass plate,
gleamingly polished, says HONORARY CONSULATE OF JAPAN. Beside immense
motor trucks stood a shabby little horse and buggy, restored to service,
perhaps, by the war-time shortage of gasoline. It was a typical
one-horse shay of thirty years ago.
I crossed over to Camden on the ferryboat _Wildwood_, observing in the
course of the voyage her sisters, _Bridgeton, Camden, Salem_ and
_Hammonton_. It is curious that no matter where one goes, one will
always meet people who are traveling there for the first time. A small
boy next to me was gazing in awe at the stalwart tower of the Victor
Company, and snuffing with pleasure the fragrance of cooking tomatoes
that makes Camden savory at this time of year. Wagonloads of ripe Jersey
tomatoes making their way to the soup factory are a jocund sight across
the river just now.
Every ferry passenger is familiar with the rapid tinkling of the ratchet
wheel that warps the landing stage up to the level of the boat's deck. I
asked the man who was running the wheel where I would find the
_Wenonah_. "She lays over in the old Market Street slip," he replied,
and cheerfully showed me just where to find her. "Is she still used?" I
asked. "Mostly on Saturday nights and holidays," he said, "when there's
a big crowd going across."
The _Wenonah_, as all Camden seafarers know, is a ferryboat, one of the
old-timers, and I was interested in her because she and her sister, the
_Beverly_, were Walt Whitman's favorite ferries. He crossed back and
forth on them hundreds of times and has celebrated them in several
paragraphs in _Specimen Days_. Perhaps this is the place to quote his
memorandum dated January 12, 1882, which ought to interest all lovers of
the Camden ferry:
"Such a show as the Delaware presented an hour before sundown yesterday
evening, all along between Philadelphia and Camden, is worth weaving
into an item. It was full tide, a fair breeze from the southwest, the
water of a pale tawny color, and just enough motion to make things
frolicsome and lively. Add to these an approaching sunset of unusual
splendor, a broad tumble of clouds, with much golden haze and profusion
of beaming shaft and dazzle. In the midst of all, in the clear drab of
the afternoon light, there steamed up the river the large new boat, the
_Wenonah_, as pretty an object as you could wish to see, lightly and
swiftly skimming along, all trim and white, covered with flags,
transparent red and blue streaming out in the breeze. Only a new
ferryboat, and yet in its fitness comparable with the prettiest product
of Nature's cunning, and rivaling it. High up in the transparent ether
gracefully balanced and circled four or five great sea hawks, while here
below, mid the pomp and picturesqueness of sky and river, swam this
creature of artificial beauty and motion and power, in its way no less
perfect."
You will notice that Walt Whitman describes the _Wenonah_ as being
white. The Pennsylvania ferryboats, as we know them, are all the
brick-red color that is familiar to the present generation. Perhaps
older navigators of the Camden crossing can tell us whether the boats
were all painted white in a less smoky era?
The _Wenonah_ and the _Beverly_ were lying in the now unused ferry slip
at the foot of Market Street, alongside the great Victor Talking Machine
works. Picking my way through an empty yard where some carpentering was
going on, I found a deserted pier that overlooked the two old vessels
and gave a fair prospect on to the river and the profile of
Philadelphia. Sitting there on a pile of pebbles, I lit a pipe and
watched the busy panorama of the river. I made no effort to disturb the
normal and congenial lassitude that is the highest function of the human
being: no Hindoo philosopher could have been more pleasantly at ease.
(O. Henry, one remembers, used to insist that what some of his friends
called laziness was really "dignified repose.") Two elderly colored men
were loading gravel onto a cart not far away. I was a little worried as
to what I could say if they asked what I was doing. In these days casual
loungers along docksides may be suspected of depth bombs and high
treason. The only truthful reply to any question would have been that I
was thinking about Walt Whitman. Such a remark, if uttered in
Philadelphia, would undoubtedly have been answered by a direction to the
chocolate factory on Race Street. But in Camden every one knows about
Walt. Still, the colored men said nothing beyond returning my greeting.
