In public I talk of Milton and give him ecstatic praise, and say that I
love to ponder for hours o'er his living lays; I speak of his noble
epic, that jewel which proudly shines, and quote from his splendid
sonnets (I know maybe twenty lines); but when I am home John Milton is
left on the bookcase shelf; he's rather too dull for reading--you know
how it is yourself; to lighten the weight of sorrow that over my spirit
hangs, I dig up the works of Irwin or Nesbit or Kendrick Bangs.
I talk much of Thomas Hardy when I'm with the cultured crowd, and say
that few modern writers so richly have been endowed; I speak of his
subtle treatment of life and its grim distress, and quote from "The
Trumpet Major" or spiel a few lines from "Tess." But when I am in my
chamber, where no one can see me read, remote from the highbrow people
and all that the highbrows need, I never have known a longing to reach
for the Hardy tomes; I put in a joyous evening with Watson and Sherlock
Holmes.
I talk a good deal of Wagner in parlor and drawing room, and speak of
the gorgeous fabrics he wove on his wondrous loom, the fabrics of sound
and beauty, the wonderful scroll of tone, and say that this mighty
genius remains in a class alone. I whistle "The Pilgrims' Chorus," and
chortle of "Lohengrin," and say that all other music is merely a venial
sin. But when at my own piano Susannah sits down to play, I beg her to
cut out Wagner and shoo all his noise away. "I'm weary and worn and
beaten; my spirits," I say, "are low; so give us some helpful music--a
few bars of Jungle Joe!"