Their race, wise in simplicity, knows that loafing needs no explanation
and is its own excuse.
If Walt could revisit the ferries he loved so well, in New York and
Philadelphia, he would find the former strangely altered in aspect. The
New York skyline wears a very different silhouette against the sky,
with its marvelous peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft. But
Philadelphia's profile is (I imagine) not much changed. I do not know
just when the City Hall tower was finished: Walt speaks of it as
"three-fifths built" in 1879. That, of course, is the dominant unit in
the view from Camden. Otherwise there are few outstanding elements. The
gradual rise in height of the buildings, from Front Street gently
ascending up to Broad, gives no startling contrast of elevation to catch
the gaze. The spires of the older churches stand up like soft blue
pencils, and the massive cornices of the Curtis and Drexel buildings
catch the sunlight. Otherwise the outline is even and well-massed in a
smooth ascending curve.
It is curious how a man can stamp his personality upon earthly things.
There will always be pilgrims to whom Camden and the Delaware ferries
are full of excitement and meaning because of Walt Whitman. Just as
Stratford is Shakespeare, so is Camden Whitman. Some supercilious
observers, flashing through on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a
town in which there is no delirious and seizing beauty. Let us remind
them of Walt's own words:
A great city is that which has the greatest men and women,
If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole
world.
And as I came back across the river, and an airplane hovered over us at
a great height, I thought how much we need a Whitman to-day, a poet who
can catch the heart and meaning of these grievous bitter years, who can
make plain the surging hopes that throb in the breasts of men. The world
has not flung itself into agony without some unexpressed vision that
lights the sacrifice. If Walt Whitman were here he would look on this
new world of moving pictures and gasoline engines and U-boats and tell
us what it means. His great heart, which with all its garrulous fumbling
had caught the deep music of human service and fellowship, would have
had true and fine words for us. And yet he would have found it a hard
world for one of his strolling meditative observancy. A speeding motor
truck would have run him down long ago!
As I left the ferry at Market Street I saw that the Norwegian steamer
_Taunton_ was unloading bananas at the Ericsson pier. Less than a month
ago she picked up the survivors of the schooner _Madrugada_, torpedoed
by a U-boat off Winter Bottom Shoal. On the _Madrugada_ was a young
friend of mine, a Dutch sailor, who told me of the disaster after he was
landed in New York. To come unexpectedly on the ship that had rescued
him seemed a great adventure. What a poem Walt Whitman could have made
of it!
II
It is a weakness of mine--not a sinful one, I hope--that whenever I see
any one reading a book in public I am agog to find out what it is.
Crossing over to Camden this morning a young woman on the ferry was
absorbed in a volume, and I couldn't resist peeping over her shoulder.
It was "Hans Brinker." On the same boat were several schoolboys carrying
copies of Myers' "History of Greece." Quaint, isn't it, how our schools
keep up the same old bunk! What earthly use will a smattering of Greek
history be to those boys? Surely to our citizens of the coming
generation the battles of the Marne will be more important than the
scuffle at Salamis.
My errand in Camden was to visit the house on Mickle Street where Walt
Whitman lived his last years. It is now occupied by Mrs. Thomas Skymer,
a friendly Italian woman, and her family. Mrs. Skymer graciously
allowed me to go through the downstairs rooms.
I don't suppose any literary shrine on earth is of more humble and
disregarded aspect than Mickle Street. It is a little cobbled byway,
grimed with drifting smoke from the railway yards, littered with
wind-blown papers and lined with small wooden and brick houses sooted
almost to blackness. It is curious to think, as one walks along that
bumpy brick pavement, that many pilgrims from afar have looked forward
to visiting Mickle Street as one of the world's most significant altars.
As Chesterton wrote once, "We have not yet begun to get to the beginning
of Whitman." But the wayfarer of to-day will find Mickle Street far from
impressive.
The little house, a two-story frame cottage, painted dark brown, is
numbered 330. (In Whitman's day it was 328.) On the pavement in front
stands a white marble stepping-block with the carved initials
W.W.--given to the poet, I dare say, by the same friends who bought him
a horse and carriage. A small sign, in English and Italian, says:
_Thomas A. Skymer, Automobiles to Hire on Occasions_. It was with
something of a thrill that I entered the little front parlor where Walt
used to sit, surrounded by his litter of papers and holding forth to
faithful listeners. One may safely say that his was a happy old age,
for there were those who never jibbed at protracted audience.
A description of that room as it was in the last days of Whitman's life
may not be uninteresting. I quote from the article published by the
Philadelphia _Press_ of March 27, 1892, the day after the poet's death:
Below the windowsill a four-inch pine shelf is swung, on which rests
a bottle of ink, two or three pens and a much-rubbed spectacle case.
(The shelf, I am sorry to say, is no longer there.)
The table--between which and the wall is the poet's rocker covered
with a worsted afghan, presented to him one Christmas by a bevy of
college girls who admired his work--is so thickly piled with books
and magazines, letters and the raffle of a literary desk that there
is scarcely an inch of room upon which he may rest his paper as he
writes. A volume of Shakespeare lies on top of a heaping full waste
basket that was once used to bring peaches to market, and an ancient
copy of Worcester's Dictionary shares places in an adjacent chair
with the poet's old and familiar soft gray hat, a newly darned blue
woolen sock and a shoe-blacking brush. There is a paste bottle and
brush on the table and a pair of scissors, much used by the poet,
who writes, for the most part, on small bits of paper and parts of
old envelopes and pastes them together in patchwork fashion.
In spite of a careful examination, I could find nothing in the parlor at
all reminiscent of Whitman's tenancy, except the hole for the stovepipe
under the mantel. One of Mrs. Skymer's small boys told me that "He" died
in that room. Evidently small Louis Skymer didn't in the least know who
"He" was, but realized that his home was in some vague way connected
with a mysterious person whose memory occasionally attracts inquirers to
the house.
Behind the parlor is a dark little bedroom, and then the kitchen. In a
corner of the back yard is a curious thing: a large stone or terra cotta
bust of a bearded man, very much like Whitman himself, but the face is
battered and the nose broken so it would be hard to assert this
definitely. One of the boys told me that it was in the yard when they
moved in a year or so ago. The house is a little dark, standing between
two taller brick neighbors. At the head of the stairs I noticed a window
with colored panes, which lets in spots of red, blue and yellow light. I
imagine that this patch of vivid color was a keen satisfaction to Walt's
acute senses. Such is the simple cottage that one associates with
America's literary declaration of independence.
The other Whitman shrine in Camden is the tomb in Harleigh Cemetery,
reached by the Haddonfield trolley. Doctor Oberholtzer, in his "Literary
History of Philadelphia," calls it "tawdry," to which I fear I must
demur. Built into a quiet hillside in that beautiful cemetery, of
enormous slabs of rough-hewn granite with a vast stone door standing
symbolically ajar, it seemed to me grotesque, but greatly impressive. It
is a weird pagan cromlech, with a huge triangular boulder above the door
bearing only the words WALT WHITMAN. Palms and rubber plants grow in
pots on the little curved path leading up to the tomb; above it is an
uncombed hillside and trees flickering in the air. At this tomb,
designed (it is said) by Whitman himself, was held that remarkable
funeral ceremony on March 30, 1892, when a circus tent was not large
enough to roof the crowd, and peanut venders did business on the
outskirts of the gathering. Perhaps it is not amiss to recall what Bob
Ingersoll said on that occasion:
"He walked among verbal varnishers and veneerers, among literary
milliners and tailors, with the unconscious dignity of an antique god.
He was the poet of that divine democracy that gives equal rights to all
the sons and daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice."
And though one finds in the words of the naïve Ingersoll the squeaking
timber of the soapbox, yet even a soapbox does lift a man a few inches
above the level of the clay.
Well, the Whitman battle is not over yet, nor ever will be. Though
neither Philadelphia nor Camden has recognized 330 Mickle Street as one
of the authentic shrines of our history (Lord, how trimly dight it would
be if it were in New England!), Camden has made a certain amend in
putting Walt into the gay mosaic that adorns the portico of the new
public library in Cooper Park. There, absurdly represented in an austere
black cassock, he stands in the following frieze of great figures:
Dante, Whitman, Molière, Gutenberg, Tyndale, Washington, Penn, Columbus,
Moses, Raphael, Michael Angelo, Shakespeare, Longfellow and Palestrina.
I believe that there was some rumpus as to whether Walt should be
included; but, anyway, there he is.
You will make a great mistake if you don't ramble over to Camden some
day and fleet the golden hours in an observant stroll. Himself the
prince of loafers, Walt taught the town to loaf. When they built the new
postoffice over there they put round it a ledge for philosophic
lounging, one of the most delightful architectural features I have ever
seen. And on Third Street, just around the corner from 330 Mickle
Street, is the oddest plumber's shop in the world. Mr. George F.
Hammond, a Civil War veteran, who knew Whitman and also Lincoln, came to
Camden in '69. In 1888 he determined to build a shop that would be
different from anything on earth, and well he succeeded. Perhaps it is
symbolic of the shy and harassed soul of the plumber, fleeing from the
unreasonable demands of his customers, for it is a kind of Gothic
fortress. Leaded windows, gargoyles, masculine medusa heads, a
sallyport, loopholes and a little spire. I stopped in to talk to Mr.
Hammond, and he greeted me graciously. He says that people have come all
the way from California to see his shop, and I can believe it. It is the
work of a delightful and original spirit who does not care to live in a
demure hutch like all the rest of us, and has really had some fun out of
his whimsical little castle. He says he would rather live in Camden than
in Philadelphia, and I daresay he's right.
III
Something in his aspect as he leaned over the railing near me drew me on
to speak to him. I don't know just how to describe it except by saying
that he had an understanding look. He gave me the impression of a man
who had spent his life in thinking and would understand me, whatever I
might say. He looked like the kind of man to whom one would find one's
self saying wise and thoughtful things. There are some people, you know,
to whom it is impossible to speak wisdom even if you should wish to. No
spirit of kindly philosophy speaks out of their eyes. You find yourself
automatically saying peevish or futile things that you do not in the
least believe.
The mood and the place were irresistible for communion. The sun was warm
along the river front and my pipe was trailing a thin whiff of blue
vapor out over the gently fluctuating water, which clucked and sagged
along the slimy pilings. Behind us the crash and banging of heavy
traffic died away into a dreamy undertone in the mild golden shimmer of
the noon hour.
The old man was apparently lost in revery, looking out over the river
toward Camden. He was plainly dressed in coat and trousers of some
coarse weave. His shirt, partly unbuttoned under the great white sweep
of his beard, was of gray flannel. His boots were those of a man much
accustomed to walking. A weather-stained sombrero was on his head.
Beneath it his thick white hair and whiskers wavered in the soft breeze.
Just then a boy came out from the near-by ferry house carrying a big
crate of daffodils, perhaps on their way from some Jersey farm to an
uptown florist. We watched them shining and trembling across the street,
where he loaded them onto a truck. The old gentleman's eyes, which were
a keen gray blue, caught mine as we both turned from admiring the
flowers.
I don't know just why I said it, but they were the first words that
popped into my head. "And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances
with the daffodils," I quoted.
He looked at me a little quizzically.
"You imported those words on a ship," he said. "Why don't you use some
of your own instead?"
I was considerably taken aback. "Why, I don't know," I hesitated. "They
just came into my head."
"Well, I call that bad luck," he said, "when some one else's words come
into a man's head instead of words of his own."
He looked about him, watching the scene with rich satisfaction. "It's
good to see all this again," he said. "I haven't loafed around here for
going on thirty years."
"You've been out of town?" I asked.
He looked at me with a steady blue eye in which there was something of
humor and something of sadness.
"Yes, a long way out. I've just come back to see how the Great Idea is
getting along. I thought maybe I could help a little."
"The Great Idea?" I queried, puzzled.
"The value of the individual," he said. "The necessity for every human
being to be able to live, think, act, dream, pray for himself. Nowadays
I believe you call it the League of Nations. It's the same thing. Are
men to be free to decide their fate for themselves or are they to be in
the grasp of irresponsible tyrants, the hell of war, the cruelties of
creeds, executive deeds just or unjust, the power of personality just or
unjust? What are your poets, your young Libertads, doing to bring About
the Great Idea of perfect and free individuals?"
I was rather at a loss, but happily he did not stay for an answer. Above
us an American flag was fluttering on a staff, showing its bright ribs
of scarlet clear and vivid against the sky.
"You see that flag of stars," he said, "that thick-sprinkled bunting? I
have seen that flag stagger in the agony of threatened dissolution, in
years that trembled and reeled beneath us. You have only seen it in the
days of its easy, sure triumphs. I tell you, now is the day for America
to show herself, to prove her dreams for the race. But who is chanting
the poem that comes from the soul of America, the carol of victory? Who
strikes up the marches of Libertad that shall free this tortured ship of
earth? Democracy is the destined conqueror, yet I see treacherous
lip-smiles everywhere and death and infidelity at every step. I tell
you, now is the time of battle, now the time of striving. I am he who
tauntingly compels men, women, nations, crying, 'Leap from your seats
and contend for your lives!' I tell you, produce great Persons; the rest
follows."
"What do you think about the covenant of the League of Nations?" I
asked. He looked out over the river for some moments before replying and
then spoke slowly, with halting utterance that seemed to suffer anguish
in putting itself into words.
"America will be great only if she builds for all mankind," he said.
"This plan of the great Libertad leads the present with friendly hand
toward the future. But to hold men together by paper and seal or by
compulsion is no account. That only holds men together which aggregates
all in a living principle, as the hold of the limbs of the body or the
fibers of plants. Does this plan answer universal needs? Can it face the
open fields and the seaside? Will it absorb into me as I absorb food,
air, to appear again in my strength, gait, face? Have real employments
contributed to it--original makers, not mere amanuenses? I think so,
and therefore I say to you, now is the day to fight for it."
"Well," he said, checking himself, "there's the ferry coming in. I'm
going over to Camden to have a look around on my way back to Harleigh."
"I'm afraid you'll find Mickle street somewhat changed," I said, for by
this time I knew him.
"I love changes," he said.
"Your centennial comes on May 31," I said, "I hope you won't be annoyed
if Philadelphia doesn't pay much attention to it. You know how things
are around here."
"My dear boy," he said, "I am patient. The proof of a poet shall be
sternly deferred till his country absorbs him as affectionately as he
has absorbed it. I have sung the songs of the Great Idea and that is
reward in itself. I have loved the earth, sun, animals, I have despised
riches, I have given alms to every one that asked, stood up for the
stupid and crazy, devoted my income and labor to others, hated tyrants,
argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence toward the
people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, gone freely with
powerful uneducated persons and I swear I begin to see the meaning of
these things--"
"All aboard!" cried the man at the gate of the ferry house.
He waved his hand with a benign patriarchal gesture and was gone.
ON DOORS
The opening and closing of doors are the most significant actions of
man's life. What a mystery lies in doors!
No man knows what awaits him when he opens a door. Even the most
familiar room, where the clock ticks and the hearth glows red at dusk,
may harbor surprises. The plumber may actually have called (while you
were out) and fixed that leaking faucet. The cook may have had a fit of
the vapors and demanded her passports. The wise man opens his front door
with humility and a spirit of acceptance.
Which one of us has not sat in some ante-room and watched the
inscrutable panels of a door that was full of meaning? Perhaps you were
waiting to apply for a job; perhaps you had some "deal" you were
ambitious to put over. You watched the confidential stenographer flit in
and out, carelessly turning that mystic portal which, to you, revolved
on hinges of fate. And then the young woman said, "Mr. Cranberry will
see you now." As you grasped the knob the thought flashed, "When I open
this door again, what will have happened?"
There are many kinds of doors. Revolving doors for hotels, shops and
public buildings. These are typical of the brisk, bustling ways of
modern life. Can you imagine John Milton or William Penn skipping
through a revolving door? Then there are the curious little slatted
doors that still swing outside denatured bar-rooms and extend only from
shoulder to knee. There are trapdoors, sliding doors, double doors,
stage doors, prison doors, glass doors. But the symbol and mystery of a
door resides in its quality of concealment. A glass door is not a door
at all, but a window. The meaning of a door is to hide what lies inside;
to keep the heart in suspense.
Also, there are many ways of opening doors. There is the cheery push of
elbow with which the waiter shoves open the kitchen door when he bears
in your tray of supper. There is the suspicious and tentative withdrawal
of a door before the unhappy book agent or peddler. There is the genteel
and carefully modulated recession with which footmen swing wide the
oaken barriers of the great. There is the sympathetic and awful silence
of the dentist's maid who opens the door into the operating room and,
without speaking, implies that the doctor is ready for you. There is the
brisk cataclysmic opening of a door when the nurse comes in, very early
in the morning--"It's a boy!"
Doors are the symbol of privacy, of retreat, of the mind's escape into
blissful quietude or sad secret struggle. A room without doors is not a
room, but a hallway. No matter where he is, a man can make himself at
home behind a closed door. The mind works best behind closed doors. Men
are not horses to be herded together. Dogs know the meaning and anguish
of doors. Have you ever noticed a puppy yearning at a shut portal? It is
a symbol of human life.
The opening of doors is a mystic act: it has in it some flavor of the
unknown, some sense of moving into a new moment, a new pattern of the
human rigmarole. It includes the highest glimpses of mortal gladness:
reunions, reconciliations, the bliss of lovers long parted. Even in
sadness, the opening of a door may bring relief: it changes and
redistributes human forces. But the closing of doors is far more
terrible. It is a confession of finality. Every door closed brings
something to an end. And there are degrees of sadness in the closing of
doors. A door slammed is a confession of weakness. A door gently shut
is often the most tragic gesture in life. Every one knows the seizure of
anguish that comes just after the closing of a door, when the loved one
is still near, within sound of voice, and yet already far away.
The opening and closing of doors is a part of the stern fluency of life.
Life will not stay still and let us alone. We are continually opening
doors with hope, closing them with despair. Life lasts not much longer
than a pipe of tobacco, and destiny knocks us out like the ashes.
The closing of a door is irrevocable. It snaps the packthread of the
heart. It is no avail to reopen, to go back. Pinero spoke nonsense when
he made Paula Tanqueray say, "The future is only the past entered
through another gate." Alas, there is no other gate. When the door is
shut, it is shut forever. There is no other entrance to that vanished
pulse of time. "The moving finger writes, and having writ"--
There is a certain kind of door-shutting that will come to us all. The
kind of door-shutting that is done very quietly, with the sharp click of
the latch to break the stillness. They will think then, one hopes, of
our unfulfilled decencies rather than of our pluperfected misdemeanors.
Then they will go out and close the door.
[Illustration]
End of Project Gutenberg's Mince Pie, by Christopher Darlington Morley